Retrograde

by President Dead

Rating: teen
Tags: Horror, Princess Celestia, Twilight Sparkle, Sad, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark
Length: 3158

The Presence, an extraterrestrial, insists that all ponykind must be taught a morbid poem. Twilight is determined to find out why.

The Presence, an extraterrestrial, insists that all ponykind must be taught a morbid poem. Twilight is determined to find out why.

Published 2018-09-27 23:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2018-09-27 23:10:01 UTC

Retrograde

My body and my mind are traveling in opposite directions. There, I said it. In my head, obviously. That’s the only way I can describe this feeling. I mean, my mind has drifted before, but never like this.

Push it aside, Twilight. You’ve got more important things to concern yourself with. Namely, something telling me Princess Celestia didn’t bring me here to talk about… what is she talking about? I have been watching her mouth move for probably half an hour, and somehow, I just haven’t been able to process a single thing she has said, like language itself has blurred together, lost all meaning. The Princess sits across the table from me, chewing on a, frankly, incredible-looking salad, her natural beauty thrown into striking, dappled clarity by the late afternoon sun, spilling in through the semi-open window to her left. Come to think of it, I doubt she even brought me here to eat lunch, for that matter.

And what is with that smile? It’s completely wrong. When Princess Celestia smiles at you, you’re supposed to feel a great calm descend, like all the stress and anxiety and problematic aspects of your existence are suddenly so much smaller in the face of such divine compassion. But today, the exact opposite is happening, and I am suddenly aware of every fear my head, body, and soul contain, physical in the way they have been released, accentuated.

Princess Celestia has stopped eating. She is staring right at me. I blink. Huh? Did I say something? I think I may have accidentally said something.

The Princess looks down at her plate, strewn with various leaves and vegetables. This is the first time I’ve seen her this way, and it’s terrifying. I’m not even certain I possess the words to describe her demeanor. “You’re right, Twilight,” she at last imparts as she stands, making her way over to the window and gazing out of it, the golden circles of sunshine which dot her long, shapely face, her slender neck now betraying a very different portrayal.

“About… what?” I venture, contemplating joining Princess Celestia at the window. We’re quite high up, inside one of Canterlot Castle’s observatory spires, and I am sure we’d be privy to quite the view. Picturesque. Suitably distracting.

“I didn’t bring you here to eat or chat or anything remotely pleasant,” the Princess continues. She is silent for a moment, opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again. “What do you know of The Melancholiad?”

I frown. Suffice to say, I wasn’t expecting this. “You mean that badly written, old poem we were taught back in the School for Gifted Unicorns? The one by an unnamed pony from–?”

“No,” Princess Celestia interrupts. “No, it was not written by any pony.”

“Um… I… I don’t understand.”

“Recite it for me,” the Princess instructs, still refusing to step away from the window, eyes presumably fixed on the rolling hills, golden-green before the setting sun. “Please.”

I frown again, think for a second or two, and then it all comes back to me:

“We are not alive

Our lungs may fill

But they fill with putrid air and displaced whispers

We are not alive

Our eyes may see

But they see only fathomless dark and pictorial light

We are not alive

Our legs may walk

But they walk toward what’s been and what’s lost

We are not alive

Our hearts may beat

But they beat merely faded echoes and hollow rhythms

We are the dead

So speak our voice

Turn away, lover, for what you seek has long passed you by.”

Princess Celestia nods, then finally returns to the table. The weariness and apprehension I observe in her pale magenta eyes is perhaps the most frightening thing I have ever seen, and I like to think I’ve seen a lot. “Very good, Twilight,” my mentor says with a small smile, which I am relieved to realise is a little more resemblant of her usual self. “Do you, by any chance, recall why this particular poem was taught? Or rather, what you were told the reason was?”

I blush. “Um… well, it’s… it’s been a while…”

“That’s all right, Twilight,” Princess Celestia reassures me. “It was a lie, anyway. I only ask because I, myself, seem to have forgotten. I am sure if you dug up some old textbook or exercise book of yours, you could easily find out, but as it stands, this is unimportant. What is important is that you are finally made aware of the true reason you and your classmates and, in fact, every school-age foal in Equestria have been taught such a frightening, nihilistic, and unhappy piece of work.”

I vaguely feel my stomach beginning to churn. This is not leading anywhere good, I can tell. “Princess Celestia, when you... when you say it wasn’t written by anypony, I assume you mean a different Equestrian species did, right? One we were perhaps estranged from until recently?”

To my astonishment, but not quite surprise, the Princess shakes her head. “No. The Melancholiad, as far as I know, is the work of a visitor from beyond Equestria. From the stars. It calls itself ‘The Presence.’”

“The… Presence?” I repeat unsteadily.

Princess Celestia nods. “Yes. It has been visiting us every five years for the last 500 and insisting that we all memorise this poem for reasons it has yet to disclose.”

“B-but…” I stammer, “but that doesn’t… I mean… how does this make any sense?!”

Princess Celestia averts her eyes, shakes her head once again. “I’m sorry, I don’t have the answers, Twilight. None.”

“But…” I persist, “why do you do what this creature asks? Why do you listen? Allow it to… to command you?”

