Tartarus Raiserby MoosetasmChaptersPrologueChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreePrologueA few years ago… Summer in the Dragon Lands was mercilessly hot, even in a region known for its incredible heat year-round. The sole saving grace of the sun-baked pony embassy town of New Asbestos came from its buildings, or rather their namesake materials, which contrasted sharply with those of its two predecessors: Thatchburg, and New Kindling. But while members of the visiting pony delegation rushed from the shade of one building to the next in futile attempts to keep cool, the native dragons in the streets revelled in the inhospitable temperatures, and basked in the occasional breezes, which were actually hotter than the still air. But one pony pushed his way through the stinking press of creatures choking New Asbestos’ town square, worked his way down a series of dilapidated side-streets, and finally halted outside of a small, run-down restaurant. The light-gray unicorn’s azure eyes surveyed the structure’s pitted fire-proof shingles with disdain. Years ago, he could never have imagined himself entering such a place, or even making the trip to this forsaken country; but now, even as the heat and the weight in his saddlebags threatened him with collapse, his desire drew him onwards. The restaurant’s door creaked, as if threatening to drop from its hinges. It was almost loud enough to cover the bustle of the room beyond. Indeed, he saw that every seat was filled with one lump or another of draconic flesh—all except for a solitary chair across a table where a most peculiar dragon sat. She was weirdly elongated, and of a dark emerald color, with what appeared to be actual gems encrusting her scales in a seemingly random distribution. A pair of cone-shaped horns sat atop two googly eyes, a slack mouth, and lolling tongue. On one edge of the table was a small pile of sugar cubes next to two ornate glasses filled with a black liquid that he assumed was not tea, mostly due to it giving off a faint aroma akin to motor oil. But in the dead center of the table was a sight that set the unicorn’s heart racing. By appearances, it looked to be a pastry box covered with complicated golden filigree patterns that reflected faint rainbow hues. Within the patterns the pony could see what appeared to be runes, though even with his encyclopedic knowledge of dead languages and ancient obscura he couldn’t tell what language, nor even what alphabet, the symbols originated from. The box drew him forward. He seated himself opposite the derpy dragon, never breaking his gaze. "What is your pleasure, Mister Stygian?" the dragon asked in a warbly yet knowing voice. Stygian wasn’t fazed that the dragon knew his name. The research that had led him here had warned him of the otherworldly aspects of both the box and its cursed keeper. And though he knew he should be cautious when slaking his desires to hold pieces of antiquity—having once borne the cursed mantle of the Pony of Shadows during past dabblings—he was also unfazed by the fleeting reflection of his grime-encrusted hooves and unkempt grayish-blue mane in the box’s surface. He only desired one thing now, and it lay in the center of the table. "The box," Stygian said intensely. The dragon continued to regard him with a single uncaring eye, while the other one followed an errant fly. Stygian reached back into his saddlebags and produced a large sack. He dropped the bag onto the table, causing dozens of bits to spill out and across the surface. Hundreds more lay within. The complete vacancy in the dragon’s crimson-dot eyes and the slack-jawed lolling of her tongue made her look uniquely unimpressed. With a filthy claw, she removed a cube of sugar from the pile on the table, and delicately placed it into her drink. Stygian narrowed his eyes as he reached into his saddlebags again, this time depositing a sack filled with priceless gems onto the table. The look on the dragon’s face did not change as she spoke again, neither eye really focusing on him: "Take it. It's yours." Stygian shot up, hoofed the box from the table, and stuffed it into his saddlebags. He gave one last look at the derped out dragon before turning and galloping out of the establishment in such a hurry that he did not hear the dragon’s parting words: "It always was." Stygian’s coat was drenched in sweaty anticipation by the time he dumped his saddlebags out upon the floor of an unfinished, darkened room deep within the embassy. His horn flared for a moment, sparking at the wicks of candles around him until a small square of them flickered in the dimness. Their guttering illumination seemed somehow fitting as he turned the box over in his hooves. There were no visible cracks in its surface, and it betrayed no hints as to how it should be able to open. Yet as he felt along one of the golden filigree designs, he felt a pleasurable tingle. The sensation was not unlike electricity running into his hooves from the box. It was almost like the box was rewarding him for feeling along the surface in certain patterns. Stygian began to experiment. His hooves moved across the intricate golden patterning in a manner that began to remind him of kneading dough. And the box responded to his delicate ministrations with additional tingling, as well as the faint clicking of internal mechanisms. Suddenly, one of his hooves caught an unseen ridge at the center of one of the box faces. He felt the unmistakable tearing of invisible tape as his hoof carefully lifted the hidden flap. Salivating slightly, he pushed down on a button that had been concealed under the flap. One side of the box began to rise in his hooves and the incomplete tune of a haunting melody began to issue forth, seemingly from the gaps between the moving pieces. Stygian’s eyes went wide as foalhood memories forced their way into his conscious mind. He hadn’t heard the old, familiar tune of The Gonk in a long time. But then part of the box that had risen slid across the surface towards him; it later slid backwards and, with another series of internal clicks, reconnected to its original raised position. He pushed the raised part of the box back down. But as he did, a loud clanking sound, like that of a door unlocking, could be heard in the room. Another complimentary set of notes joined the first, making the melody sound more complete. Pale blue light began to filter into the room through the slats that were visible through the holes in the unfinished plaster of the walls. The walls and floors creaked, as if the foundations of the building were shifting or settling. Stygian briefly considered the ominous changes to his surroundings. But, not one to be easily distracted from a goal, his attention quickly returned to the box. On one surface the pattern was split into sixteen pie-shaped sections surrounding a large golden disk. He ran his hoof around the circular portion in a counterclockwise manner. As he did so he was rewarded with yet more clicking from within the device. It vaguely reminded him of mixing cake batter as he continued to caress the box. Then, the box itself started to split apart. Half of the sixteen sections remained in the hoof upon which the box sat. The other half rose with his touch. When the sections were no longer in each others way he turned the top portion of the box clockwise, causing yet more notes to join the others. The melody almost sounded complete. He forced the two halves back together, forming the box into a new shape reminiscent of a star. The music stopped. The pleasant tingle the box had been producing suddenly turned into a painful jolt of electricity. Stygian gasped and fumbled the box, which fell just out of his reach. A mournful sound like a slow, distant egg-timer going off suffused the room, seemingly from beyond the walls. The golden disk at the center of the box's star pattern folded open like the petals of some strange metal flower, revealing an opening that led to the center of the device. Stygian leaned forward with an eager expression on his face. He felt a little wary of the box now that it had shocked him. But all that was visible from where he was sitting was darkness. Darkness, and pink, web-like strands of what could only be cotton candy stretching between the pieces of metal. He leaned closer, his azure eyes filled with desire. There was a sudden burst of movement. Stygian had no time to react as multiple black licorice whips shot forth from the opening, wrapped around Sygian’s limbs, and held him fast. He was wholly unprepared when a glob of frosting caught him in the eyes, causing him to scrunch them shut in both shock and pain. More and more varied confections began to make themselves acquainted with his coat. When he was at last able to pry open his frosting-shot eyes, gasping from the abruptness of the assault of sweetness, he could only gaze in stupefaction at a room that looked nothing like it had mere moments ago. Countless strands of sparkle-encrusted frosting dripped from the ceiling. Two rotating pillars held pieces of kitchen cutlery, including tongs, beaters, and long pie servers, all suspended from wicked-looking rubberized hooks. Cherry filling and small bits of cake had been spattered across every surface. The pale blue glow from earlier, which now seemed to come from a single lightbulb inside a small pink oven in the corner, illuminated everything. Stygian finally gained the wherewithal to begin screaming as a large metal spatula descended on unseen currents and began slathering grey butter-cream icing all over the top and back of his head—though not even he knew whether the outburst was born from agony or ecstasy. Two large piping bags started to crisscross behind the spatula, dispensing thin lines of dark-blue gel. Other instruments of cake decoration streaked across his cheeks, the center of his left haunch cutie mark, his legs, his ears, his