Coming to Terms
In the last moments of his life, Spike was happy.
He stood aside in the Great Hall of Canterlot, as Shining Armor and Princess Cadance walked by, now husband and wife, towards their honeymoon carriage. The girls stood across the aisle, and waved happily at the couple as they passed. Twilight was crying while she smiled, and Spike felt himself getting caught up in all the emotion. Even with the events earlier that day, everything was so perfect. Everyone was so happy.
He felt content.
He would never notice when a falling piece of masonry snapped his spine and killed him instantly.
The incident would be ruled as an accident. Just an old piece of stone, shaken loosen by the couple’s burst of magic, that happened to fall at the wrong time while he was standing in the wrong place.
His friends would grieve, and he would be missed. But eventually, one by one, they would move on with their lives and he would fade into memory.
That is the story of how Spike died.
This is the story of how he lived.
***
The Asphodel Meadows are the final resting place for most of the souls that end up in Tartarus. They house the unimportant, the unremembered, and the forgotten. The souls of creatures that left no real mark on history, which accounts for, unfortunately, the vast majority of those that die.
The meadows are a lifeless place. Painted entirely in shades of grey, they stand beneath an empty sky that gives no light to the plains. The fields would be in complete darkness if it weren’t for the luminance of the asphodel flowers that cover the flat ground like a forest of blossoms. Their petals shine like moonlight, and give off just enough radiance to see the vast horde of silhouettes that stand shoulder to shoulder amongst the flowers.
Many aren’t much more than wisps of smoke that hold vague forms; some, the younger ones mostly, are almost recognizable as ponies or griffons, though their coats have no color, and their eyes are faded and lifeless. They are the souls of the meadows, and will stand here until the weight of time itself grinds them down into nothing.
In this infinite stretch of the dead, only one thing moves.
A blot of red brighter than the most vibrant scarlet shines like a beacon in the colorless world. It flits from one soul to the next, pausing only briefly before moving on. Sometimes when it stops the soul will look up at it in wonder, as if briefly reminded that there is more than a dark sky and white flowers. It stops when they do, and waits for another sign. Another display of life in this dead land, but it never comes. They never react beyond that first time, and only turn their heads back to the ground to wait to be ground away to mist.
It is growing frustrated from its search. A thousand years has passed since the last one, and it has almost given up hope that another will respond. It doesn’t have much time. Every century brings it that much closer, makes it that much weaker. It used to not know the meaning of the word surrender, but so much has changed, so much has been lost, it is considering it now.
It can’t end like this.
Something catches its attention on the edge of the horizon. A shape, sharper than any of the rest, is almost painfully distinct amongst the faded forms of its neighbors.
It flies towards the soul on delicate wings. They are purely ornamental, the air here is as still as the dead, and provides no lift to fly on. But it has tricks enough to sail on frozen skies.
It approaches the soul quickly, and passes over forests of vague forms and smoke-like images on its path to examine it. The creature was small in life, and even now the asphodel blossoms reach up to its knees. Its body has been faded by the fields of death, and drained of its color, but each scale on the creature’s body is still completely distinct from the next, and its eyes, though a dull grey, sparkle with the hint of life.
It feels excited for the first time in centuries. It hasn’t seen one this distinct in a thousand years, not since the last one.
The one who almost succeeded...
It lands on the creature’s pointed nose, and desperately imposes its presence onto the soul’s empty mind.
And waits.
The creature doesn’t even stir like the others, just merely continues to stare blankly into the distant horizon.
It flaps its wings in irritation and tries again, but still receives no response.
It is angry now. It doesn’t have time to find another one this clear; it will be gone before it can wait another millennium for its next chance. This one needs to be it. This one must be it.
It tries again, one last time, to touch the spark of life that is burning away within the soul, and rouse it from the sleep of the dead.
***
He doesn’t remember. He knows that he has forgotten, but he doesn’t know what he has forgotten.
Everything is missing.
Sometimes, a memory will burst into his mind, and it will all be so clear, but as soon as it comes the memory will slip through his grasp like water, and he will be left alone in the darkness with the weight of the infinite void pressing on him once again. Keeping him from remembering.