Princess Celestia sighs deeply. “Because while I have no idea as to its motivations, they do not seem to be, well… malicious. You must understand, Twilight, The Presence is very powerful.” She pauses uncomfortably. “It… it showed me things, and I find that if the request – regardless of how strange or inexplicable – does not appear to have any negative consequences, it is best to simply comply, lest we risk angering this being of which we ultimately know very little. Besides…”

I wait for a moment. “Besides…?”

The Princess chooses her next words very carefully. “I don’t know for sure… but I think it is we that are the subject of The Melancholiad. Or rather, that if we do not commit it to memory, we will become the subject, if you take my meaning.”

My head is screeching, spinning, scrabbling to hold on to something even only scarcely believable at this point. “So,” I eventually manage, “when does The Presence next, well… visit?”

Princess Celestia meets my gaze. “Tomorrow night. And I want you to be the one to recite The Melancholiad for it.”

I blink. There goes language again. “Me? W-why?”

My mentor sighs once more. “Because that’s what we do,” she replies simply.

The stars are out, a sweeping pinprick expanse, but there is no comfort to be found in them this night. They all of a sudden feel much closer, larger than they ever were, and I cannot help but wonder how many of them are inhabited. The next thing I wonder is how many of these inhabitants are sentient. Then how many of them are interested in seeking out other forms of intelligent life. Then how many of them have the means by which to accomplish this. Then how many will find themselves on our doorstep in the days and the years to come. And finally, how many have already done so. All of this in the span of probably five seconds, perhaps less. If the light at the end of the tunnel is what you fear, then darkness of your choice is a more than satisfactory alternative, I find myself thinking without really knowing why.

Princess Celestia stands ahead of me, and I decide to concentrate my attention on memorising every feature of her body. Objectively, I recognise this as being more than a little strange, but subjectively, it feels right, so I trust my instincts and don’t question it.

The two of us stand atop a hill on the outskirts of Canterlot, but it may as well have been an island, alone in a vast, breathing ocean of restless, endless black. Neither of us has exchanged a single word, not even a look, really, and I wish my mentor would just go ahead and say something, anything, because the silence is so complete, so unbroken that I feel as if I am in a vacuum. And if I am in a vacuum, and nopony is saying anything or looking at me, then maybe I am alone, the only life form in existence – or partial existence if it is, in fact, a vacuum – and I am really not at all sure if I–

White body, coat like fresh snow on a perfect plain, feathers like slivers of the softest blanket imaginable. Flowing mane, the colour and consistency of an aurora borealis or a river of paint, flawlessly blended. And then, of course, we arrive at the eyes, those breathtaking, otherworldly eyes. I can’t see them right now, but I have painstakingly engraved them into my memory. I wish I could just–

Something is happening.

At this very moment, the darkness moves, warping and twisting like liquid, and several shimmering rainbow splotches appear, then subsequently disappear as The Presence steps into view. The creature is tall, possibly a little taller than Princess Celestia, and bipedal, long arms and legs, claws. There are two pointy ears or horns sitting on its head, subtly slanted back, and its mouth is little more than a slit beneath a distinct absence of a snout. The Presence directs its cold gaze at Princess Celestia, black eyes surveying my mentor grimly.

I feel rather than see the tremor which passes through the Princess’ body. Then I vaguely hear her say something around the lines of “step forward, Twilight. Step forward and recite The Melancholiad.”

Blood roars in my ears, and I quake violently, but comply, half-hoping I will pass out, but also not under any circumstances wanting to disappoint the Princess, who is counting on me. I have been entrusted with a great responsibility, one which may directly influence or even determine the very future of Equestria. Who knows what this fearsome being would do if it believed I did not know its poem by heart? Raising my head slightly, my mouth and body feeling utterly alien to me, I meet The Presence’s eye, exhale nervously.

“Stop,” The Presence decrees.

The Princess and I both freeze. Again, I don’t see it, but I do feel it. Clear as day. The Presence steps closer, scrutinising me, opening me up with those dark, impenetrable eyes. Something has changed.

Did I do something wrong? Have I doomed Equestria?

After what seems like a lifetime and a half, The Presence turns back to Princess Celestia. “I would like a room,” it says in its impassive baritone. “I would like this one’s company.”

It takes me a good few seconds to realise that The Presence is talking about me.

I don’t think I will ever forget Princess Celestia’s face when The Presence communicated its request. How rapidly it changed, how different she looked. Creased with rage, teeth bared, tears of horror already polluting her eyes. She knew what the creature wanted, and she would die before allowing it. But I, despite my fear, assured her that I would go, that there was no need for conflict. It was my choice, after all.

What I know I will never forget is what the Princess did next. The moment I acquiesced, she closed her eyes. And then she looked away. For one heart-stopping instant, I was convinced that she was ashamed of me, that she would never speak to me again, but then I realised that it was something completely different. I believe Celestia averted her gaze because she didn’t want the image of me leaving with The Presence in her head. It was not a memory she had any intention of either creating or preserving.

