A somber morning for the somber mare.
Indigo Fancy squinted blearily at the window above her bed, the sky beyond bright yet overcast with grey, before crawling out of the warmth of the linens. Perhaps she was a touch too dramatic, as her friends liked to say. All at once, she could not recall why she had made the mental comment to herself at all; certainly there was no reason for her to be somber, now was there? She racked her sleep-befuddled mind for answers and drew only white. With a sigh, she quickly gave up with reasoning for the peculiarity - which probably didn’t even deserve a second thought in the first place - and left the room, without even the vaguest, serious consideration towards the clay-drawn pentacle on the floor.
There were things to do! She was a Canterlot socialite, was she not? There were always things to do - whether the sky was overcast, or not. Breakfast was a priority when it meant a date, tea-time was exclusively couture when the sun was out... What was today, had anypony called for her? The indigo-pelted mare pursed her lips, as she was ever so perturbed at the idea of a day spent alone. There was time spent alone by choice, and there was true loneliness, of which there was no last resort but desperation.
The prior was stylish; it meant that one was aloof, mysterious, and ‘did things of a certain eccentric or serious nature’. It was commendable, quirky; even attractive. Having ‘sides’ were what was popular, it was what drew attention. Indigo herself took pride in her ‘Gothic artist’ persona, painting commissions here and there, reading and holding discussions of the occult in her parlor every-other Tuesday, wearing dark and elegant materials whenever she went out....
But what if she couldn’t go out? The unicorn froze on the stairs, eyes widening before she turned-tail and hastened back for the second floor.This was the nightmare of every socialite. A night in meant that the layers were peeled away; that she was desperate, somepony of little quality. It meant that she was known as a fraud, and that she had lost everything over some faux pas or another while she had been out- Indigo clenched the door frame of the powder room with the curl of a hoof and thought frantically, What? What could she have committed? What could possibly have happened that nopony had rang, and that she hadn’t been called from her slumber? This couldn’t have been happening.
It was ghastly, it was a consequence of exile!
A thin, grey earth pony mare appeared on the stairs with a pile of laundry folded on her back. Upon reaching the landing, and seeing her lady’s traumatized, paralyzed state, her eyes went wide. “My Lady! What are you doing out of bed? You cannot be up - I simply won’t allow this - the doctor has yet to arrive!”
“What are you talking about, Mariposa?” Indigo gasped for breath to utter this growl, peeling herself from the wall to face the old maid. “I will not let you tell me what to do! I am the Lady of this house!”
“Oh! Dearie me, hon, you’re sweating! You really must get back to bed.” Mariposa shifted back and forth for a frantic moment, uncertain of how to approach the unicorn mare with the laundry on her back, before decidedly setting the clean clothes in the corner and easing up beside Indigo, who thrashed at her touch but had nowhere to go, solidly colliding into the wall behind her as the old mare advanced.
Indigo bared her teeth at the maid’s approach and snapped at her, her teeth making a hollow clicking that did not deter the maid, who merely stroked the weak, dizzy mare on the head and used her dingy grey hooves to lift the unicorn onto her back to take her back to her room.
“Don’t touch me, you’re a peasant,” Indigo murmured. “I want to go out, I’m a disgrace...” White. Her thoughts were white, fading to grey; then to black - But they didn’t have time for that. Indigo felt a jolt as the maid halted abruptly in her doorway and lifted her head.
“What are you doing? Make up your mind, I dare say you aren’t so competent outside the chores you do...” Indigo hit Mariposa in the head with a hoof, but the older mare didn’t budge.
“The symbol. The symbol... I washed it, but it’s come back. I washed it...”
Indigo saw that Mariposa was staring at the clay-drawn pentacle on the floor. In the grey light, on the grey boards, the red pigment appeared bright and threatening, the symbol itself, more complex than a simple star within a circle. There were lines, thick and thin, some no wider than a hair, criss-crossing throughout. The fact that the color so contrasted granted her ability to see them all.
“I washed it, and it’s come back... Indigo, Miss Fancy, have you done this? Have you. Oh you’re a naughty, bad filly, disobeying me and the doctor... Oh, you can’t stay in this room, no.”
Indigo wrapped her hooves around her maid’s neck and heaved her weight forward. “Go on then! You told me I had to go to my room!” She screamed.