It is getting harder to struggle against, and he thinks that soon the darkness may wash him away completely. The thought scares him, and he tries twice as hard to grasp onto one of those bubbles of clarity.
To remember who he is.
He does not know how long he has stood here, in the black abyss. Time has no meaning here, and a single second and a thousand years are almost indistinguishable in the darkness.
So when something pulls at him in the void, after an infinity of stillness, he is startled. And if a fit of panic thinks that the darkness is finally consuming him. He fights with everything he has, and manages to force away the building pressure of the abyss. It comes again, stronger this time, and he can feel himself dissolving from the weight of it, it is struggle to stay whole, and he just barely manages to push it away.
He is tired and drained of energy, and can only hope that the force doesn’t return. After an undeterminable length of time, while his private void remains still and unbroken, he sags with relief at the force’s passing.
A memory touches the edge of his consciousness, and he relaxes as he is about to be swept away in remembrance.
Then, faster than the darkness itself, the force returns. It is stronger than ever, and crushes him beneath its weight. He is torn apart and consumed by its coming and the abyss is ripped away from him in a single instant.
Dazed and confused, he looks through his eyes for the first time since he died.
Red.
The word rings in his mind, in response to what he sees.
Something red is right in front of his eyes, too close for him to focus on, but bright enough to swallow his field of vision. It is almost painful to see after looking at nothing for so long, and he swats at it with a tired claw.
It flies of off his nose and tumbles through the air, passing through a wisp of smoke before righting itself enough to fly back.
He blinks slowly, and manages to focus on it as it flies closer. It has delicate wings edged in black and small antennae and legs that fold back as it soars over to him. He struggled to think of the word for it. He was sure he knew it once, but now it has escaped him.
It flies closer, and he stretches out a finger to it slowly, which it lands on gracefully.
A breeze whispers in his ears, but he is too tired to notice. He gazes at the small creature perched on his finger with amazement, and wonders again what it is, but feels the thought slip away from him as he starts to fall back into the void.
The wind was a raging storm in his ears now, and it coalesced into a single word.
‘Hatchling!’
He jerked back to consciousness, and clutched his head as the howling continued.
‘Hatchling! Listen to me, you must stay awake! I cannot draw you out again, and if you recede now you will wither away in these fields until you are nothing but a specter!’
It was not a voice, but rather the sound of the air itself that was forced into something resembling language. He only understood half of the words, but the wind’s tone made him struggle to throw off the fog surrounding his mind. He managed to cut his way through the haze and tried to respond to the wind, but then realized that he had forgotten how to speak. After a few moments of silence where he struggled to move his mouth in a way that would make words, something clicked.
“W-Who are y-you?” he stuttered out.
‘Good! You’re aware enough to talk. Who I am is unimportant right now. Right now, you need to try and remember everything you can. Everything.’
His mind was still struggling to keep up with the voice, and it took him a few second to piece together what it had said.
“What?”
A grating sigh sounded in the air, and the small creature on his finger took off in a display of irritation.
‘We don’t have time for this! If you don’t focus right now the meadows will suck the last flickers of life right out of you!’
He looked at the small creature bemusedly, and something in the back of his mind made the connection between it and the voice on the wind.
“Are you a… a…” he focused, and pushed passed the drained tiredness that was clogging up his thoughts, “a butterfly?”
The butterfly; that was definitely the name of it he thought, bristled visibly from its spot in the air.
‘You are going to waste the last few moments of life you have asking Stupid Questions!? I have not spent the last MILLENNIUM searching for someone with enough of a spark to be pulled awake for you to let yourself be worn away by this wretched place by asking STUPID QUESTIONS! Now REMEMBER!’
He had to shield his eyes from the torrent of wind brought on by the voice, and the enraged tone ripped away the last of the fog in his mind.
“I’m s-sorry, I don’t understand. Remember what?” he asked weakly.
‘Everything,’ the wind, and the butterfly, sounded calmer, though it still seemed only a hair’s breathe from exploding again, ‘but let’s start with your name.’
“I- …my name?” he asked, and ignored his growing confusion in order to focus. He could feel it there, at the edge of his consciousness, but it slipped away whenever he tried to grab hold of it.
‘Yes. What is your Name.’
“I… ugh… it’s…” he pushed harder and fought to dredge up anything that might make him remember.