barrel—nothing was spared from the sugary caress. Then tiny tendrils of sucrose sprang from all sides, driving rainbow candles deep into each intersection of the gel lines on Stygian’s caked head. Bound in congealed food starch, covered from head to hoof in a quantity of confection that would surely take many moons to wash out, and bristling with tiny candles, Stygian let out a low moan— —Which was heard by the pair of pegasus guards who finally forced the room’s door open and entered, weapons at the ready, eager to aid the poor pony whose otherworldly screams had put the entire embassy on high alert. Yet they beheld… nothing. The frosting, the pillars, and everything else that hadn’t been there before Stygian had begun working on the box, was gone. The room was completely empty. It was as if Stygian, or neigh, anypony, had never been there. The two guards exchanged occasional confused looks as they explored the deserted, previously desserted, room. Chapter OneThe present… The midday sun illuminated Canterlot with warm, comforting rays. Ponies young and old went cheerfully about their business, including a team of construction workers who were busy repairing the infrastructural damage to Canterlot’s train station caused by the monster-of-the-week that Princess Twilight had vaporized the day before. They worked efficiently but quickly, knowing that they must not only put things back to normal before the next inevitable threat reared its ugly head(s), but that the damage had left Equestria’s transportation system running at less than half-capacity. Fleur de Lis stood watching the workers from her vantage point amid an oversized and impatient crowd waiting on the arrivals platform. She used a hoof to poof out her mane a little bit, wanting to look her very best for when Fancy returned. After all, his most recent letter to her had said that he was bringing a surprise. Fleur trotted in place and giggled a little. She loved when Fancy went out of his way to find things that would interest her. Just the thought had her jittery with excitement. She heard the telltale chugga-chugga of the Friendship Express not long before it exited a tunnel cut deep into Canterlot mountain. But as she caught sight of the locomotive, something about it seemed… different. When Fleur tried to put her hoof on just what might have changed, all she could conjure in her head were images of a landscape of food that she frequently denied herself in order to keep her trim figure. Mountains of scrumptious pancakes flanked by rivers of sweet syrup. Trees of cinnamon and mint growing from mounds of ground-up chocolate and cream sandwich cookies. Entire fields of flowers sprouting open to reveal hard candy centers. Cotton candy clouds— “Fleur dear?” Fleur shook herself from her sweet reverie. Fancy was standing right in front of her. “I say,” he said. “It looked as if you were miles away.” “I’m sorry, sweetie; I was just daydreaming about your return.” She smiled and wrapped her forelegs around Fancy’s neck. “You’ve been gone for so long. I missed you!” “And I too missed you,” Fancy said as the two separated. “But rest assured that while business must be attended to, I have indeed brought you back a most exquisite present.” Fleur gasped. “What is it, my love?” “I believe it’s a puzzle-box of sorts.” The corners of his mouth lowered into a frown. “But I must admit that I—” Fancy turned his attention to a burly porter who approached, dragging the heavy trunk he’d borrowed from Fleur for the trip. He briefly lit his horn and gave the porter a large tip. “Sorry, dear. I was just saying, I haven’t been able to open it.” “I’m sure I’ll enjoy figuring it out,” Fleur said. She cocked her head. “I’m curious, though: why a puzzle-box? Not that I’m not intrigued, but usually I think of you bringing me jewelry, or exotic wine.” “That,” Fancy said as he grasped the large wheeled steamer trunk in his magic, “is an interesting story.” Two weeks ago… Fancy Pants was dragged into the bustling restaurant by a spindly red dragon who had neglected to share his name. He was unceremoniously sat down across the table from what looked more like three ponies in a costume than a proper dragon. “Why hello, madam,” Fancy said, trying to not appear too confused. “Yeah,” the red dragon said flippantly, making circular motions in the air with one of his claws. “So, like… she’s gonna ask ‘what’s your pleasure’—OW!” The green, gem-encrusted dragon canted her head precariously to one side and let out an unholy sound that was somewhere between the sound of a clucking of a chicken, the honking of a clown horn, and the yakking of a dog on a bone. Fancy wasn’t sure how, but the green dragon had somehow used one of her absurdly tiny limbs to slap the red one upside the back of his head. Rubbing at the spot of improbable impact, the red one looked back to Fancy again. “I mean,” he said in a forced, detached, ominous sort of way, “what is your pleasure, Mister Fancy Pants?” The green one’s tongue lolled out of her long mouth and into one of the teacups set out upon the table. A single claw snaked up and fumbled at the pile of sugar cubes. Finally grasping one and dropping it unceremoniously onto her tongue, she seemed to pay no mind as the cube bounced down to clink against the rim of the cup. Her unfocused eyes were busy looking to either side of Fancy. Squinting at the glaring contrast between the duo, Fancy adjusted his monocle. “I say,” he said. “Your red friend here said that you might have a possible gift for my beloved.” The red dragon slammed a golden filigreed pastry box upon the table. Raising an eyebrow in confusion, Fancy visually inspected the ornate carton. “I do apologize,” Fancy said, “but… what is this?” “That puzzle-box,” the red one said, pointing, “has all you will ever need.” “Pardon me,” Fancy said. “I am afraid I don’t quite understand the situation.” He tapped a hoof on the table next to the needlessly elegant container. “Is it full of recipes? Or is it a magical device that is larger on the inside?” The red one looked confused. “It is whatever you need it to be,” ululated the cone-horned green monstrosity. “But I sense that it will make a much more appropriate gift to one who is close to you.” “Well,” Fancy said. “Color me intrigued. What is the price of this mystery box?” “Take it.” One red-dot eye focused on Fancy while the other spun like a washing machine. “No charge.” “Pardon me again,” Fancy said. “But why are you just giving—” “Ugh,” the red one grunted. “Just take it already, would you?” He grabbed the remaining pile of sugar cubes, crushed them in one of his claws, then blew the powdered dust into Fancy’s face. Covering his eyes with one foreleg, Fancy coughed as his airways were assaulted by crystallized sweetness. When he lowered his foreleg, the two had vanished. Only the decorative box remained. It was as if they had never been there at all. Though as he turned to leave, he caught a glimpse of the red dragon struggling to hurriedly push the green one out the rear of the restaurant. “Most peculiar creatures,” Fancy Pants said as he hoofed the box into his saddle bags. Brilliant and expensive architecture flanked Fleur and Fancy as they approached their gleaming mansion in the city suburbs. Gone were the inner city’s tall buildings; instead, immaculately manicured lawns and landscaping were the norm. Yet of all the homes on their block, Fancy Pants took pride in theirs being the most… fancy. Ornate gates in brushed-brass both added to the property value and kept passersby at a comfortable distance from their home’s sprawling, marble-wrapped edifice. “Most peculiar indeed,” Fleur said, following Fancy through the gates. “One usually thinks of dragons as hoarding their treasures, not eagerly giving them away to handsome patrons of a public-house.” “My thoughts as well,” Fancy replied. “But the old green girl was really quite insistent that I take it. Said there was somepony in my life who might appreciate what lies within.” The two walked up the flagstone path to their front door, and Fleur opened it with a pulse of her magic. “It’s been an age since I last played with a puzzle-box.” Fleur giggled. “It sounds absolutely diverting!” “I hope it will be,” Fancy said, magically dragging his trunk across the threshold, with only a small hint of mirth in his voice. “I did check, by the way, to make sure it wasn’t cursed. Not that I wish to alarm you by saying it, but the sheer peculiarity of the situation put me on my guard. Yet, there are no observable hexes or enchantments; just an incredibly complicated box, with only the barest of residual magics upon it. And, despite my best efforts, no observable mechanism to open it.” Fleur huffed. “Did you spend the entire train-ride back working to open my gift?” “Not during the train-ride,” Fancy said. “I do, however, confess to spending a great deal of time trying to solve the puzzle while staying in my New Asbestos hotel room. I have not laid hooves on it since I packed it away for my return trip.” He magically levitated his steamer trunk to one side of the foyer. “Well,” Fleur said with a wink, “I’m sure you would enjoy watching me take a turn at it. Perhaps… while we cuddle in our boudoir?” “My dear, that sounds heavenly! Though I absolutely must have a shower before you so much as lay a hoof on me. I fear that my undercoat is full of Dragonland dust and ash.” “If you must,” Fleur said with a pout. “But I’ve been waiting weeks for your return.” “I shall cleanse myself as quickly as possible,” Fancy said with a wink. Chapter TwoFleur sprawled upon their satin-sheeted bed and sighed with the anticipation of contentment. Soon, Fancy would be done with his shower and they would be able to spend the remainder of the day enjoying each other’s company. Something by the bathroom door caught her eye. She rolled over, fixing her gaze on the open trunk. It would indeed be