Mariposa gasped as she fell into the room with the unicorn on top of her. Suddenly, her shrieks and tears filled the air.
Indigo rolled over to see that the mare was bawling and paralyzed with fright, Mariposa’s forehooves having landed inside the symbol. As she watched, Mariposa’s tears and feeble hoof movements smudged the symbol, splotching the grey mare’s hooves with bright red pigment, that made her cry even louder.
Dimly, Indigo recalled that she had not, in fact, drawn the symbol the previous night. If there had been a previous night - her sense of time was scarce, and the mere, vague realization of that fact was infuriating. This confusion, infuriating. It shouldn’t have mattered. None of it should have mattered, but there were shadows, things that ought to have been known but were scattered from her mind. She lacked thought, she lacked intuition, she lacked a life. They thought she was sick, and they kept her sick - made her sick. The doctor, that Peroxide Bromhooft fellow. Mariposa. She lacked a life, she had no life. They made her. She was a shadow. Her friends, where were they?
Indigo was angry at everything - she knew she was angry. Her thoughts, scattered. But she grinned as her ears nearly bled from her maid’s screams. She rolled over and with a flash of magic, levitated herself to her hooves. She glared down at the grey maid.
“You deserve this! This symbol is mine,” Indigo screeched, shocking her into silence - or as much of what could have counted for silence, as the mare sobbed quietly and tried to edge away, smearing the symbol with her.
Indigo made a rush at her and caused the mare to flail backwards. With that, the unicorn used her magic to slam the door rather pointedly, and with a huff, turned back to her bed - and then the window. Raindrops were beginning to fall and patter gently against the glass.
Her quiet. Her room.
Her gaze fell to the floor. The beautiful, eerie symbol was smeared grotesquely, red pigment dragging where the maid had fallen and made her retreat, vanishing under the door. It really did appear to be a mess now. As she watched, there came the sound of sniffling along with the soft panting of a plastic spray bottle. Water rolled out from beneath the door. It spilled and frothed, and there was the distinctive sound of a sponge against the wood.
Mariposa would be the one to get back to her duty.
Where the maid stashed her supplies, Indigo never knew. Mariposa was handy as faking conjuration, better than anypony she had ever come across. With a roll of her eyes, she sent a solid thump of telekinetic force against the door. There was a satisfying cry on the other side.
“I want quiet! Peace! Not you!” Indigo screamed. Then, huffing a sigh, she looked about her room.
She was up. Trapped; chambered. What was she to do now, but await the disgusting medicine Dr. Bromhooft would surely bring her?...Bored.
She’d supposed it came down to arguments...
Indigo laid down on her bed and stared up at the shadows that creased the exposed boards of her ceiling. She paid no mind to the shivers and chills that racked her body.
Shadows. What were they, but the beginning of everything and the end of what always was? They birthed the Princesses’ parents and their parents; they birthed the nightmares and terrors from planes farther out of space than the night sky or the universe itself... Shadows were nothing and everything at once, forgetfulness and fear, memory and denial, projection, protection, and promise. They were a staple of every diet, of every ghost or lie or empty bottle. They were company.
Indigo’s horn glowed idly. The magic, similar to her eyes, had been a sea-green once, but had over time deepened into a teal - and was on its way to becoming turquoise. This she anticipated and no longer feared - when that happened, the new color, it would mean she was a master of her new artform, as much as Nightmare Moon had been when she had evolved from Princess Luna and tried to dominate the night.
Whether or not she would want to control something of her own...
Hm?
The shadows - they shifted. Her magic had climbed to the heights of her ceiling without her notice, and now the shadows were moving. The more she became aware of this phenomenon, the more obvious it seemed; and the shadows themselves were soon dancing, seemingly possessed by the magic, twirling and weaving about from the rafters, up and down the walls. Indigo grinned. On a hunch, she drew her magic out into the empty space, to see if the shadows would follow. They did.
The unicorn mare stared at the black curls and shapes that filled the air, floating in idle stasis as if they were in a pool. The shadows were naturally transparent. But if she were to bring it all together...
There, a sphere. A black hole, perhaps, if she were to think flamboyantly - in the center of her room.
Indigo had curled her body instinctively against the chills. Now wrapped in swathes of her long, pale, sweat-drenched mane and tail, she trembled by a different force, excitement breaking into her dark, fevered eyes as realization dawned into her mind the power she now possessed. And this was only a breath. Why, if she were to remember her school days, read up on her laws and studies, construct a spell around this force... And if she were to flex it, what would she be capable of?
