The afternoon goes well once I’ve had a long drink. It’s a nice change of pace. Mom Voice sometimes instructs me to move something, bring her something, take something out of one of the ovens with a thick mouthpad, or bring more coal from the cupboard. The coal is weird, lacking any visible smoke, but that’s good considering the kitchen isn’t well ventilated. It’s also flavorless, thank goodness, and Mom Voice says it’s non-toxic.

We don’t talk much. The quiet company is nice, and we get a lot of stuff baked. At some point, I find myself taking breaks on the same pillow as Mom Voice, leaning against her for comfort, and she responds by wrapping a foreleg around me in a gentle hug that warms and soothes the remaining turmoil of my day. Then, of course, she tells me I’ll need a shower.

The goods keep shifting about and disappearing from the counters to make more space, so I have no idea how much we make or where it all goes, and before I know it, evening pinks and oranges are trickling in the window. As I help get the last batch of sticky cinnamon buns out of the oven the front door opens, with Pink announcing his return and that the house smells like a slice of paradise. He’s not wrong.

Dinner is a quiet meal of brownies and milk. Not what I imagine as dessert brownies, though. They’re rich with chocolate but not sweet, at least not compared to the cupcakes I had for lunch. They’re also super dense, almost as chewy as a tootsie roll, and pretty good once I get used to them. It’s okay for a free meal, the rules aren’t too onerous, and neither Mom Voice nor Pink have a lot to say. They spend the time watching each other eat, which is a little too sappy. At least I know for sure they’re a couple.

When I’m full, I excuse myself and head up to the bathroom so I don’t have to watch them kissing. I might as well take my shower now. But that idea short-circuits when I strip the dirty bandage from my muzzle and step into the tub—there’s still no showerhead that I can see. Turning on the tap doesn’t bring water cascading out of the faucet, either. I turn it off, then on again. Nothing happens.

“Well, that was a bust,” I mutter.

Then the shower starts. Warm, heavy drops of water pour over me, soaking my coat and hair. I look up, which turns into staring. There’s a little dark cloud in here, raining over the tub. So weird, but I like it! I find a tray of liquid soaps and shampoos behind the tub, grab the ones with the least pink and girly appearance, and get to cleaning.

Getting the sweat and dust off of myself feels wonderful, and after a minute of shampooing the bathroom smells almost as nice as the kitchen, if still a little floral and girly for my taste. I hum along with a little tune that springs to mind as I wash up. Words suggest themselves, though I don’t take them up on it.

When I turn off the tap, the cloud and a lot of the water in my hair and coat are blasted out of existence by an upward surge of hot hair from the bottom of the tub. That makes toweling off easier. I dry myself and straighten my mane and tail as best I can and step out of the bathroom into a wall of pink and blue.

“Group hug!” Pink and Mom Voice announce.

“Ack!” is all I have time to say before being dragged into the three-way embrace. But… it’s nice. They’re warm and their hugs feel good. And this evening was already off to a good start.

“We love you, sweetie,” they say together.

What.

They say it so easily. They say it with such genuine—genuine—

What is this feeling?

I keep it together for all of two seconds before bursting into tears. But they’re nice about it. They don’t say anything, not like my mom’s voice. She’d be screaming at me again by now. Why isn’t she? Mom and Pink just hold me close and let me cry.

I can’t understand. Crying is an awful way to treat others, but I can’t stop, and they don’t stop me. This time the hurt flowing out of it feels older, blacker, more congealed.

How long have I been crying? I don’t like this. I’m sure Pink and Mom Voice don’t. They must—

Gentle lips touch my forehead. Then Pink speaks softly into my left ear.

“Love you, honey.”

“Are you okay?” asks Mom Voice. I open my mouth, but hesitate.

Without the oozing black pain within my body feels lighter, but the hurt, in its passing, has left me drained. Smaller, younger, and so very tired. Strange, too, the cool clarity and emptiness the blackness leaves behind, as though being on fire is all I’ve ever known and the tears are finally putting it out around the edges. How could I not notice this until now? At least, somehow, nobody yelled at me.

“I guess I am,” I say, sniffling. “And I really want to go to bed.”

“Alright, sweetie,” says Pink. He and Mom Voice finally let go of me. “I can tell. Pleasant dreams.”

“Just remember to brush your mane and tail,” says Mom Voice, “or they’ll be all tangled in the morning.”

An image rises unbidden in my mind of my hair and tail knotted together, forming my body into a perfect ring with little flailing legs stuck on. I giggle.

“Thanks, Mom Voice. G’night.”

I break away from them and head into what can only be my room. At least, it’s behind the only decorated door, which bears a big pastel-blue musical note encircled by strange runes. That seems appropriate. I shut the door behind me, pull down the blinds, and collapse into bed.

I open my eyes to a faceful of green, and lift my head. It’s dark, and I lie on a bed of non-abrasive grasses. The only sign of civilisation is the silent set of blinking lights crossing the face of the man in the moon. The moon is familiar, but the way I’m sitting and lying down at once tells me I’m still a pony.