But now, here I am, alone in one of Canterlot Castle’s finest guest rooms with an extraterrestrial. I, too, am well aware of what The Presence wants, and if that is to be my fate, then so be it, but first, I intend to learn why. Why everything.

“Listen,” I say, turning to face The Presence. But suddenly, its claws are on either side of my face, its eyes boring into mine, and my world literally explodes.

The Presence is inside every fibre of my being. My body is reduced to a mere abstraction in a molten void, and every breath I take, every movement I make is a euphoric pulse in a sort of malleable membrane of which I am now part. It is like I am both submerged and what I am submerged in, and at all times, The Presence, guiding me into unspeakable, unthinkable, out-of-body gratification.

When I come to, I am lying on my back, chest heaving, body trembling as I stare at the ceiling. I’m not entirely sure what has just transpired. Blearily turning my head to the right, I see The Presence standing by the window, just as Princess Celestia had the previous day.

“I am a gestalt being,” The Presence suddenly says without even looking back. “An entire species contained within a single body.”

“Uh… okay,” I reply, still trying to get my head around, well… everything.

“Many years ago,” The Presence continues, “we were alerted by means of an ancient and very probably forbidden text recovered from the Place Where All Things Learn the Absence of Light to the existence of a horrific and powerful monster. The most accurate – or rather, not inaccurate – way of describing it would be halfway between a god and an event. If unimpeded, this monster will devour all life in an attempt to return home, this being the point in time when nothing was alive, and nothing existed.”

“Oh,” I say. I feel strangely calm. “And… The Melancholiad is what stops it?”

The Presence looks at me, gives me what might be interpreted by an optimist as a smile, strides over, then sits itself down beside me on the bed.

“It did,” The Presence tells me. “Once. Very long ago, when the monster was young and significantly smaller. Roughly planet-sized.”

“S-smaller? Um… right.”

“This time, however, it is indescribably large, little pony,” says The Presence wistfully, staring into space. “The way The Melancholiad operates is it is supposed to convince the monster that everything around it is no longer alive and, therefore, does not require consumption. That which is already dead cannot further die. This is the law. This is how the monster was returned to slumber the first time it manifested, many lifetimes ago.”

“Is that why you had the poem taught to all ponies in Equestria?” I ask. “For a greater… area of effect?”

“Oh, you are only one of ten worlds we have recruited to our cause,” The Presence tells me. “And when all is said and done, it may still not be enough.”

I think for a moment. The sense of tranquility persists, and I am vaguely confused by it. “But surely if you went to all this trouble for such a length of time, then… it has to work. I mean, your reasoning is sound. By increasing the output of The Melancholiad, you, in turn, increase the likelihood of success, right?”

The Presence gently places its large, heavy claws on my head. “What we wouldn’t give to be like you, little pony,” it says with a small smile. “How wonderful must life be for the hopeful, for those of small burden. Life is long, and there comes a time when all realise that we are all dominated by carefully selected illusions, that change is mere idealism, that there never was a light at the end of life’s tunnel.”

I find myself nuzzling up to The Presence. There’s something distinctly… soothing about how much larger it is than I. “But when will this monster next manifest? I mean, how much time do we have left?”

“None,” The Presence answers bluntly. “It comes with the rising of your sun.”

I sit up a little. “So, w-what are we going to do?”

The Presence shrugs. “Follow the plan. If we survive, we survive. If not, well, at least we may finally rest.”

Reluctantly getting to my hooves, I make my way over to the window and observe the infinite dark, interrupted only by the thinnest smudge of fiery orange-pink on the horizon, the tunnel’s mouth fast approaching.

“And in the meantime?” I ask, turning back to The Presence, who remains on the bed, watching me intently.

“Sing, little pony,” The Presence says simply. “We, The Presence, have a saying: ’it is better to sing of what one wishes to forget than dance to the hollow rhythms of ignorance.’”

“Oh, so, it’s hollow rhythms, is it?” I ask, feeling slightly mischievous. “Plagiarism or homage, I wonder?”

“Sing, little pony,” The Presence whispers again. “Sing the universe to its sleep.”

And so I do:

“I think I know

Just how you feel

Searching for a place

You might be real

Tearing down the things

You thought you knew

Bet you never imagined what

You’d have to do

All this dark blue

And falling through air

You’re finally there

I wish I could let you stay

And we’re so afraid

The price has been paid

I wish there was a better way

Home, home is not

What you built

Bleeding and now

You’re what’s been killed

Try, try to understand

The reason why

Life has clipped your wings

So you can’t fly

But still you try

And deep as the sea

I hope you’re for me

I wish I could let you stay

And fighting to hide

To meet you inside

I wish there was a better way.”

When I am finished, I turn my head and realise that The Presence is gone. Are gone? Do I refer to the entire species or the body in which it is contained? Oh well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

Sitting there, I find myself thinking of Princess Celestia once more, wondering where she is. When this is all over, I will go and find her, bury myself in her like I did when I was small, as deep and as close as I possibly can, a serene cocoon, warm. Above all, I will gaze into those eyes, lose myself in them. They are always somehow better than I remember. And still I cannot seem to find the words to describe them.

Standing, I walk to the window, unhurried. The sunrise is properly visible now.

There is definitely something there.