*******************
The rain was coming down harder, the sky a motley of greys and blacks by the time Dr. Peroxide Bromhooft made his arrival and was mercifully shown out of the terrible weather. For a long time he couldn’t speak, his sides heaving, his breath coming raggedly as he struggled to concentrate on the simplest levitation spell to bring his inhaler out of his saddlebag to his mouth. Water soaked through his brown fur, dying it black as it coursed in rivulets down into a grand puddle in the foyer. Whenever the maid attempted to come near him, to comfort him in any way with aid, or hot tea, or a blanket - or even at the very least to clean up the mess on the floor - she was unceremoniously shoved away. Mariposa was left staring rather awkwardly at the doctor, waiting for some sign or inclination of a civil or better temper. Something effectively, benevolently, communicable.
At last, the tedium passed and with a sigh, the doctor looked upon the old, grey mare with an expression of solemn, flat distaste. “I hate the rain. Absolutely hate this kind of weather. It doesn’t bode well. You said over the phone that Miss Indigo has disappeared?”
“Y-yes! Yes.” Mariposa nodded her head rapidly. “I went to check on her, to see how she was doing, and she wasn’t there. Completely vanished.”
“Did you check the latches on the window?” Bromhooft asked.
Mariposa’s eyes went wide. “Why- no- I haven’t. But they appeared firm-” To her dismay, Bromhooft turned away from her without a word and went to the stairs. She hesitated before making her pursuit. “You don’t think she might have gotten out - the window is so high, so small!” She exclaimed.
“I don’t know what to think,” Bromhooft said, turning one eye to her as he paused on the stairwell. “I am a family doctor. Not an investigator - and nor am I a magical theorist. And yet, I’ve been standing by since you first discovered Miss Indigo’s little hobby in the dark arts. I should have reported this to the authorities, but you didn’t want her to lose face. None of this should have been allowed to get where it has. I blame myself. I misread the signs.” His ears flicked back for an instant, then he turned and continued on up the stairs.
“Doctor -”
He stiffened and looked back at her with a wary glare.
“You’re dripping, all over the place, Doctor. If you aren’t going to accept a towel - please, ah, be careful where you step. The stairs - they become steeper the farther up.”
Bromhooft sighed, his tail giving a flick. “I know, Mariposa. I’ve been here often.” He cut her off before she could stammer an apology at how blatant this was - “Thank you for your consideration. But my discomfort is necessary. I do not wish to wind down at a time like this. I may yet have to take my leave and head back into that horrid weather.”
“Head back?” The maid questioned tentatively as she followed him up, wary of the water the doctor trailed behind him.
“The weather and situation may be absurd, but I assure you I am not, and I do have other matters I must attend by the end of the night. Other patients. I have a number of elderly in my clients, if you do recall. A number I see daily by the request of their relatives.” Bromhooft reached the door, and edged out of the way to let the maid take the lead.
Mariposa stared at Bromhooft with wide eyes before moving forward to open the door. Her wrinkled brow knit together in worry. “Pardon - but I shall not go in there. I will not.”
“You’re afraid.” He spoke these words low in observation, but shifted uncomfortably.
“I’m not going in there.” Mariposa’s jowls quivered. “I shan’t. Enough has happened. I - The floor. Look at the floor.”
Peroxide Bromhooft did. There was a reddish smear on the floor that closely resembled a stain. He took a step back as a chill wafted from the room - but looking, up, saw that the window through the door was closed. By impulse, his horn glowed. There was an aura permeating from the room, one of intense dread. One didn’t have to be a magician to feel it.
Mariposa was shaking her head, backing onto the stairs. “I -I just don’t know what’s going on,” she rambled in a murmur, “I mean she was always a pretty, headstrong filly- when she got into this business - Oh, I couldn’t convince her, and you know how that went! Kept an eye on her as you said - and did my work! Clean, clean, clean! But oh - she was in the worst state when she arose- and you know she was narcoleptic, this was the first time in three days she’d awoken - always that habit - she talked about going out! Always about going out, seeing friends, getting dates - Oh, it was what you said it was... Ah, the word escapes me - but she was farther gone than ever - and the sweats! The worst case of the sweats, a fever - very dizzy-”
“Sweats?” Bromhooft has passively ignored her until that point, eyes transfixed on the doorway, before he cut her off.