fun to let Fancy watch her explore the puzzle-box, but her curiosity was already piqued. Sliding off the bed, she approached the trunk, and began fumbling around in its contents. She let out a small gasp of excitement as she uncovered what must be the box. It was like something she would expect to see at a fancy pastry shop, with patterns and carvings bespeaking an artistry and design aesthetic that were many times more delicate and intricate than anything she had ever seen before. Fleur’s stomach growled involuntarily as she began to run her hooves over the box. The feeling was surprisingly, yet indescribably, pleasurable. One of her hooves caught on an unseen ridge. The water was luxurious. Fancy hadn’t had a proper shower since he’d left Canterlot, though his outer coat didn’t show it, mostly due to his habit of brushing himself every morning. His undercoat was another story, however. As the water ran over him, dark grey ash stained what was washed down the drain. After several minutes of scrubbing, he finally allowed himself a sigh of contentment as the water ran clear. But in that moment of peace, his ears caught a vague hint of a haunting melody coming from the bedroom. It sounded a bit like the ancient song Entry of the Gladiators… The water stopped. Fancy grimaced at the showerhead in confusion, as he hadn’t turned it off—and just as suddenly, the room’s lighting dimmed. He stuck his head out past the shower curtain, panning his gaze around what should have been a glistening white bathroom, which was now quite difficult to see. “Odd,” he said to nopony in particular. He refrained from repeating himself as an eerie blue illumination began to cast everything in sharp relief. There was a low rumbling sound, remenicient of an avalanche or earthquake. Without warning, the bathroom sink spigot began spraying what appeared to be dirty brown water. The showerhead also sprayed him with the same dark liquid, and at an uncomfortably high pressure. “What in the—” Some of the misted liquid landed inside Fancy’s mouth as he backed away from the erupting showerhead, and he paused as he recognized the flavor. “Chocolate milk?” Fancy stumbled through his shower curtain, out of the stream of darkened dairy delight, and watched as the toilet began overflowing with brown liquid. “I do hope that that is also chocolate milk.” Fancy raised his brows and grabbed a towel to attempt to partially dry his dripping coat as he moved to exit the sweetly befouled bathroom. Caring less about the possible spots of damage to his pristine white carpeting, and more focused on swiftly contacting a plumber, Fancy pushed into his bedroom. “Fleur dear,” he said, “there’s a problem with the—” Fancy’s jaw fell open in silent shock, and his eyebrows rose high upon his head. The eerily lit bedroom’s walls were covered in spatters of sparkling frosting, creating a mess that would likely take days to completely clean. One part of the wall had torn open to reveal a bizarre tunnel that appeared to be bricked with gingerbread, of all things. Most concerning to Fancy, however, was that Fleur—her forehooves hanging on for dear life to the edge of the cavernous entrance—was being dragged into that tasty tunnel by what looked like strands of strawberry licorice. Reaching out a forehoof to Fleur, Fancy could only watch in horror as she was yanked bodily into the passage. Fancy clenched his teeth and furrowed his brow in anger. Despite the fact that he knew that the other side of the wall should have been outside his house, he galloped through the mysterious opening, tearing past cotton candy cobwebs and stirring up pixie-stick dust in the wake of his swift pursuit. But soon he slowed to a halt as the tunnel deposited him onto a small ledge littered in coconut shavings. It overlooked a ceilingless expanse that was lit in the same cold blues that had permeated both his bath and bedrooms. The most ominous feature, however, were the enormous spires that towered in the air. “Tartarus?” Fancy couldn’t help but loose the question upon the alien panorama laid out before him. Everypony had heard rumors of a twisted plane of torment filled with an endless maze and spires of rock… but the spires before him now appeared more like upside down waffle-cones, and the platforms at the hollow center of each spire looked like they were made of some kind of caramelized pudding. A labyrinth of spun-sugar walls spread out in all directions from the ledge which he stood upon. Somewhere down below, Fleur shrieked. Fancy made a manageable leap from the ledge to the sticky maze below. His progress was slowed by the fact that his hooves adhered slightly to the tacky floor as he galloped. Still, the sound of Fleur’s voice was a powerful motivator, spurring him to continue regardless of how much molten confection stuck to him. He followed the echoes of her voice as best he could, even as the popping sounds of his passage threatened to drown out all other noise. Turning a corner, Fancy saw that he had reached one of the spires, with thick waffle-cone walls surrounding a tenuously-solid floor of caramel flan. Laid in the center was Fleur, still being dragged by a tangle of licorice. Charging forwards, Fancy lit his horn and blasted the chewy ropes beyond Fleur, causing them to snap and retract swiftly into the distance from whence they came. Fancy wasted no time galloping to Fleur’s side. “Are you alright my dearest?” he asked. Struggling to disentangle herself from the now-limp restraints, Fleur spit out a wad of frosting that had been shoved into her mouth. “Blech, too sweet,” she said. “Come dearest,” Fancy said as he helped Fleur to her hooves. “This confectionary cavern is—” “BORF?!” Fancy and Fleur slowly turned to see the enormous three-headed dog that was Cerberus. The most notable difference to what Fancy remembered of legends about him was that his spiked collars had been replaced by donuts: one plain-cake, one powdered sugar, and one cinnamon sugar. The curious collars were studded with gumdrops of varying colors. There was also the cotton candy “fur,” which rendered him decidedly pink. “Is that… Cerberus?” Fleur couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice. “Slowly back away dear,” Fancy said as he calmly followed his own advice. In an effort to not seem challenging, he kept his gaze on Cerberus, but away from the three pairs of borderline-zoomies eyes belonging to the colossal canine. “Good boy, stay… staaaaay.” They’d almost backed up to the edge of the spire platform when one of Fleur’s hooves sank into the flan floor, tripping her and causing her to let out a small yelp of alarm. Looking down, Fancy quickly struggled to get Fleur back to her hooves. But when he looked back up, he realized his mistake at taking his eyes off the excitable, oversized pup. “BORF, BORF, BORF! WOOF, WOOF, WOOF!”. Fleur froze at the sight of the charging mongrel monolith. Fancy grabbed her and dragged her back into the sugarspun maze, struggling to recollect the series of twists and turns that had led them into the very bowels of… well, he supposed it was Tartarus, at any rate. The crashing sounds of Cerberus obliterating the labyrinth behind them filled their ears. Thankfully, Fancy’s memory served him well, and both he and Fleur scrambled up to the gingerbread tunnel leading back to their bedroom. Yet as they approached, they could see that the opening was closing itself, forcing them to increase their speed or risk being entombed. They dove at the last second to make it through— And landed on their improbably pristine bed. “What,” Fleur asked between ragged breaths, “was that?” “Tartarus, I think,” Fancy replied. “Although it was not as I ever imagined it—” A sudden jet of edible confetti and rainbow sprinkles rocketed from the ground to the sounds of a bike horn, startling the couple and causing them to raise pillows to deflect the deluge of delectables. The resurgence of projectile sweets rendered the partially confection-coated room to be even more covered. Standing at the explosion’s epicenter was a grey-frosted pony, whose head looked like a heavily iced cupcake with a crisscross of gelled icing. At regular intervals were fiendishly lit candles. He resembled a birthday cake supported by a pony body. “Praytell,” Fancy said, “who are you?” The malevolent “Cake Head” turned to face them. “An explorer,” he said in an otherworldly voice, “in the farther realms of confectionary experience.” He stood up on his hind legs and spread his forelegs. “Preference decides: Devil's Food to some, Angel’s Food, to others!” “Dear,” Fancy said, not daring to take his eyes off of the intruder. “Did you—” “I may have opened the box!” Fleur blurted out. “Yes,” Cake Head said, slowly approaching the bed. “The box.” He pointed an accusatory hoof. “You opened it. I came.” “It’s just a pastry box!” Fleur shrieked. “Oh no,” Cake Head said. “It is a means to summon me. You solved the box. Now you must come with me. Sample my assortment of cakes and danishes.” “I’m watching my weight,” Fleur said through tears. “Just go away and leave us alone!” Cake Head managed to look incredulous through layers of baked goodness. “Oh, no diets, please. It’s a waste of good flavoring!” “I say,” Fancy said. “My good chap. It seems there must be a mistake. The dragons who gave me the box said nothing of this. Surely you would only desire ponies who opened the box while fully informed.” “Perhaps I prefer her,” Cake Head said. “Perhaps we could come to an arrangement,” Fancy said, finally lowering his pillow shield. “Make your offer then,” Cake Head replied. “But cheat me, and I’ll tear your cakes apart!” “But we don’t keep any in the house—” “APART!” “J—Just a moment, dear,” Fleur said, haltingly. Fancy turned to see a curious expression on her face. Though her muzzle pulled back in a rictus of fear, there was a glint in her eyes that Fancy knew all too well from their