A purple unicorn calling him… the Princess looking disappointed… a small village… a grand castle… quills, papers… gems, Rarity… cupcakes, aprons… apples… friendship… Spike take a letter.
He gasped from the onslaught of memories and the torrent of names and words that flooded his mind. But as they faded back into the depths of his subconscious, one remained firmly in his mind eye.
“It’s Spike.” He told the voice weakly.
‘Spike? Excellent,’ the butterfly said and swooped back to look at him, ‘but not enough. You need a reason to Live, and quickly. What else do you remember? It needs to be something important.’
He was completely confused now, and any pride he had gained from managing to remember his name was washed away the voice’s insistence that he try again.
“I don’t understand. A reason to live? And why can’t I remember anything to begin with? Please, tell me what’s going on.”
A gust of wind blew in his face, and the butterfly was hovering just inches from his eyes.
‘Arrrgh! We really don’t have time for this! But fine, if you want to waste your time asking questions, here you go!’
‘Spike, you are dead. This is the afterlife. Or at least the afterlife for all the unimportant creatures that die. Now, while you must have been nothing special in life to end up here, you are rather unique because you still have a touch of life left in you. When I found you, the meadows were in the process of breaking down the mental shields you had hidden your spark of life behind and would have completed the process and drained you dry in as little as a decade or so.
Now, I pulled that spark of life out from behind those shields so we could talk, but now that the meadows have free access to it they will drain it from you in a matter of minutes, unless you can find something worth Living for… and if you can’t then you are just wasting my time and I need to keep searching for someone that can.’
Moments passed as Spike processed what he had been told.
“I’m dead…? How can I be dead?” He could hear words in the wind, but couldn’t focus on what they were saying. “I can’t be dead, I was- I was just…” he furrowed his brow, and tried to make an explanation appear.
“I can’t be…” he trailed weakly.
‘Look around you. You are standing in an ocean of souls under a lifeless sky in a world that never changes. This is the afterlife.’
Spike looked around wildly, and almost screamed when he saw that the wisps of smoke floating around where actually shaped like ponies. Lifeless depictions of their former selves, that hung menacingly in the glow of the flowers.
“Wh-what are those!” he asked, and scrambled back, only to find more of the ghouls behind him.
‘The souls of the dead. Most much older than you. They are harmless. I can assure you I am the most dangerous thing here.’ The scarlet insect fluttered its wings confidently, before changing topics abruptly, ‘but you really need to start focusing on what is important. I will answer all your questions later, right now you need to remember. Try to think about how you died.’
“I-” he was choked off by the confusion, and struggled to push it away, “alright.”
What had happened to him? He grappled with his fractured memories, and tried to make the answer appear.
Canterlot… wedding… Shining Armor… Candance… changelings… invasion… Twilight…
The events of the last days of his life burst into his mind vividly, but the explosion of information vanished as quickly as it had come, and before he could grab hold of them they faded back into fragments of a recollection. He frowned and tried again, but this time not even glimpses came.
“I can’t remember.” He whispered.
‘What?’
“I can’t remember anything.”
‘Try harder. What was your life like? Think about who you cared for. Who was important to you.'
Spike did, but nothing came. No flashes or snippets appeared no matter how hard he concentrated. Eventually he couldn’t try anymore, and sagged down from the effort.
“There’s nothing. Not even glimpses like before, just… nothing.” He felt so tired again, whatever burst of energy he had gotten earlier was gone, and he could feel the weight of the darkness pressing on him again.
‘Then we definitely have less time than I thought. Listen you just need- Oh no.’ the voice cut short, and the butterfly flew down to Spike’s left hand. He glanced at it, and yelped.
His hand, which had been clearly defined before, was now faded and slightly transparent. He held it up to his eyes, and could see the dark horizon stretch out from behind his scales.
“What’s happening!” he asked panickedly, and tried to shake the transparency off his skin.
‘Your fading.’ The response was curt, and it sounded like the voice was thinking of something while it spoke. ‘Quickly, follow me!’
It took off at the speed of a gallop, and after a moment’s hesitation Spike chased after it, clutching his left hand to his chest. He could barely keep up with its pace, and after several minutes of struggled running through the field of knee high flowers, he felt like he was going to collapse.