“Y-yes, sweats.”
“I have read,” Bromhooft began, fear trickling into his voice, “That sweating is a symptom of possession. It stems from anxiety and other subconscious-psychological trauma induced by the otherworldly presence attempting to invade. The body, meanwhile treats the presence as any other disease and attempts to fight it. That would explain the fever. However -” The unicorn paused to clear his throat as he edged into the guardrail, “This weakens the body and makes the conjurer more susceptible to manipulation. In short, you shouldn’t have left her alone. Today could have been crucial to her recovery!”
“What- What are you talking about?!” Mariposa cried. “Conjuration, possession? If you mean to say that Indigo was summoning demons-”
“If you look at the door, you will realize, Madam, that there is something indeed lingering, and it is not benevolent!” Bromhooft exclaimed as sensations overcame him. “It is not a demon or any of the like - but dark magic does influence and infect its practitioner, and the effect is quite similar!” He gulped. “Now then, I would suggest we head back downstairs and you heat a pot of tea - Go on!”
There was a sudden scramble and a clatter as the maid flew into retreat, bumping into walls on the way down. Bromhooft’s horn flared brightly towards the doorway. The door slammed shut, but not before a slight resistance was felt in his mind. This seemed to justify everything he had stated and bring to evidence everything he had suspected - the doctor too retreated, teleporting one floor below, where he collapsed on the closest sofa in the parlor wearily, drawing his inhaler a second time to catch his breath.
“You cannot stay another moment in this house,” Bromhooft told Mariposa when she appeared with a steaming teapot and two cups in their saucers, balanced on a metal tray on her back. “I forbid it, with every fiber and merit of my being.”
“Wh-why ever should I?”
Their eyes locked;Mariposa’s wide in dismay, his own, baffled.
“Where-wherever would I go?” Mariposa continued. “I have lived in this house for thirty years - I maintain it, I am the only caretaker left. Surely- the presence, you were describing, will stay upstairs?” She shifted uncomfortably, but her pose remained stiff that the cups only rattled.
Bromhooft studied her before at last intoning, “No. No it will not, especially since there are no wards to restrain it. The magic will find its way out. It will disturb you, Marie. Torment you. Infect you. It’s rather valiant that you stand by so readily for this house. But you cannot, not anymore. They are not here. The only thing left in this house, besides you, are memories.”
The old mare’s ears flattened at this, and she looked away. Bromhooft followed her gaze to a bare, paneled wall. “I can always wish differently. But - oh, don’t mind me. I’ll... Leave.”
“You have a niece in Ponyville,” Peroxide Bromhooft prompted gently, seeing her jowls quiver. “ She would love to see you. The air of that town is very hospitable and warm.”
“Perhaps,” Mariposa murmured.
The doctor eyed her. “I will be able to visit,” He offered. “It isn’t too far from Canterlot - and they have an exquisite library. You could catch up on your reading, as you lament so often?”
The maid let out a heavy sigh before she began setting the teapot and cups on the hardwood floor. “I’m afraid I forgot to grab the sugar jar - but how many sugars will you be having with your tea this morning, Doctor? Two?”
“Yes.” He watched her trot off and disappear from view. A short while later, she returned with a small white jar on her back.
“Now, I shan’t mean to rush you, Doctor - but I will be packing, and thus be unavailable for service if you would like any more cups.” Mariposa poured him his cup and handed it to him in her hooves. He took it with a quick levitation spell.
Peroxide Bromhooft offered a smile and waved his hoof dismissively. “Very well, very well. I would be glad to serve myself tea, this rare time. It will be... Exotic.” His lips twitched. “Do go on.”
There was a ghost of a smile hidden in her wrinkles as she stood up and went off into the other room.
*****************
The rain was still at a drizzle when the maid and the doctor left the house for the station. The only pause came at the very beginning, when the maid took the moment to lock up the house despite the regretful weather. The doctor escorted her and the suitcase to the station, moving at a quick, clipping pace to get themselves under the roofing and out of the soaking, clinging wetness. She bought a ticket in cash and boarded the next train that came. He left the station, a solitary figure on the rain soaked cobblestones of Canterlot, making way.