frequent walks down Bakery Row. It was one of… desire. “You… said… that you had… samples?” “Oh yes,” Cake Head said with intensity. “Many, many samples.” “My dear,” Fancy said. But Fleur plowed on like a princess in a pastry shop: “I… I do try to watch my weight, though I confess the occasional… temptation.” “And indulgence,” Cake Head said knowingly. Fleur blushed and averted her gaze, but nodded. “My dear, this is madness,” Fancy said. Cake Head threw his forelegs wide. “Is it madness to deny one’s true desires? Especially when they are soaked with such flavor, just waiting to be sampled? Nibbled? Gorged-upon?!” “I try,” Fleur said, tears continuing to run down her muzzle as she began to rock back and forth. “I try so hard…” “No, dear!” She raised her head, and Fancy’s heart fell as he saw that the glimmer in her eyes had gone black as licorice. “But I am done trying. Done waiting. I waited for you, my love… but you made me wait longer than my heart could bear.” “But… the train!” Fancy sputtered. “The shower!” He gestured wildly at the brown streaks that discolored his coat. “I was filthy!” Cake Head shook his head, a wan smile on his lips. “No more delays. It is my sweets she wishes to experience, not your skills at bargaining!” “Fleur!” Fancy bellowed. “I love you as you are!” “But not as she shall be!” “No!” “Celestia… ate,” Fleur whimpered. “Go,” Cake Head said, turning to Fancy. “This is not for your eyes.” The bedsheets erupted in tendrils of sticky taffy, throwing Fancy to the floor and blocking out his sight of Fleur and Cake Head. The crazy cuisinier’s laughter sliced through the cacophony of candy-sounds coming from the other side of the culinary curtain. Yet Fancy could also hear muffled vocalizations from Fleur—sounds that set his blood alight with jealousy, fear, and a hankering for cinnamon rolls. Fancy lit his horn and blasted an opening. The candyfloss nightmare reeled back for a moment, then resurged. Again he fired, and again, and again. But his efforts were in vain; the sugarcoated surface advanced, pushing him backwards until he was forced through one of the bedroom’s windows. Fortunately—for Fancy at least, much less so for his azaleas—he landed in the shrubs below. He rolled to his hooves, grunting in pain as he rose. Looking up to the window, he saw only a protruding mass of pulsating pastry. He turned toward the heart of the city, sparing one final glance back as he galloped away. “Stay strong, my love; I shall return with aid!” Chapter ThreePrincess Twilight sat on a velvety cushion, her spot on the high balcony allowing her to gaze out upon the shades of Canterlot in the dimming light of the afternoon. Sipping lightly on her tea, she grimaced slightly at the bitterness. A recent edition of the Foal Free Press had posted a rather embarrassing picture of her plump posterior, driving her to cut the sugar from her daily tea. Another sip, and another grimace. “Twilight,” came Spike’s voice, almost the same as ever. Almost. Yet there was a strange quaver he usually only expressed when he was concerned. “Fancy Pants is here to see you.” Her eyes lighting up with excitement, Twilight turned to the balcony doorway. “Fancy!” she said. “To what do I… owe… the… pleasure…” Twilight’s sentence slowed before coming to a grinding halt. She had never seen the fixture of Canterlot’s upper crust in such a state. He was unclothed, his normally pristine white coat was stained with streaks of dark brown, his mane was disheveled, and he smelled of milk and cocoa. “What… happened to you?” “Tartarus,” he uttered, wheezing heavily. “But… like I never imagined it.” “Tartarus?! What do you mean?” Fancy Pants stumbled to the pillow opposite her intricate tea caddy and slumped down, his frazzled appearance and out-of-breathness a polar opposite to the regal aura Twilight normally expected of Fancy. “You see, I’d been up in the Dragonlands on business. I brought back a pastry puzzle-box as a gift for my dearest Fleur, but when she opened it—” Twilight sat up straighter. “Did you just say that you found a pastry puzzle-box… in the Dragonlands?” Fancy’s eyes went wide, and he nodded manically. “Indeed! Are you familiar with this infernal, comestible monstrosity?” “Comestible.” Twilight shivered. “You said comestible.” She shook her head. “What did it look like?” “Intricate carvings, rainbow-hued exterior, about yea big…” “Stop.” Twilight sat back, scrunching her eyes and grinding her forehooves into her temples. “That matches the description. Who’d you get it from?” “The most peculiar dragon that I’ve ever seen!” Twilight’s eyes flashed open. “Not a pony?” The teacup that Fancy tried to lift to his lips shook violently in his magical grasp, spilling some of its bitter contents. “The box brought forth something like a pony, but its aspect—no, his aspect, was… twisted, to say the least. He seemed to be some kind of potentate of a tantalizing transformed Tartarus.” Twilight slowly rose to her hooves and walked to the balcony, staring silently out over the darkening city. “... Princess?” “You’re familiar with Stygian?” Twilight asked without turning. “The Stygian? You mean the ancient sorcerer? The one turned bestselling author? The onetime Pony of Shadows?” “The same,” Twilight answered. “I never should have let him pursue this.” She turned back to Fancy. “He approached me a few years ago about some research he was doing into ancient artifacts. They are his passion… and obsession. The Well of Shade almost consumed Stygian in the past, and I was worried that he might be sliding down a dangerous path again. But he wasn’t asking for much; just a diplomatic dispatch to set up a room that he could work from in our New Asbestos embassy. And I gave it to him. Celestia help me, I gave it to him.” “Princess,” Fancy said, “are you saying that this Cake Head is none other than Stygian himself?” “I am.” “Princess,” Fancy said. “I need your help.” He scrunched his eyes shut. “We must return with haste, I—I left Fleur with him.” “I can take us there immediately,” Twilight said. “Good thing I attended that party of yours and made a note of the spatial coordinates—” “Princess,” Fancy said, struggling to rise to his hooves. “Time is of the essence.” “Right,” Twilight said. “Sorry.” She ignited her horn and the two vanished in a flash of purple light— “And what did we find?” Fancy asked in a rhetorical tone. As he paused for dramatic effect, one of his eyes developed an repetitive, involuntary twitch. “NOTHING!” he shrieked, struggling against his tight white straightjacket. “ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!” “Please Fancy,” Nurse Redheart said, rising from a sterile cushion opposite Fancy’s own. She carefully picked her way around the small white room’s other occupants—including one Screw Loose, whose incessant barking left fellow patient Half Deck rocking back and forth with her forehooves and wings covering her ears. “Please lower your voice,” Redheart said calmly. “You’re disturbing the other residents.” The frown on Princess Twilight’s muzzle deepened as she watched the ongoing therapy session through a wall-sized one-way mirror. “Doctor Horse, are you sure that committing him was the right decision?” “In my professional opinion, it’s a good thing you admitted him when you did, Princess,” Doctor Horse said, next to her. “He’s been prone to even more severe verbal outbursts, especially around sweets.” Shaking his head, Doctor Horse lifted a clipboard and looked down at it. “Right after you brought him in, Fancy ruined another resident’s birthday party by throwing the cake on the ground and rambling incoherently about not being ‘a part of this system.’ Most troubling.” Twilight continued watching as Fancy bucked Nurse Redheart away, struggled harder against his straightjacket, and tried to focus enough magic into his horn to overcome the inhibitor ring that had been attached to it. But the paltry eleven kilothaums that she estimated he was able to channel failed to come anywhere close to the device’s one megathaum limit. “Ponyville General has one of the best mental treatment programs in all of Equestria,” Doctor Horse added with a subdued smile, clearly meant to put her at ease despite the additional white-coated staff who were swarming the room now, trying to subdue Fancy’s thrashing. “He’s in good hooves.” “But he hasn’t gotten any better,” Twilight said, shaking her head. “You said it yourself: he refuses to eat anything that might have sugar in it, which makes mealtimes difficult.” Doctor Horse flipped several pages on the clipboard. “Honestly, Princess… I think we could overcome that issue if we could disrupt his unhealthy fixation on this puzzle box he keeps mentioning. You said that you never found any evidence of it in his residence… are you absolutely sure it isn’t part of his current delusions?” “I have no reason to doubt him, and every reason to believe him.” She turned her frown on Doctor Horse. “Please keep working with him on his outbursts, his impulsiveness, his self-induced keto diet… but don’t try to tell him that it wasn’t real, unless you want to tell it to me, too.” “Of course not, Princess.” Twilight nodded. “Very good. For what it’s worth, I’m actively trying to get to the bottom of what he may have experienced, both for his sake, and Fleur’s, and Stygian’s. I don’t have much to go on, but I’ve sent my best diplomat over to the Dragonlands to investigate some loose ends—” The blazing heat only served to intensify the stifling atmosphere of the crowded restaurant. Massive temperature differentials created a haze that distorted the appearance of several peculiar items which lay upon a circular table. Illuminated by the mid afternoon sun, a teacup filled with black liquid, a pile of sugar cubes, and an ornate pastry box all sat within the diminishing rays of the day. A white stallion sat down across from the items and the table’s other occupant. “What is your pleasure, Mister Blueblood?”