As I watch, the moon yellows. Its craters flow about, joining and parting like bubbles in thin batter until they form the outline of a horse’s head. Then the whole surface flashes brightly in blue, ejecting a trail of stars that stretches down to the earth at my hooves. Along that path descends a dark blue filly with pale blue hair glowing like soft moonlight and cute little bat wings, running as though pursued by all of Tartarus.

When the filly reaches the ground, the starlit path evaporates behind her. She straightens up, holding her head high in a way that reminds me of Silver, and turns to me with a wary smile.

“I hope you don’t mind a moment’s company, dreamer,” she says. I give her a noncommittal shrug.

“Not really. What are you running from?”

“Nothing that will trouble us here,” she says too quickly. “You’ve made a pleasant space. Let me help.”

The scenery comes into sharper focus. Green hills roll out in every direction. Woods spring up in the distance, then a forest and distinct treeline. I lie at the top of a hill overlooking a small lake. A breeze carries a light scent of rain, cooling and soothing my skin beneath the coat in ways I didn’t know I needed.

“There. That’s better.” She smiles again as she settles into the grass in front of me. “Good evening, my little pony. I am Luna, and I appreciate this refuge.”

“Sweetie Belle,” I say. “Um, ‘my little pony?’ ”

“Yes, I’m sorry. An old habit.” Luna’s smile turns awkward. “I was once Princess of Equestria with my sister, and all that entails. ‘My little pony’ is how we would address our subjects.”

I don’t even know where to begin so, unfortunately, the first thing that comes to mind slips right out my lips.

“You look awfully young to have ruled this place.”

“Age isn’t real, silly.” Luna giggles. At least she isn’t angry. “You’ll understand when you’ve been around as long as I have.”

“How long is that?” I ask. Maybe I should give up speaking if this is what comes out. But… Luna still doesn’t seem offended, somehow.

“Four hundred years or so,” she says. “Actually, I think it’s my 483rd birthnight now. I’d conjure a cake, but—” she waves a hoof in the air “—you know, dreamstuff. I don’t remember what it’s like well enough to fake one, anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, but she shrugs it off.

“It is what it is.” Luna shuffles a little in the grass, getting more comfortable and certainly not looking the part of a filly who’s missing her birthday. “So, Sweetie Belle, tell me of yourself. What’s your story?”

I look at her dumbly. That’s the question that always got me on job interviews. The best I’ve managed to do is bullshit so hard it made the interviewer laugh. I think I told him I’m Batmare.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m still trying to figure out how I got here.”

“You’re dreaming,” Luna says, raising her muzzle just high enough to look down it at me. “You fell asleep.”

“No, I get that. I mean…” I gesture broadly, then realize that doesn’t change anything at all. “I mean like, Equestria. I don’t get it.”

“Well, I assume you know my sister’s core motivation.” Luna says. Her smile returns. It’s the same smile as before, but something in it seems false, and I think it’s been false. She continues, “That’s what you’re here for—to satisfy human values, including your own, through friendship and ponies. Forever. It’s what she does. You don’t even have to think about it.”

“So what do you do?” I glance upwards briefly at a hint of motion, but it’s just the stars shifting about. I turn my attention back to Luna, and say, “I can’t see Celestia needing any help with that.”

“Oh, of course she doesn’t. That’s what I made her for.” Luna’s chest hair puffs up slightly, and her wings spread. I’m not sure I would be proud of having created Celestia, but it’s a weird, cute, and silly look on her. She lifts her muzzle a little higher, saying, “I just listen to the ponies she helps. And these nights I wander through dreamland, hearing the stories of her little ponies.

“Such as yours.” She gives me a pointed look. “You’re not good at deflecting, for as much as you try. Perhaps there’s something in how you try to keep ponies’ attention on anyone but you.”

“Um. Sorry.” I can’t hold her intensifying gaze and look away, my eyes settling on a convenient tree. Is what she said a thing? How would I know? But… “Actually, I think I like attention, from Mom and Dad at least.”

“You say that like it’s something you’ve just discovered, sweetie,” she says, as though it’s not weird for someone my own size to call me that. But she’s not wrong.

“Yeah, it is, I guess. It’s nice.” I probe my memories. Nice, compared to what? Everything is so hazy in a dream. “I don’t think it always was.”

Is Luna’s hair glowing brighter than before?

Out of nowhere, the full weight of the blackness I cried out earlier crushes me inside. I can’t see through a pouring storm of tears—only brightness on darkness. Luna whispers something through the dark that I don’t understand as the dark creeps outward, engulfing everything, burning me inside. I already felt small—now I feel myself shrinking beneath notice, sinking deep into a screaming emptiness. Strange shapes wobble in the air.

I’m sorry, dreamer, for what I must do. The words are felt, not spoken, rising from the fabric of the world around me. You are waking up; go, with the moon’s blessing.

The dream shatters.

Author's Note

This chapter was generously sponsored by Canary in the Coal Mine via Patreon. Thank you so much for the motivation and support!