He felt nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing. He was but a piece of existence, floating in nowhere, barely strung together with the thinnest strings, like a piece of fabric left in the wind for far too long.

Fabric. He knew what that meant. Clothes were made out of fabric, and he knew he hadn’t worn them in forever. What did it mean to wear, anyway?

This oblivion was pleasant. He could be nothing, do nothing, want nothing. It suited him just fine.

...

It did not suit him just fine. He existed, and there had to be some meaning in that. He was a he - but what did that even matter? Why assign himself a gender? He had never really cared about it, accepting the label as it was, because he was told he was a he. Told by whom, however... that was a question he didn’t know the answer to.

And now, he was in pieces, scattered across infinity yet still connected. Was he anyone?

“He is gone, now!” someone laughed - someone familiar. The laughter was full of malice and derision, “A broken thing, a coward. The world does not need the likes of him!”

Who was talking? Why were they talking? How were they talking?

That last question was odd, why did he think it?

Why... why did he think at all?

“There is no return for him, Luna!” the same voice cackled, “Only we remain! And we will prevail!”

“You will die!” another voice, a very familiar one, screamed in rage and despair.

There was a pang in something he could call a heart, but there was no heart to be found. And yet, he wanted to comfort the one who was screaming. They were in pain, and he felt like he wanted to make them feel better.

What did it mean to feel? He didn’t know it, but then he did, and he understood. To feel means to experience. And he was experiencing... something.

And then there was that name... Luna. It was a name he knew. Feelings were attached to that name too, as impossible as it sounded. The name belonged to a person. What was that person to him? A caretaker. But a caretaker of whom? The flowers, the garden? He was neither the flowers nor the garden. And the flowers and the garden were not whom, they were what. And he was not a what, he was a whom. He was the one taken care of. But in what way?

“Like a fool that he was, he ran to us,” the first voice taunted, “All we needed to do was... nudge. Here and there, tiny pushes to make him do what we wanted. To make him think what we wanted. And he has fallen for it just like you once had!”

These words, they were familiar, and they made sense when strung together. They should have made him angry, he knew, but he could only take them as a matter of fact.

He remembered the voices, remembered those nudges. The knife in his hand, ready to taste blood. The fight between trust and distrust in Luna. The fear, growing as if fueled, as he ran further and further away. He was foolish then, and he knew it now.

“You will die! I will purge you, and you will burn!” the familiar voice of Luna screamed in rage, and he felt power behind them, humming all around him, almost tangible in its presence.

“Yes, rage at us! Hate us! Despise us! But nothing will bring Wild back!” the other voice taunted, dripping with venom, “He is gone, forever! We may not taste his soul, a broken little thing that it was, but he is dead!”

Luna screamed wordlessly, filled with hate, filled with rage, and with an underlying sadness and sorrow. He wanted to reach out, but how?

“So broken was his soul, it took but a single pull to tear it apart!” the malicious voice taunted, “It was barely even attached to his own body! Perhaps it was his destiny to die. When he came into this world, he did not want to live. We merely granted him what he had longed for all this time.”

“Liar!”

“You can’t know him as we do, Luna. We have seen his soul, we have seen him. He did not belong. He would never belong!”

He died, but then he lived, and now he was... dead again?

He remembered his death. He remembered how it felt immediately after. It was much like this, a glaring emptiness, yet also... it was far more empty then than it was now. He could hear them... something supplied him with knowledge - the malicious voice belonged to the Nightmare. A being, a creature, a spirit, a demon, he didn’t know, but he knew it - they - were the Nightmare.

He remembered how he had hoped to no longer exist after he died.

And yet, there he was.

How?

He didn’t know.

He put a bullet through his heart. He felt it. He felt himself dying then. But then there was that pull. He remembered the pull - or perhaps the Pull. Why the capitalization? Because it was the Pull of life. He remembered how his very soul was grasped firmly yet gently, and then pulled towards life. Then there was the wetness and the warmth. A hum, pulsations, and an eternity spent there in the birth of life.

And now... he was dead again. There was a push, a horrible tearing not-sound, and everything that was him shattered, ripped apart from the vessel of his soul.

But he didn’t die. That was the thing, wasn’t it? Death was supposed to be something one couldn’t experience. To be dead, one needed not to be at all. Everything that made one a person needed to be gone in order for one to be dead. Death was supposed to be incomprehensible purely because it could not be comprehended once achieved.