“Wait! Slow Down! Please!” he cried out after it.
The butterfly kept flying, and it looked like it was about to abandon him when the wind whispered in his ears.
‘We don’t have time to travel at your pace, you need to move faster.’
“I can’t” he cried out, and struggled to ignore the growing hitch in his chest.
‘The first thing you need to understand about being dead is that none of your body’s limitations matter anymore. You are as fast as you need to be. Just let go.”
With that the butterfly, now just a speck of red in front of him, accelerated and quickly vanished into the sea of grey.
“But I don’t know how!” he called after it, and almost tripped on one of the glowing blossoms.
Silence was his only response, and now that he was alone he noticed how eerily quiet the flower covered plains were. The only sounds in the entire world were coming from him, and even then, the air itself seemed to swallow up the noise, making everything sound muted and hollow. He stared after the butterfly, into the horizon where it had vanished.
This was insane.
Everything was insane.
He couldn’t be dead, this was just a dream and he was about to wake up, and see… He reached for the memories he knew were there, and tried to find what was missing.
Nothing came. He felt so empty. And tired.
He felt very tired. It would almost be worth it just to sit down and fall back to sleep…
He started to close his eyes, and give in to the weight of sleep, but the sight of his hand in the corner of his eye jerked him back awake. It was misty up to the elbow now, and he had lost all feeling in it. Dread gripped his heart, and Spike realized that, dream or not, he didn’t want to fade away like the creatures he was passing by. His body protested dearly as he started running again, but he did his best to ignore it, and started off desperately after his single thread of hope.
***
He had been running for what felt like hours, and the hitch in his chest had swollen until it felt like someone had stabbed him in the gut. Every step was laborious, and every breathe felt like he was breathing shards of glass. His arm was gone up to the shoulder now, and he had just started to lose feeling in his toes, but didn’t risk looking down, because if he tripped he didn’t think he could get back up again.
He could see his guide on the horizon now. A small flicker of red that hung just above the razor sharp skyline. He tried to make up the lost ground, but it seemed like the butterfly was intentionally staying just barely in sight, and moved faster whenever he found an extra reserve of energy in his aching legs.
He ran.
And ran.
And ran.
Until, after an eternity of numbing pain, his legs locked up and he could go no farther. He collapsed in the flowers without even a stumble, and they embraced him as he fell. Even over the burning screams of his locked muscles, he noticed how soft the petals were.
‘Get up.’
It was almost a relief to hear the voice again, if only to hear something other than his own ragged breathing.
‘Get up.’
“I can’t.” he whispered, and didn’t care if it heard him or not.
‘Spike, you need to get up.’
“I said I can’t!” he yelled through gritted teeth. Anger flashed in his eyes, and he called after it, “Who are you to tell me what to do! What right do you have to make me do anything!”
The wind bristled against his scales, and he could hear the beginnings of a roar coming; but instead, it suddenly died down to a gentle breeze, and when the voice spoke again it was almost calm.
‘Spike please, you need to get up. It’s not that much farther.’
“I told you, I can’t run anymore. My body feels like it’s about to rip apart. I can’t deal with this. Just leave me alone.”
‘Ughh… you need to listen to me. What you’re feeling isn’t real. The pain only exists because you think it should. You just need to let go of it.’
“What does that even mean!” he roared after it, but got no response. After a few deathly silent minutes of lying in the flowers, he finally heard something. It was quieter than a whisper, but still as clear as a bell in this soundless world.
‘Please get up.’
The words were pleading and desperate, and in stark contrast to the voices previous tone. Spike tried to ignore it, but despite his resolution that he didn’t owe the strange voice anything; he felt a pang of guilt at the plea.
It came one last time, even softer than before.
‘please’
Despite the pain he was in, and the confusion and anger he held for the voice, something in him couldn’t ignore it. The part of him that still dreamed of being the honorable knight; the stalwart hero; the noble dragon; it couldn’t let go.
So with every spare ounce of strength he could muster, Spike got back up.
His knees shook just to keep him standing, and the first step he took almost sent back into the blossoms’ embrace. He stumbled, but managed to take another step. And another. And another.
Eventually he was up to a slight jog, and with a force of will he didn’t know he had, managed to get himself back into a run.