PrologueA few years ago… Summer in the Dragon Lands was mercilessly hot, even in a region known for its incredible heat year-round. The sole saving grace of the sun-baked pony embassy town of New Asbestos came from its buildings, or rather their namesake materials, which contrasted sharply with those of its two predecessors: Thatchburg, and New Kindling. But while members of the visiting pony delegation rushed from the shade of one building to the next in futile attempts to keep cool, the native dragons in the streets revelled in the inhospitable temperatures, and basked in the occasional breezes, which were actually hotter than the still air. But one pony pushed his way through the stinking press of creatures choking New Asbestos’ town square, worked his way down a series of dilapidated side-streets, and finally halted outside of a small, run-down restaurant. The light-gray unicorn’s azure eyes surveyed the structure’s pitted fire-proof shingles with disdain. Years ago, he could never have imagined himself entering such a place, or even making the trip to this forsaken country; but now, even as the heat and the weight in his saddlebags threatened him with collapse, his desire drew him onwards. The restaurant’s door creaked, as if threatening to drop from its hinges. It was almost loud enough to cover the bustle of the room beyond. Indeed, he saw that every seat was filled with one lump or another of draconic flesh—all except for a solitary chair across a table where a most peculiar dragon sat. She was weirdly elongated, and of a dark emerald color, with what appeared to be actual gems encrusting her scales in a seemingly random distribution. A pair of cone-shaped horns sat atop two googly eyes, a slack mouth, and lolling tongue. On one edge of the table was a small pile of sugar cubes next to two ornate glasses filled with a black liquid that he assumed was not tea, mostly due to it giving off a faint aroma akin to motor oil. But in the dead center of the table was a sight that set the unicorn’s heart racing. By appearances, it looked to be a pastry box covered with complicated golden filigree patterns that reflected faint rainbow hues. Within the patterns the pony could see what appeared to be runes, though even with his encyclopedic knowledge of dead languages and ancient obscura he couldn’t tell what language, nor even what alphabet, the symbols originated from. The box drew him forward. He seated himself opposite the derpy dragon, never breaking his gaze. "What is your pleasure, Mister Stygian?" the dragon asked in a warbly yet knowing voice. Stygian wasn’t fazed that the dragon knew his name. The research that had led him here had warned him of the otherworldly aspects of both the box and its cursed keeper. And though he knew he should be cautious when slaking his desires to hold pieces of antiquity—having once borne the cursed mantle of the Pony of Shadows during past dabblings—he was also unfazed by the fleeting reflection of his grime-encrusted hooves and unkempt grayish-blue mane in the box’s surface. He only desired one thing now, and it lay in the center of the table. "The box," Stygian said intensely. The dragon continued to regard him with a single uncaring eye, while the other one followed an errant fly. Stygian reached back into his saddlebags and produced a large sack. He dropped the bag onto the table, causing dozens of bits to spill out and across the surface. Hundreds more lay within. The complete vacancy in the dragon’s crimson-dot eyes and the slack-jawed lolling of her tongue made her look uniquely unimpressed. With a filthy claw, she removed a cube of sugar from the pile on the table, and delicately placed it into her drink. Stygian narrowed his eyes as he reached into his saddlebags again, this time depositing a sack filled with priceless gems onto the table. The look on the dragon’s face did not change as she spoke again, neither eye really focusing on him: "Take it. It's yours." Stygian shot up, hoofed the box from the table, and stuffed it into his saddlebags. He gave one last look at the derped out dragon before turning and galloping out of the establishment in such a hurry that he did not hear the dragon’s parting words: "It always was." Stygian’s coat was drenched in sweaty anticipation by the time he dumped his saddlebags out upon the floor of an unfinished, darkened room deep within the embassy. His horn flared for a moment, sparking at the wicks of candles around him until a small square of them flickered in the dimness. Their guttering illumination seemed somehow fitting as he turned the box over in his hooves. There were no visible cracks in its surface, and it betrayed no hints as to how it should be able to open. Yet as he felt along one of the golden filigree designs, he felt a pleasurable tingle. The sensation was not unlike electricity running into his hooves from the box. It was almost like the box was rewarding him for feeling along the surface in certain patterns. Stygian began to experiment. His hooves moved across the intricate golden patterning in a manner that began to remind him of kneading dough. And the box responded to his delicate ministrations with additional tingling, as well as the faint clicking of internal mechanisms. Suddenly, one of his hooves caught an unseen ridge at the center of one of the box faces. He felt the unmistakable tearing of invisible tape as his hoof carefully lifted the hidden flap. Salivating slightly, he pushed down on a button that had been concealed under the flap. One side of the box began to rise in his hooves and the incomplete tune of a haunting melody began to issue forth, seemingly from the gaps between the moving pieces. Stygian’s eyes went wide as foalhood memories forced their way into his conscious mind. He hadn’t heard the old, familiar tune of The Gonk in a long time. But then part of the box that had risen slid across the surface towards him; it later slid backwards and, with another series of internal clicks, reconnected to its original raised position. He pushed the raised part of the box back down. But as he did, a loud clanking sound, like that of a door unlocking, could be heard in the room. Another complimentary set of notes joined the first, making the melody sound more complete. Pale blue light began to filter into the room through the slats that were visible through the holes in the unfinished plaster of the walls. The walls and floors creaked, as if the foundations of the building were shifting or settling. Stygian briefly considered the ominous changes to his surroundings. But, not one to be easily distracted from a goal, his attention quickly returned to the box. On one surface the pattern was split into sixteen pie-shaped sections surrounding a large golden disk. He ran his hoof around the circular portion in a counterclockwise manner. As he did so he was rewarded with yet more clicking from within the device. It vaguely reminded him of mixing cake batter as he continued to caress the box. Then, the box itself started to split apart. Half of the sixteen sections remained in the hoof upon which the box sat. The other half rose with his touch. When the sections were no longer in each others way he turned the top portion of the box clockwise, causing yet more notes to join the others. The melody almost sounded complete. He forced the two halves back together, forming the box into a new shape reminiscent of a star. The music stopped. The pleasant tingle the box had been producing suddenly turned into a painful jolt of electricity. Stygian gasped and fumbled the box, which fell just out of his reach. A mournful sound like a slow, distant egg-timer going off suffused the room, seemingly from beyond the walls. The golden disk at the center of the box's star pattern folded open like the petals of some strange metal flower, revealing an opening that led to the center of the device. Stygian leaned forward with an eager expression on his face. He felt a little wary of the box now that it had shocked him. But all that was visible from where he was sitting was darkness. Darkness, and pink, web-like strands of what could only be cotton candy stretching between the pieces of metal. He leaned closer, his azure eyes filled with desire. There was a sudden burst of movement. Stygian had no time to react as multiple black licorice whips shot forth from the opening, wrapped around Sygian’s limbs, and held him fast. He was wholly unprepared when a glob of frosting caught him in the eyes, causing him to scrunch them shut in both shock and pain. More and more varied confections began to make themselves acquainted with his coat. When he was at last able to pry open his frosting-shot eyes, gasping from the abruptness of the assault of sweetness, he could only gaze in stupefaction at a room that looked nothing like it had mere moments ago. Countless strands of sparkle-encrusted frosting dripped from the ceiling. Two rotating pillars held pieces of kitchen cutlery, including tongs, beaters, and long pie servers, all suspended from wicked-looking rubberized hooks. Cherry filling and small bits of cake had been spattered across every surface. The pale blue glow from earlier, which now seemed to come from a single lightbulb inside a small pink oven in the corner, illuminated everything. Stygian finally gained the wherewithal to begin screaming as a large metal spatula descended on unseen currents and began slathering grey butter-cream icing all over the top and back of his head—though not even he knew whether the outburst was born from agony or ecstasy. Two large piping bags started to crisscross behind the spatula, dispensing thin lines of dark-blue gel. Other instruments of cake decoration streaked across his cheeks, the center of his left haunch cutie mark, his legs, his ears, his barrel—nothing was spared from the sugary caress. Then tiny tendrils of sucrose sprang from all sides, driving rainbow candles deep into each intersection of the gel lines on Stygian’s caked head. Bound in congealed food starch, covered from head to hoof in a quantity of confection that would surely take many moons to wash out, and bristling with tiny candles, Stygian let out a low moan— —Which was heard by the pair of pegasus guards who finally forced the room’s door open and entered, weapons at the ready, eager to aid the poor pony whose otherworldly screams had put the entire embassy on high alert. Yet they beheld… nothing. The frosting, the pillars, and everything else that hadn’t been there before Stygian had begun working on the box, was gone. The room was completely empty. It was as if Stygian, or neigh, anypony, had never been there. The two guards exchanged occasional confused looks as they explored the deserted, previously desserted, room.
