"...clipped her wings,
cus of her tumbling into things.
And an alicorn that cannot fly's
no better than baby pegasi.
The doctor said to little--"
But the name got caught in his mouth.
Literally - it formed a solid brick behind his front-most teeth, pressing against them the way an orthodontic pelham might. He tried to wrap his tongue around it, to wrestle it out; the pre-occupation let his mind be flooded with yet more questions.
For one, hadn't he read this poem once already? Weeks ago, when the theme was 'comedy'? And for another, who was he reading to?
Slowly, his surroundings came to him. Or rather, the lack thereof, for most everything here was black; all but him, that is, a stained moon in a serene night. No signs of any walls, he could see that much... maybe if he could find his audience, they'd--
"Well? Little what? Or have you forgot?"
The mocking voice came from behind him. He spun around to face it, but no one was attached.
"Oh dear, did Mr Verse trip up on his words?" sung another.
A third, with disdain: "Well, he's done this a hundred times before. Had to happen, to be sure!"
"Come on, man, this is getting old!"
"Don't keep us in a stranglehold!"
"See what you're doing - hear them all booing." This one, a hiss right into his left side; he near-stumbled from the effort of keeping up.
Keeping the reading up. "I know her name! I'm just trying to say!" he screamed inside, but his teeth were all but glued shut; what actually came out was a retaliatory growl. This only made his invisible hecklers all the rowdier, the distance from safety all the farther.
"Well, no need to be testy!"
"Is quality so out of the question?"
"It's his job; it's sapping him! He's got no time to beta them!"
"No, he must have always been so dire!"
"So much for his 'quest to inspire'; he's not even willing to try..."
"Why did we ever like this guy?"
He would have started running out of sheer frustration, to get away from the noise, if not for one thought of lightning that hushed it for him.
He recognized the lilt of the last.
A spotlight shone from nowhere, angled three feet beyond where it should have been. Hundreds, thousands of footsteps rang out, but only two black boots emerged; for the crowd had clearly been but one cry, one horse, moulded into a dappled-grey body and masked white eyes that nonetheless pierced into a part of him even he couldn't reach.
"If you're not going to be worth your talent," snarled the Phantom of Magic, "let me take the burden." At a snap of the gloved fingers, his hands lit up.
The sonneteer erupted.
From inside and out did the white hot needles grow, striped as bar codes up and down his arms and in his ears and behind his lids so that even squeezing them shut would not give him grace, and under the suit his flank seared impossibly as the magic scoured him for a mark that was never there, but burned in a remnant nonetheless, and he tasted blood in his mouth from the dread and the name and the deadened numbing, and the so-called power of wind flew under his feet as he was lifted up by the ink and the incomprehensible, left to hang in the air without a word to speak, and his body was ravaged and his mind was shattered and his eyes--
--shot open at the jarring of the floor along his lower back, for Rhymey Ward had just tumbled out of bed. Again.
Ugh... what time was it? He tried to turn his head to check, but he only saw the sketched-out side of his four poster bed, so that was no help. The shadowed paint above him offered no better answer, and he found himself glaring at it.
"Thank you, ceiling.
Perfect for dream healing," he said snidely as he pulled himself up.
Leaning back into the mattress (gently, so as not to snap the frame bearing them in the process) got him a better view of his digital clock, and thus the news that it was past two in the morning. He huffed at that. If he was going to have another silly nightmare - the kind he'd already had once this week... and twice last week... and four more times in the past month - it could have had the decency to wait until seven or eight for the abrupt wake-up call. The fact that Fluttershy had elected not to sleep over at the palace with him tonight was the only small mercy. He really couldn't afford to jostle her out of bed with his tossing and turning again, not if he wanted this to last.
Wonder if this is what Lightning feels every time he wakes up screaming, he thought. At least there, he could afford to be unstructured. Especially at this hour.
And at least he has an excuse. He's got his Enticorn powers out of control, the impending Dark King stuff, the Phantom - and he remembered the pupil-less eyes and felt an unaccountable shiver - the business with Cadance. What do I have? A fear of stagnation? Come on. It can't even compare, can it?
...so why aren't they stopping?
A muffled ragged cry, near echoing that of his mid-stolen self, came from the room next door right on cue.
He shook his head, letting his mane ruffle in the motion - he was overthinking it. He'd never get back to sleep at the rate he was going, and then he'd miss tomorrow night's (or tonight's, he supposed) poetry slam at his own cafe whatever else happened.
The covers rose over Rhymey's canary-colored form, as did his smile at the thought of how many would be there. Maybe the turnout this week would be enough to quench the thirst of the devil in his dreams. Maybe this week in itself would finally be enough to help him get over all this.
...maybe.