It felt like his muscles were pulling themselves off his bones, and the entire left side of his face was now numb and translucent. He started to cry just from the pain, and tears streamed off his misty cheeks and onto the petals below.
But Spike kept moving.
The speck of red was growing closer now, and he could tell that it was letting him catch up. He couldn’t even feel grateful, because the fog of pain was clouding his mind to much to think. He just chased after it; stumbling through the haze.
The air around him thickened again as he approached the butterfly, and the two words it voiced managed to cut through his pain.
‘Let go.’
His anger flared again, and he wanted to scream that he didn’t know how, but every ounce of breathe was taken up just to keep him moving.
‘Just let go.’
He felt furious. This wasn’t fair. He hadn’t asked for this. He didn’t want this.
Pressure built up in him until he felt like he was going to burst.
‘The pain is not real. Let it go.’
His mind was a heated miasma of pain and anger. He wanted scream in rage at it. That it had no idea what it was talking about! No idea what he was going through!
But he couldn’t. All he could do was run In silence, while it goaded him on.
So in a single desperate attempt, he sent it all inward; all his anger, all his frustration, all his despair. He used it all and forced the pain from his mind.
And it was gone.
The difference was literally staggering. He felt so light now that he actually tripped on his own feat and was sent sprawling into the ground. But it didn’t matter, he barely registered the impact, and was back up in less than a second.
It was glorious, everything was so easy now. He could run forever. He could catch the setting sun, or race the wind itself or… He risked a glance down and saw that the left half of his entire body was now completely translucent.
Terror gripped him, and all of his new joy fled from his heart. He looked back to his guide, just at the edge of the horizon. A single spot of red in the grey world. He set off after it, as fast as he could run.
And faster still.
The silhouettes and blossoms streamed together as he ran, until the world was nothing more than a constant blur of shadows and light. Distinct amongst it all, the red butterfly seemed to fly almost lazily as he sped towards it, but it flapped its wings and laughed excitedly when he caught up.
‘Haha! You managed it! Hurry now, we have little time to waste.’
They raced along the flat plains together, and even though he could feel the slow creep of the mist on his body, he couldn’t help but be elated from the shear speed. Something brushed at the edge of his consciousness, and a rainbow formed in his mind’s eye. He couldn’t even guess why, but it was a pleasant image to hold on to in this dreary world, and he ran with the stream of colors present in his mind.
Suddenly, through the forest of smoky figures, a small clearing appeared on the leftern side of the horizon. The butterfly banked toward it sharply, and Spike was startled back to full awareness by the change. He followed it quickly, and managed not to trip over his own feet as he turned.
His small guide was floating at the edge of the clearing when he caught up. It was a perfect circle, with edges formed by the line where the souls just stopped. Noone stood in it, and it was occupied by only one thing.
A door.
It was small wooden thing, with a worn frame and an old brass doorknob, which stood in stark contrast to the otherworldly bleakness that surrounded it. It might have been stained mahogany once, but either time or the color draining aspect of the meadows had leeched away what definition it had, leaving it a faded red.
It was a startlingly familiar sight in the alien landscape, and brought forth whispers of memories in Spike’s mind; yet, despite its seemingly benign nature, Spike couldn’t shake the twinge of terror that ran up his spine when he looked at it.
‘Go through it. Quickly!’ The butterfly told him brusquely, as it soared over the empty ground and hovered expectantly next to the strange door.
Spike took a deep breathe and made to comply, but when he a step into the clearing, a feeling of cold dread washed up his legs, despite the numbing mist.
He took another step, and felt like he was walking into a frozen lake.
Icy terror gripped his heart, and he found that his knees were locked when he tried to take another step towards the splintering obelisk.
“What…” Spike struggled to focus through the gnawing fear, “what is that.”
‘A portal.’ The butterfly was sounding very stressed now, and the rushing wind it spoke through was actually starting to rip up the asphodels from the ashen ground beneath them. ‘Now go through!’
Another step.
And he had to stop again. The air had started to thicken as he approached, and was filled with the smells of rotting flesh and congealed blood.
“It feels evil.”
‘That’s just residue leaking out from the other side. Hurry!’
Another step.