Peroxide Bromhooft’s stoic expression faded into it’s true misery as he walked, now that he was freed from his role of the knight and had nopony to honor that impression any longer. Ears forked back, he could only hope that Mariposa would remain safe and out of the way. There was the likelihood that this problem of theirs would reach Princess Celestia, due to Ponyville’s spontaneity as a hub of mystic celebritydom, what with the Elements of Harmony having their residence. However, as reluctant as he was to admit it, he was relying on Mariposa’s shut-in tendencies to keep a low profile.
Cold. So very cold. How he abhorred the rainy season. To a fainter degree than hate, he had the strong compulsion to buck the next pegasus he saw to the moon. But as he thought of them, gifted in their weathermaking, winged, and always arrogant in some fashion, he realized he had the strong desire to be on that train instead of that sweet, old maid. He was alone. Not literally, however he was now the sole bearer of this secret, this dark predicament, in a sea of millions unknowing, yet one or one thousand could at any moment be affected. Changed. As if by the sheer goodwill of one decision, he had tricked himself further into this role, and couldn’t escape.
Bromhooft clenched his teeth and came to a temporary halt under the covered pillars of a shop front, a bakery whose light shining through the windows promised warmth, nourishment, and possibly relief from this immense chill deep within his body, yet he kept his back to it all the same, eyes looking out at the downpour instead. His breath came shallow and numb, but at least it was in a steady rhythm. His chest wouldn’t lock on him yet, if he remained calm. He let out a heavy sigh.
Of course, he could tell somepony. Drop the issue entirely, leave it to a stranger, and go home. But then, where would that lead? No matter the pony, there was the clear boundary of experience that could not be breached. Even a spell of a telepathic nature wouldn’t properly convey the emotions that laced everything that had happened, his memories stretching months in duration, even years, behind the incidents of these past few weeks, fueling his present thoughts. His thoughts, transformed into words, wouldn’t become personal or fully understandable, left to the interpretation of an outsider.
Even if that outsider was Princess Celestia, or Princess Luna.
No, he decided, finally ending a debate that had plagued him for days. Especially an outsider such as Princess Celestia, or Princess Luna; he could not, would not tell them of anything that had transpired within their very city. They could not know. With an ageless existence devoted to a balance of purity, they would be remorseless, their justice, too severe for any sort of mortal recovery. He would not recover. His practice would be shut down, his niche would be filled by a pure-minded colt, he would be useless, rent poor, stripped of everything and left to die in the street, blamed for it all and labeled a criminal. He did not even want think of what they would do to Indigo. She was the incarnation and embodiment of everything that went wrong in the world, and it was not her fault, not her fault at all.
Sweet filly. Even though Indigo was not in reality, she had still been a filly in mind. That hadn’t been alarming. The young ponies in this city, they were all that way; even a few of the older ones. It was the atmosphere of luxury that did it, spoiled them to immaturity past their years. But Indigo had lost her parents to tragedy, and her body weakened by the very sickness that had taken them. Fragile, so very fragile. Yet, Bromhooft was certain she had no idea of her weakness, being headstrong as well. Youth. They all thought themselves immortal. His lips twitched into a slight smile, although it was bitter, without any fond recollections.
The rain was a miserable thing, and he suspected it would not let up until late that evening, a number of hours from now. As he shivered, staring into the gloom, he fancied he saw figures in the shadows, something moving at the very least - abruptly, he recalled a snippet of the maid’s rambling. Going out? How would one ‘go out’ in this? He realized he had no idea where to begin and felt at a tremendous loss, a feeling which sank deeper at the further realization he had no way to get back into the house to investigate it. After all, wasn’t it possible Indigo would sneak back in as she had, out? Damn it - and what if she hadn’t even left?
The doctor shoved himself out into the weather, seething with fury for this missight. Magic was such an unpredictable, loathsome tool. A migraine was beginning to bloom in his temples; it was a frightful, common thing these days to get them, and he knew better than to keep mulling.
He could not stand around anyway, he realized offhandedly- he did have a few appointments he had to make.
Such was life, He sighed, breathing deeply - then coughed as what felt like ice chips gouged his throat, to melt in his lungs. And he would not be late, Bromhooft mentally added. He could not fail the remaining patients he had. And with that, he made a further promise to keep his mouth shut.
