The Kiss of Immortal Love

~ XV ~

In the Belly of the Beast

Twilight was cast into darkness until she ignited her own light, the expanse of nothingness illuminating to precisely the same, a cavernous stomach of a beast—and equally as empty as a cave. No food or water or acids.

It's explained the spongy grounding dry beneath her hooves.

She shivered despite the lack of coldness. Her form retreated into herself the best she could. Forelegs wrapped from chest to around her back, the tightness of a hug used to usher her sleep countless nights ago.

Heartbeats echoed like thunder in the distance, a pulsating that rippled through the lining of the walls, everything tucked deeply within the mass of the beast. Unconscious functions felt and heard. Just like the experiences written about in the books.

Only their depiction of the horror couldn't match her current trauma.

Twilight whimpered as she was thrown about, ground to ceiling, wall to wall, rocked around to the movements of the beast. Was this what she was now? Prey to his movements and moments and without him knowing of his effect on her.

But those roars, horrible and terrible, did not thunder around her... it came muffled from beyond the thickness of the being and body that encased her. Spike? Or had another dragon appeared to fight for the remainder of the meal? Observation and deductions fainted power onto the princess who was powerless.

All she could do was curl into a ball, stroke her tail as her mind thought to her life, stroking her tail, chuckling, sadly laughing at her fate... the one it was meant to be. Swallowed by a dragon, strangler or king, it was always meant to be.

At least, inside of one, it would serve a purpose.

And maybe he'd swallow a book and a desk for her.

The irony helped her through the darkness, as the light from her horn faded, losing the will for life to power it. In the night of the stomach was where the mare wept, comforted by bodily functions and a violet heartbeat.

And the roars outside and the ones within, vibrating terribly around her, a reminder of the beast that swallowed her.

Spike thundered forward a step, composed and comprised of strength, everything flooding through him. The beast obscured the width of the bridge behind him, towering enough into the sky, at an inch, to block the great beyond of blues.

It bound its claws together over the sun, clasping, clenching the arms supporting it. It roared and whimpered on rocketing the two downward, its shadow consuming Spike, who did not cease in his step.

The strike came down on him.

His phantom claw held the blade over his right shoulder, swiping it in an upward curve to his left, slashing through the wrists as they came. He didn't miss a step as the blade sliced through scales and bones as if they were butter, severing them, the boulders of claws clattering on the ground behind him.

And blood splattering above at the beginning of rain.

More... more... more! That was what his body demanded of him! Dashing across those arms and sweeping behind in strikes, the greatness of the arm reduced to hundreds of layers, total destruction to sate the thirst of his rage.

Red must have sensed the end as the beast stumbled into a twist, no palms to press into the stone, attempting escape. Its wings flared and the density of its thighs launched into the air, a single stroke launching him airborne.

But the power of his wings did nothing.

Red turned its head in the air, gazing across its back, seeing the little speck poised before the spade of its tail. Sweeping currents blasted from his wings across the lands, shooting the dragon's coat into the air—caught fire from its burning arm.

His body burned ablaze. The spade of his tail ripped the coat off from the sleeves, tossing the thing backward, not for the jacket, but rather, the content of its pockets. Totally free from obligations, Spike whipped the colossal tail backward, easily yanking the dragon into a slide across the ground.

The flames of the phantom arm then bulged toward its elbow, compounding it in size, seconds before its strike. It came down upon the back of the dragon, cracks cracking like Spike's had, his own pushed into place from the pressure of the flames.

With the dragon knocked down and to its side, it had rolled enough to expose its stomach, which Spike approached. Not forgoing the phantom, the claw slid over the sprawling frame of the dragon's side—pinning against its neck for assurance.

Spike reached the sloped wall of scales, exhaling clouds of steam iotas away from becoming flames, laying his actual claw on the belly. No phantom to guide or tell him what to do. Instead it held the beast down, allowing him the chance, the ability to act on his own desires, to the method of his own will.

Everything was a reflection of him.

Spike moved his claw around, feeling, searching for her. Moving and running until stopping. Something billowed from the spot. Soft and warm and dense and something of substance across the distance. In taking the sword in his tail, he places the sharpness on the exact spot.

And began to strike.

Strike after strike of moonlight and the wisps of shooting stars as the blade cut and slashed and dug into the thickness of scales never meant to be penetrated. The dragon thought and wiggled and whimpered but couldn't move beneath the weight of flames pressing harder into its neck. Every struggle caused it to push down harder—the sudden force exploding through it, creating a crater beneath the dragon's head.

Seconds after Spike had cut through the veil of scales.

In tossing his blade to the left, the sword sunk into the ground, tilted to the right, wedged deeply enough. Spike withdrew the phantom arm as it whipped back like rubber, coming to cock in at his side, his knees bending, body lowering, his mind preparing for percussion.

Then the flaming fist broke forward, through the open wound and into the body, puncturing the sac insides its depths. Something soft and warm and fuzzy and thick composed itself against the palm of the phantom, which dimmed its own flames at the touch, unable to be extinguished or else its form would be lost—but rendering itself into its weakest embers.

Spike thrust the arm back from the depths of the dragon, pulling out the shape of purple and throwing it behind him, it flying over the rock and into the open legs that were eight in numbers. It'd been the heaviest weight the drake had bore all day and, in a swallow of lava, turned around to see if it was her.

Twilight Sparkle loomed in the distance of many feet away, caught and cuddled in the arms of the spider, safe and protected within that hold. Flames lessened from his arm and the molten of purple thinned from his scales. Slowly a form returned to his glowing lids, the resurfacing of the eyes buried beneath the veneer of rage.

And in the free exposure from the mask, relief swept across the dragon's expression, the darker purple flooded away from the shape of his head, slowly revealing the lighter scales beneath. He was smiling. That tired smile after a great weight is lifted. Hope reclaimed from the belly of despair.

He stepped toward Twilight, holding out his phantom claw, the one manifested in flames because of her.

And she screamed.

Twilight screamed and cowered and panicked within the hold of the spider, turning and rolling and fighting for escape—the legs forced to retrain her hysteria. The filly beyond horrified, crying freely, pleading with quivering lips to escape.

She turned her head and threw it into Rarity's chest, the spider holding her close to there, stroking her mane, hugging her close, everything friends and family and lovers did for each other. Even the long legs of black shivered, and Rarity's head twitched, something unable to be suppressed as she looked at him.

Looking at him, too, something she failed at.

Her muzzle dipped, and her eyes clenched, hoping to escape from it all.

Spike's claw inching toward them stopped, the soft crackling the only sounds amidst silence, a green wall of flames. In the seconds that followed, the openness of the claw curled into itself, as the two girls had done the same, only he bawled it into a closed and clenched fist.

The demon of a dragon turned around.

Prepared to do what must be done.