Chapter OneThe present… The midday sun illuminated Canterlot with warm, comforting rays. Ponies young and old went cheerfully about their business, including a team of construction workers who were busy repairing the infrastructural damage to Canterlot’s train station caused by the monster-of-the-week that Princess Twilight had vaporized the day before. They worked efficiently but quickly, knowing that they must not only put things back to normal before the next inevitable threat reared its ugly head(s), but that the damage had left Equestria’s transportation system running at less than half-capacity. Fleur de Lis stood watching the workers from her vantage point amid an oversized and impatient crowd waiting on the arrivals platform. She used a hoof to poof out her mane a little bit, wanting to look her very best for when Fancy returned. After all, his most recent letter to her had said that he was bringing a surprise. Fleur trotted in place and giggled a little. She loved when Fancy went out of his way to find things that would interest her. Just the thought had her jittery with excitement. She heard the telltale chugga-chugga of the Friendship Express not long before it exited a tunnel cut deep into Canterlot mountain. But as she caught sight of the locomotive, something about it seemed… different. When Fleur tried to put her hoof on just what might have changed, all she could conjure in her head were images of a landscape of food that she frequently denied herself in order to keep her trim figure. Mountains of scrumptious pancakes flanked by rivers of sweet syrup. Trees of cinnamon and mint growing from mounds of ground-up chocolate and cream sandwich cookies. Entire fields of flowers sprouting open to reveal hard candy centers. Cotton candy clouds— “Fleur dear?” Fleur shook herself from her sweet reverie. Fancy was standing right in front of her. “I say,” he said. “It looked as if you were miles away.” “I’m sorry, sweetie; I was just daydreaming about your return.” She smiled and wrapped her forelegs around Fancy’s neck. “You’ve been gone for so long. I missed you!” “And I too missed you,” Fancy said as the two separated. “But rest assured that while business must be attended to, I have indeed brought you back a most exquisite present.” Fleur gasped. “What is it, my love?” “I believe it’s a puzzle-box of sorts.” The corners of his mouth lowered into a frown. “But I must admit that I—” Fancy turned his attention to a burly porter who approached, dragging the heavy trunk he’d borrowed from Fleur for the trip. He briefly lit his horn and gave the porter a large tip. “Sorry, dear. I was just saying, I haven’t been able to open it.” “I’m sure I’ll enjoy figuring it out,” Fleur said. She cocked her head. “I’m curious, though: why a puzzle-box? Not that I’m not intrigued, but usually I think of you bringing me jewelry, or exotic wine.” “That,” Fancy said as he grasped the large wheeled steamer trunk in his magic, “is an interesting story.” Two weeks ago… Fancy Pants was dragged into the bustling restaurant by a spindly red dragon who had neglected to share his name. He was unceremoniously sat down across the table from what looked more like three ponies in a costume than a proper dragon. “Why hello, madam,” Fancy said, trying to not appear too confused. “Yeah,” the red dragon said flippantly, making circular motions in the air with one of his claws. “So, like… she’s gonna ask ‘what’s your pleasure’—OW!” The green, gem-encrusted dragon canted her head precariously to one side and let out an unholy sound that was somewhere between the sound of a clucking of a chicken, the honking of a clown horn, and the yakking of a dog on a bone. Fancy wasn’t sure how, but the green dragon had somehow used one of her absurdly tiny limbs to slap the red one upside the back of his head. Rubbing at the spot of improbable impact, the red one looked back to Fancy again. “I mean,” he said in a forced, detached, ominous sort of way, “what is your pleasure, Mister Fancy Pants?” The green one’s tongue lolled out of her long mouth and into one of the teacups set out upon the table. A single claw snaked up and fumbled at the pile of sugar cubes. Finally grasping one and dropping it unceremoniously onto her tongue, she seemed to pay no mind as the cube bounced down to clink against the rim of the cup. Her unfocused eyes were busy looking to either side of Fancy. Squinting at the glaring contrast between the duo, Fancy adjusted his monocle. “I say,” he said. “Your red friend here said that you might have a possible gift for my beloved.” The red dragon slammed a golden filigreed pastry box upon the table. Raising an eyebrow in confusion, Fancy visually inspected the ornate carton. “I do apologize,” Fancy said, “but… what is this?” “That puzzle-box,” the red one said, pointing, “has all you will ever need.” “Pardon me,” Fancy said. “I am afraid I don’t quite understand the situation.” He tapped a hoof on the table next to the needlessly elegant container. “Is it full of recipes? Or is it a magical device that is larger on the inside?” The red one looked confused. “It is whatever you need it to be,” ululated the cone-horned green monstrosity. “But I sense that it will make a much more appropriate gift to one who is close to you.” “Well,” Fancy said. “Color me intrigued. What is the price of this mystery box?” “Take it.” One red-dot eye focused on Fancy while the other spun like a washing machine. “No charge.” “Pardon me again,” Fancy said. “But why are you just giving—” “Ugh,” the red one grunted. “Just take it already, would you?” He grabbed the remaining pile of sugar cubes, crushed them in one of his claws, then blew the powdered dust into Fancy’s face. Covering his eyes with one foreleg, Fancy coughed as his airways were assaulted by crystallized sweetness. When he lowered his foreleg, the two had vanished. Only the decorative box remained. It was as if they had never been there at all. Though as he turned to leave, he caught a glimpse of the red dragon struggling to hurriedly push the green one out the rear of the restaurant. “Most peculiar creatures,” Fancy Pants said as he hoofed the box into his saddle bags. Brilliant and expensive architecture flanked Fleur and Fancy as they approached their gleaming mansion in the city suburbs. Gone were the inner city’s tall buildings; instead, immaculately manicured lawns and landscaping were the norm. Yet of all the homes on their block, Fancy Pants took pride in theirs being the most… fancy. Ornate gates in brushed-brass both added to the property value and kept passersby at a comfortable distance from their home’s sprawling, marble-wrapped edifice. “Most peculiar indeed,” Fleur said, following Fancy through the gates. “One usually thinks of dragons as hoarding their treasures, not eagerly giving them away to handsome patrons of a public-house.” “My thoughts as well,” Fancy replied. “But the old green girl was really quite insistent that I take it. Said there was somepony in my life who might appreciate what lies within.” The two walked up the flagstone path to their front door, and Fleur opened it with a pulse of her magic. “It’s been an age since I last played with a puzzle-box.” Fleur giggled. “It sounds absolutely diverting!” “I hope it will be,” Fancy said, magically dragging his trunk across the threshold, with only a small hint of mirth in his voice. “I did check, by the way, to make sure it wasn’t cursed. Not that I wish to alarm you by saying it, but the sheer peculiarity of the situation put me on my guard. Yet, there are no observable hexes or enchantments; just an incredibly complicated box, with only the barest of residual magics upon it. And, despite my best efforts, no observable mechanism to open it.” Fleur huffed. “Did you spend the entire train-ride back working to open my gift?” “Not during the train-ride,” Fancy said. “I do, however, confess to spending a great deal of time trying to solve the puzzle while staying in my New Asbestos hotel room. I have not laid hooves on it since I packed it away for my return trip.” He magically levitated his steamer trunk to one side of the foyer. “Well,” Fleur said with a wink, “I’m sure you would enjoy watching me take a turn at it. Perhaps… while we cuddle in our boudoir?” “My dear, that sounds heavenly! Though I absolutely must have a shower before you so much as lay a hoof on me. I fear that my undercoat is full of Dragonland dust and ash.” “If you must,” Fleur said with a pout. “But I’ve been waiting weeks for your return.” “I shall cleanse myself as quickly as possible,” Fancy said with a wink.