He was still alive. His heart was not beating, his lungs not breathing, his brain not firing off neurons or whatever it was that a brain did, but he existed, and he remained who he was even without his body. Which was a realization he didn’t know how to deal with, so he put it away for later.

Against all odds, slowly but surely, pieces of him were pulled back together, dragged through the not-space until they were in close proximity, ready to rejoin into a whole, a whole that was him.

A thought surfaced as a piece reconnected - his name was Wild. It was not his first name, the name given by his parents. He remembered his first name, but it didn’t matter anymore. No one knew him by that name now and no one ever would in the future. His name was Wild, and Wild was a person. A person with dreams, desires, fears, all the feelings that made him who he was. Those feelings were now flooding him, filling the entirety of his being, reminding him of who he was at the core.

He was uneasy around abandoned buildings. He would rather never be in a basement. Those were the fears he remembered right away.

He hated himself. It was a deep-seated core feeling that was a part of him ever since he realized who he truly was. This feelings twisted and swirled, apart yet together with what he loved.

He loved causing pain. There was something great about the feeling of hurting someone else, of hurting those he deemed deserving of punishment. To hear them grunt as he hit them, to feel their bodies give in under his strikes, to see them whimper as he stood victorious, that was what he lived for.

When he clumsily slapped at a kid who took his toys without asking, it was satisfying to hear them cry. When his too-wide swings of his fists connected with faces of those who insulted him, he felt elated. When his trained punches and kicks caused whimpers in those who wanted him hurt, he relished in it. When those who broke him cried in agony when he struck them with as much might as he could, he reveled in it.

And yet he hated how he loved the pain, hated himself for causing it when he could restrain himself, do no more than needed to be done. Pushing the kid away and taking his toys back would have been enough. Insulting people back would have been enough. Not kicking those who were down and defeated would have been enough. Swiftly killing those who broke him would have been enough.

He hated how, when he looked it all up to learn more about what he felt, he found out people got off to it sexually. He never did. If someone trusted him enough to be this close to him, why would he wish to cause them pain, to enjoy causing them pain? It was wrong, and not in a way of societal rules and expectations - it felt wrong. He learned of sadomasochism as well, and it made him feel uneasy. However, from what he managed to understand, people could partake in it consensually, which was something he was willing to accept. It was simply natural, to have someone who enjoyed pain and have someone else who enjoyed being in pain.

But wasn’t causing people pain for the sake of causing them pain wrong when done without consent? That was a societal rule, not a feeling. His parents taught him it was wrong. The society taught him it was wrong even as it showed him that it was alright if you had power over others and could provide reasons and causes and explanations that sounded at least a tiny bit plausible.

He loved swordsmanship because it satisfied the urge in him to pick up a weapon and hurt others without it weighing on his consciousness. He knew the balance between hurting enough and hurting too much, and he knew the former was acceptable and even expected in martial arts. That was where he could satisfy himself, and that was what he became very good at. Why swords? Because they were personal weapons. They weren’t guns - guns didn’t give any satisfaction in their use. Pull the trigger, and it’s all done in an instant, no effort required. He could hurt others with his own body, sure, but there was something missing. With a sword, he had a power multiplier. Even as he used his arms to swing, the thwack of the hit was much more satisfying as it reverberated from his arms to his body, and that felt very nice.

That was the very core of himself he knew, all that mattered the most to him. There were other things, perhaps, once upon a time, but those roads were closed to him now.

Or were they?

Were they?

“You better surrender now,” the malicious voice taunted, and he felt as if it was aimed at him, “You were never a match for us!”

Us... it could be many, many things and many people.

When he was young, he was no match for the kids around him. It seemed as if he could do nothing right. He was jittery, didn’t pay attention to things for long, and struggled to connect with others. His parents still loved him, but he knew they struggled to raise him. He remembered people saying many an unkind word about him behind his back - that he must be a disappointment to his parents, that he must be ashamed of himself for being weird, and that he must be a psycho because he was often angry.

When he became older, he was no match for the adults around him. They always found him lacking: in his school grades, in his physical performance, in socialization with his peers. As he hit puberty, his anger grew, and the desire to hurt others was coming through even stronger. He fought and did so often, screamed at others when they got him riled up, even at adults. Even his parents were cross with him until he learned to control himself better around them.