“And... where's... that?” He forced out, if only to keep his mind off of the closing distance between him and it.
‘Someplace other than here!’ The words sounded different this close to the door, like he was hearing it through a pane of glass. ‘Someplace where we won’t have to worry about you being dissolved in the next two minutes!’
The words managed to spur him on, and he took three whole steps towards the door. He was right in front of it now, and the brass handle was right at face level. Spike didn’t know if it was the strange aura or the mist, but he felt completely numb so close to the portal. He couldn’t even feel his arm as he forced it to become level with the handle.
‘GO THROUGH!’
A lifetime passed as his clawed fingers closed the last gap, and he shut his eyes when they finally met the unpolished handle.
Except that his fingers passed right on through when they came in contact with the metal, dispersing like fog on a beachhead and reformed the moment of his wrist swept them beneath it.
A stunned silence overshadowed the dark plains.
He tried again, and got the same result. His left hand turned out to be just as futile. And when Spike tried to touch the door itself, he couldn’t even make contact with the aged wood.
He was mist.
The air pulsated and thickened around him, and his attention was drawn back to the scarlet insect next to him. It was quivering with anger and wobbled jerkily in midair.
‘You.’ The tone was low and cold, and Spike could hear barely restrain rage seeping through.
‘You.’
‘UTTER.’
‘POINTLESS.’
‘FAILURE!’
‘I have spent the last few centuries I HAVE searching for someone! ANYONE, with the gift you were given. And you SQUANDER it with TEMPER TANTRUMS! Had you not WASTED your PRECIOUS time we could have gone through already! But NO! YOU were in PAIN!’
The wind was a howling maelstrom now, and the clearing was being rapidly deforested as the blossoms were torn from the ground by the stinging wind.
‘Let me tell you something CHILD! You do not even know what TRUE pain is! I know what pain is. I know what it is like to be imprisoned for TEN THOUSAND YEARS, with only the vaguest hope of escape! And to feel that hope ripped away time and time again.’
‘You are a DISGRACE and a WEAKLING! And because of that, I can only pray I find another soon, because you may have literally cost me my life.’
The wind in the clearing was spiraling around the butterfly like a tornado, and the ferocity of the shrieking air was only increasing with each second. The pressure built up until Spike felt like he would be crushed into the ground as the wall of air ripped up chunks of the ashen earth and flung it in every direction.
Then, with a deafening crack of thunder, the wind vanished, and the creature flew straight into the door in a streak of scarlet light. The wood rippled like the surface of a broken pond, but quickly settled back down until it looked like nothing had ever happened.
Spike felt like he should be reeling from the words, but he couldn’t dredge up the energy to care. The tiredness was back. And this time he was sure it would finally consume him. He fell to his knees, and in a last, desperate act of will, crawled out of the clearing and as far away from the haunted door as he could manage, before collapsing yet again into the flowers’ soft embrace.
It wouldn’t be so bad, the last cognizant parts of his mind tried to rationalize. To sleep forever.
It sounded peaceful. Calm.
Certainly better than going through that horrible door.
The souls of the dead gazed down at him with blank expressions and empty eyes. But his last few moments of wakefulness, Spike imagined that they were looking at him with pity.
And then; for the last time, darkness swept in.
The abyssal void consumed him. Everything he was, everything he had learned, and everything he had forgotten, vanished in the blink of an eye.
All except for a single bubble of memories that floated turbulently in the darkness. It was jostled, and prodded, and worn away by the cloying void as it worked fiercely to shred the last remnants of his self. Eventually his last resovior of strength wilted, and the bubble burst.
Color lit up his world in the last display of a dying mind, and everything came back to him.
Twilight…resourceful…nerdy…obsessive…magical
Applejack…industrious…proud…competitive…honest
Fluttershy…caring…fierce…humble…kind
Rainbow Dash…fast…brash…arrogant…loyal
Pinkie Pie…random…happy…trusting…laughing
Rarity…beautiful…vain…neurotic…generous
He remembered them all. All the adventures they had. All the letters he had written. All the lessons they had learned. All the moments they had shared together.
His friends.
His family.
They filled the empty pit and gave him new life as he held them close. New energy.
But then, like all the others before it, the memories slipped from his grasp like water.
And they were gone.