Chapter TwoFleur sprawled upon their satin-sheeted bed and sighed with the anticipation of contentment. Soon, Fancy would be done with his shower and they would be able to spend the remainder of the day enjoying each other’s company. Something by the bathroom door caught her eye. She rolled over, fixing her gaze on the open trunk. It would indeed be fun to let Fancy watch her explore the puzzle-box, but her curiosity was already piqued. Sliding off the bed, she approached the trunk, and began fumbling around in its contents. She let out a small gasp of excitement as she uncovered what must be the box. It was like something she would expect to see at a fancy pastry shop, with patterns and carvings bespeaking an artistry and design aesthetic that were many times more delicate and intricate than anything she had ever seen before. Fleur’s stomach growled involuntarily as she began to run her hooves over the box. The feeling was surprisingly, yet indescribably, pleasurable. One of her hooves caught on an unseen ridge. The water was luxurious. Fancy hadn’t had a proper shower since he’d left Canterlot, though his outer coat didn’t show it, mostly due to his habit of brushing himself every morning. His undercoat was another story, however. As the water ran over him, dark grey ash stained what was washed down the drain. After several minutes of scrubbing, he finally allowed himself a sigh of contentment as the water ran clear. But in that moment of peace, his ears caught a vague hint of a haunting melody coming from the bedroom. It sounded a bit like the ancient song Entry of the Gladiators… The water stopped. Fancy grimaced at the showerhead in confusion, as he hadn’t turned it off—and just as suddenly, the room’s lighting dimmed. He stuck his head out past the shower curtain, panning his gaze around what should have been a glistening white bathroom, which was now quite difficult to see. “Odd,” he said to nopony in particular. He refrained from repeating himself as an eerie blue illumination began to cast everything in sharp relief. There was a low rumbling sound, remenicient of an avalanche or earthquake. Without warning, the bathroom sink spigot began spraying what appeared to be dirty brown water. The showerhead also sprayed him with the same dark liquid, and at an uncomfortably high pressure. “What in the—” Some of the misted liquid landed inside Fancy’s mouth as he backed away from the erupting showerhead, and he paused as he recognized the flavor. “Chocolate milk?” Fancy stumbled through his shower curtain, out of the stream of darkened dairy delight, and watched as the toilet began overflowing with brown liquid. “I do hope that that is also chocolate milk.” Fancy raised his brows and grabbed a towel to attempt to partially dry his dripping coat as he moved to exit the sweetly befouled bathroom. Caring less about the possible spots of damage to his pristine white carpeting, and more focused on swiftly contacting a plumber, Fancy pushed into his bedroom. “Fleur dear,” he said, “there’s a problem with the—” Fancy’s jaw fell open in silent shock, and his eyebrows rose high upon his head. The eerily lit bedroom’s walls were covered in spatters of sparkling frosting, creating a mess that would likely take days to completely clean. One part of the wall had torn open to reveal a bizarre tunnel that appeared to be bricked with gingerbread, of all things. Most concerning to Fancy, however, was that Fleur—her forehooves hanging on for dear life to the edge of the cavernous entrance—was being dragged into that tasty tunnel by what looked like strands of strawberry licorice. Reaching out a forehoof to Fleur, Fancy could only watch in horror as she was yanked bodily into the passage. Fancy clenched his teeth and furrowed his brow in anger. Despite the fact that he knew that the other side of the wall should have been outside his house, he galloped through the mysterious opening, tearing past cotton candy cobwebs and stirring up pixie-stick dust in the wake of his swift pursuit. But soon he slowed to a halt as the tunnel deposited him onto a small ledge littered in coconut shavings. It overlooked a ceilingless expanse that was lit in the same cold blues that had permeated both his bath and bedrooms. The most ominous feature, however, were the enormous spires that towered in the air. “Tartarus?” Fancy couldn’t help but loose the question upon the alien panorama laid out before him. Everypony had heard rumors of a twisted plane of torment filled with an endless maze and spires of rock… but the spires before him now appeared more like upside down waffle-cones, and the platforms at the hollow center of each spire looked like they were made of some kind of caramelized pudding. A labyrinth of spun-sugar walls spread out in all directions from the ledge which he stood upon. Somewhere down below, Fleur shrieked. Fancy made a manageable leap from the ledge to the sticky maze below. His progress was slowed by the fact that his hooves adhered slightly to the tacky floor as he galloped. Still, the sound of Fleur’s voice was a powerful motivator, spurring him to continue regardless of how much molten confection stuck to him. He followed the echoes of her voice as best he could, even as the popping sounds of his passage threatened to drown out all other noise. Turning a corner, Fancy saw that he had reached one of the spires, with thick waffle-cone walls surrounding a tenuously-solid floor of caramel flan. Laid in the center was Fleur, still being dragged by a tangle of licorice. Charging forwards, Fancy lit his horn and blasted the chewy ropes beyond Fleur, causing them to snap and retract swiftly into the distance from whence they came. Fancy wasted no time galloping to Fleur’s side. “Are you alright my dearest?” he asked. Struggling to disentangle herself from the now-limp restraints, Fleur spit out a wad of frosting that had been shoved into her mouth. “Blech, too sweet,” she said. “Come dearest,” Fancy said as he helped Fleur to her hooves. “This confectionary cavern is—” “BORF?!” Fancy and Fleur slowly turned to see the enormous three-headed dog that was Cerberus. The most notable difference to what Fancy remembered of legends about him was that his spiked collars had been replaced by donuts: one plain-cake, one powdered sugar, and one cinnamon sugar. The curious collars were studded with gumdrops of varying colors. There was also the cotton candy “fur,” which rendered him decidedly pink. “Is that… Cerberus?” Fleur couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice. “Slowly back away dear,” Fancy said as he calmly followed his own advice. In an effort to not seem challenging, he kept his gaze on Cerberus, but away from the three pairs of borderline-zoomies eyes belonging to the colossal canine. “Good boy, stay… staaaaay.” They’d almost backed up to the edge of the spire platform when one of Fleur’s hooves sank into the flan floor, tripping her and causing her to let out a small yelp of alarm. Looking down, Fancy quickly struggled to get Fleur back to her hooves. But when he looked back up, he realized his mistake at taking his eyes off the excitable, oversized pup. “BORF, BORF, BORF! WOOF, WOOF, WOOF!”. Fleur froze at the sight of the charging mongrel monolith. Fancy grabbed her and dragged her back into the sugarspun maze, struggling to recollect the series of twists and turns that had led them into the very bowels of… well, he supposed it was Tartarus, at any rate. The crashing sounds of Cerberus obliterating the labyrinth behind them filled their ears. Thankfully, Fancy’s memory served him well, and both he and Fleur scrambled up to the gingerbread tunnel leading back to their bedroom. Yet as they approached, they could see that the opening was closing itself, forcing them to increase their speed or risk being entombed. They dove at the last second to make it through— And landed on their improbably pristine bed. “What,” Fleur asked between ragged breaths, “was that?” “Tartarus, I think,” Fancy replied. “Although it was not as I ever imagined it—” A sudden jet of edible confetti and rainbow sprinkles rocketed from the ground to the sounds of a bike horn, startling the couple and causing them to raise pillows to deflect the deluge of delectables. The resurgence of projectile sweets rendered the partially confection-coated room to be even more covered. Standing at the explosion’s epicenter was a grey-frosted pony, whose head looked like a heavily iced cupcake with a crisscross of gelled icing. At regular intervals were fiendishly lit candles. He resembled a birthday cake supported by a pony body. “Praytell,” Fancy said, “who are you?” The malevolent “Cake Head” turned to face them. “An explorer,” he said in an otherworldly voice, “in the farther realms of confectionary experience.” He stood up on his hind legs and spread his forelegs. “Preference decides: Devil's Food to some, Angel’s Food, to others!” “Dear,” Fancy said, not daring to take his eyes off of the intruder. “Did you—” “I may have opened the box!” Fleur blurted out. “Yes,” Cake Head said, slowly approaching the bed. “The box.” He pointed an accusatory hoof. “You opened it. I came.” “It’s just a pastry box!” Fleur shrieked. “Oh no,” Cake Head said. “It is a means to summon me. You solved the box. Now you must come with me. Sample my assortment of cakes and danishes.” “I’m watching my weight,” Fleur said through tears. “Just go away and leave us alone!” Cake Head managed to look incredulous through layers of baked goodness. “Oh, no diets, please. It’s a waste of good flavoring!” “I say,” Fancy said. “My good chap. It seems there must be a mistake. The dragons who gave me the box said nothing of this. Surely you would only desire ponies who opened the box while fully informed.” “Perhaps I prefer her,” Cake Head said. “Perhaps we could come to an arrangement,” Fancy said, finally lowering his pillow shield. “Make your offer then,” Cake Head replied. “But cheat me, and I’ll tear your cakes apart!” “But we don’t keep any in the house—” “APART!” “J—Just a moment, dear,” Fleur said, haltingly. Fancy turned to see a curious expression on her face. Though her muzzle pulled back in a rictus of fear, there was a glint in her eyes that Fancy knew all too well from their frequent walks down Bakery Row. It was one of… desire. “You… said… that you had… samples?” “Oh yes,” Cake Head said with intensity. “Many, many samples.” “My dear,” Fancy said. But Fleur plowed on like a princess in a pastry shop: “I… I do try to watch my weight, though I confess the occasional… temptation.” “And indulgence,” Cake Head said knowingly. Fleur blushed and averted her gaze, but nodded. “My dear, this is madness,” Fancy said. Cake Head threw his forelegs wide. “Is it madness to deny one’s true desires? Especially when they are soaked with such flavor, just waiting to be sampled? Nibbled? Gorged-upon?!” “I try,” Fleur said, tears continuing to run down her muzzle as she began to rock back and forth. “I try so hard…” “No, dear!” She raised her head, and Fancy’s heart fell as he saw that the glimmer in her eyes had gone black as licorice. “But I am done trying. Done waiting. I waited for you, my love… but you made me wait longer than my heart could bear.” “But… the train!” Fancy sputtered. “The shower!” He gestured wildly at the brown streaks that discolored his coat. “I was filthy!” Cake Head shook his head, a wan smile on his lips. “No more delays. It is my sweets she wishes to experience, not your skills at bargaining!” “Fleur!” Fancy bellowed. “I love you as you are!” “But not as she shall be!” “No!” “Celestia… ate,” Fleur whimpered. “Go,” Cake Head said, turning to Fancy. “This is not for your eyes.” The bedsheets erupted in tendrils of sticky taffy, throwing Fancy to the floor and blocking out his sight of Fleur and Cake Head. The crazy cuisinier’s laughter sliced through the cacophony of candy-sounds coming from the other side of the culinary curtain. Yet Fancy could also hear muffled vocalizations from Fleur—sounds that set his blood alight with jealousy, fear, and a hankering for cinnamon rolls. Fancy lit his horn and blasted an opening. The candyfloss nightmare reeled back for a moment, then resurged. Again he fired, and again, and again. But his efforts were in vain; the sugarcoated surface advanced, pushing him backwards until he was forced through one of the bedroom’s windows. Fortunately—for Fancy at least, much less so for his azaleas—he landed in the shrubs below. He rolled to his hooves, grunting in pain as he rose. Looking up to the window, he saw only a protruding mass of pulsating pastry. He turned toward the heart of the city, sparing one final glance back as he galloped away. “Stay strong, my love; I shall return with aid!”
Chapter ThreePrincess Twilight sat on a velvety cushion, her spot on the high balcony allowing her to gaze out upon the shades of Canterlot in the dimming light of the afternoon. Sipping lightly on her tea, she grimaced slightly at the bitterness. A recent edition of the Foal Free Press had posted a rather embarrassing picture of her plump posterior, driving her to cut the sugar from her daily tea. Another sip, and another grimace. “Twilight,” came Spike’s voice, almost the same as ever. Almost. Yet there was a strange quaver he usually only expressed when he was concerned. “Fancy Pants is here to see you.” Her eyes lighting up with excitement, Twilight turned to the balcony doorway. “Fancy!” she said. “To what do I… owe… the… pleasure…” Twilight’s sentence slowed before coming to a grinding halt. She had never seen the fixture of Canterlot’s upper crust in such a state. He was unclothed, his normally pristine white coat was stained with streaks of dark brown, his mane was disheveled, and he smelled of milk and cocoa. “What… happened to you?” “Tartarus,” he uttered, wheezing heavily. “But… like I never imagined it.” “Tartarus?! What do you mean?” Fancy Pants stumbled to the pillow opposite her intricate tea caddy and slumped down, his frazzled appearance and out-of-breathness a polar opposite to the regal aura Twilight normally expected of Fancy. “You see, I’d been up in the Dragonlands on business. I brought back a pastry puzzle-box as a gift for my dearest Fleur, but when she opened it—” Twilight sat up straighter. “Did you just say that you found a pastry puzzle-box… in the Dragonlands?” Fancy’s eyes went wide, and he nodded manically. “Indeed! Are you familiar with this infernal, comestible monstrosity?” “Comestible.” Twilight shivered. “You said comestible.” She shook her head. “What did it look like?” “Intricate carvings, rainbow-hued exterior, about yea big…” “Stop.” Twilight sat back, scrunching her eyes and grinding her forehooves into her temples. “That matches the description. Who’d you get it from?” “The most peculiar dragon that I’ve ever seen!” Twilight’s eyes flashed open. “Not a pony?” The teacup that Fancy tried to lift to his lips shook violently in his magical grasp, spilling some of its bitter contents. “The box brought forth something like a pony, but its aspect—no, his aspect, was… twisted, to say the least. He seemed to be some kind of potentate of a tantalizing transformed Tartarus.” Twilight slowly rose to her hooves and walked to the balcony, staring silently out over the darkening city. “... Princess?” “You’re familiar with Stygian?” Twilight asked without turning. “The Stygian? You mean the ancient sorcerer? The one turned bestselling author? The onetime Pony of Shadows?” “The same,” Twilight answered. “I never should have let him pursue this.” She turned back to Fancy. “He approached me a few years ago about some research he was doing into ancient artifacts. They are his passion… and obsession. The Well of Shade almost consumed Stygian in the past, and I was worried that he might be sliding down a dangerous path again. But he wasn’t asking for much; just a diplomatic dispatch to set up a room that he could work from in our New Asbestos embassy. And I gave it to him. Celestia help me, I gave it to him.” “Princess,” Fancy said, “are you saying that this Cake Head is none other than Stygian himself?” “I am.” “Princess,” Fancy said. “I need your help.” He scrunched his eyes shut. “We must return with haste, I—I left Fleur with him.” “I can take us there immediately,” Twilight said. “Good thing I attended that party of yours and made a note of the spatial coordinates—” “Princess,” Fancy said, struggling to rise to his hooves. “Time is of the essence.” “Right,” Twilight said. “Sorry.” She ignited her horn and the two vanished in a flash of purple light— “And what did we find?” Fancy asked in a rhetorical tone. As he paused for dramatic effect, one of his eyes developed an repetitive, involuntary twitch. “NOTHING!” he shrieked, struggling against his tight white straightjacket. “ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!” “Please Fancy,” Nurse Redheart said, rising from a sterile cushion opposite Fancy’s own. She carefully picked her way around the small white room’s other occupants—including one Screw Loose, whose incessant barking left fellow patient Half Deck rocking back and forth with her forehooves and wings covering her ears. “Please lower your voice,” Redheart said calmly. “You’re disturbing the other residents.” The frown on Princess Twilight’s muzzle deepened as she watched the ongoing therapy session through a wall-sized one-way mirror. “Doctor Horse, are you sure that committing him was the right decision?” “In my professional opinion, it’s a good thing you admitted him when you did, Princess,” Doctor Horse said, next to her. “He’s been prone to even more severe verbal outbursts, especially around sweets.” Shaking his head, Doctor Horse lifted a clipboard and looked down at it. “Right after you brought him in, Fancy ruined another resident’s birthday party by throwing the cake on the ground and rambling incoherently about not being ‘a part of this system.’ Most troubling.” Twilight continued watching as Fancy bucked Nurse Redheart away, struggled harder against his straightjacket, and tried to focus enough magic into his horn to overcome the inhibitor ring that had been attached to it. But the paltry eleven kilothaums that she estimated he was able to channel failed to come anywhere close to the device’s one megathaum limit. “Ponyville General has one of the best mental treatment programs in all of Equestria,” Doctor Horse added with a subdued smile, clearly meant to put her at ease despite the additional white-coated staff who were swarming the room now, trying to subdue Fancy’s thrashing. “He’s in good hooves.” “But he hasn’t gotten any better,” Twilight said, shaking her head. “You said it yourself: he refuses to eat anything that might have sugar in it, which makes mealtimes difficult.” Doctor Horse flipped several pages on the clipboard. “Honestly, Princess… I think we could overcome that issue if we could disrupt his unhealthy fixation on this puzzle box he keeps mentioning. You said that you never found any evidence of it in his residence… are you absolutely sure it isn’t part of his current delusions?” “I have no reason to doubt him, and every reason to believe him.” She turned her frown on Doctor Horse. “Please keep working with him on his outbursts, his impulsiveness, his self-induced keto diet… but don’t try to tell him that it wasn’t real, unless you want to tell it to me, too.” “Of course not, Princess.” Twilight nodded. “Very good. For what it’s worth, I’m actively trying to get to the bottom of what he may have experienced, both for his sake, and Fleur’s, and Stygian’s. I don’t have much to go on, but I’ve sent my best diplomat over to the Dragonlands to investigate some loose ends—” The blazing heat only served to intensify the stifling atmosphere of the crowded restaurant. Massive temperature differentials created a haze that distorted the appearance of several peculiar items which lay upon a circular table. Illuminated by the mid afternoon sun, a teacup filled with black liquid, a pile of sugar cubes, and an ornate pastry box all sat within the diminishing rays of the day. A white stallion sat down across from the items and the table’s other occupant. “What is your pleasure, Mister Blueblood?”