And when he became even older, he was no match for the world that was out to get him. Without a support network, he was left homeless and alone. He struggled to survive as even basic needs such as getting food and a place to sleep became nigh-impossible to fulfill. It was him against the world, and he learned just how much he needed his parents to survive.

He was no match for those who sought to harm him, to break him, to use him for their own amusement. He was no one and nothing then, merely a thing, not a person.

When all was said and done, when he had gotten his revenge, that was when he surrendered, but it didn’t prove to be his end.

And now... he had the option to surrender again. He felt how he was pulled together again, how he pulled himself back into one whole. It would be so easy to let go, to give in, to give up.

It was tempting.

With a clarity he didn’t know he possessed, he was aware that there would be no more him if he let go. He would cease to exist, his awareness would be gone, and there would be nothing, not even a blackness.

He remembered what it was like to want it, to desire it so fully that barely anything else mattered. He remembered how he functioned before his death, how mechanically he ate the bare minimum he needed to keep himself going, and how much pain he tolerated knowing, expecting there to be a release once he was done.

Now, however... he didn’t want to be gone anymore. He could easily let go now, let himself be pulled apart, let himself fade, let himself be gone.

He decided to choose differently.

His name was Wild, he reminded himself, and he was a person. He wanted to exist, he wanted to live. To feel the wind brush his naked yet furred body, to feel the warmth of the sun and the chill of the water, to hear his own heartbeat and his own breath and the nature, to see the mountains and the forests and the lakes and everything there was, to taste all the food there was to taste, everything. He wanted to live not only for those things but also for the people. For the good company and competition that were Precision and Swingblade, for the oddly desirable company of a young artist by the name of Artful, even for the self-confidence of Lina who remained bold and bright in the face of her failing body. And for Luna too - she helped him, treated him well, all without expecting anything in return. She cared in a way that his parents had once done for him, when they were still alive. Despite everything that she had learned about him, she was still there, and she came for him when he ran away, and she despaired when he died.

Wild was a person, and he could grow along with those around him, people he forced himself to be apart from. There was so much for him, he could almost see it, the infinite vastness of possibilities, all in front of him. How much did he not know? How much could he learn?

With an effort of will, he pulled himself together, the pieces satisfyingly snapping back in place, good and bad, desirable and not.

He was willing to give life a try, as difficult as it would no doubt prove to be.

The reality came back to him, rushing in. He saw, he heard, he smelled. He was in the ruins of a palace, in the throne room. He smelled the wetness of the moss despite not having a nose, felt the grime on the floor beneath his non-existent hooves, and then saw and heard the sounds of battle. The ground shook, the remains of plaster raining from above in half-dry half-damp chunks. The walls were scorched, smoke and vapor coming off them as they cooled.

The Nightmare in his body - which they had already begun to change to suit their needs - was fighting Luna, the latter desperate, enraged, and scared. Her face was twisted into a grimace, her horn shining bright as she cast spell after spell, yet it was obvious she was not fighting in full - Wild realized she was avoiding hitting his body. Her thoughts roiled off from her in waves, hitting his own mind with her hope that she would be able to bring him back if only she managed to banish the Nightmare from his body.

His body belonged to him. The Nightmare tried to take his life away from him, and he would not surrender.

***

Luna knew the fight wasn’t going in her favor. As strong as she was as an alicorn, as skilled as she was as a warrior, giving the Nightmare access to her back when she was young and foolish was stupid and idiotic. She thought she would aid herself - she spelled her own doom instead. The Nightmare was weakened at first, and it took a second blast of the Elements of Harmony to rid Luna of them. However, they took a part of her with them, including a chunk of power. She wasn’t physically smaller and less magically powerful compared to her sister because of genetics or because she was younger, that much she knew.

The Nightmare fed off her, gained strength as she lost it. Now it was all the more apparent.

She should have never returned to this place alone. She couldn’t help Wild-

-don’t think of the fact that he died, don’t think of the reason being you and your own foolishness-

-and she couldn’t help herself now.

It took all her focus, all her efforts to defend herself from the onslaught of spells from the Nightmare. Luna knew, had she been quicker, had she been there before Wild, she would have been able to stop it from happening, to prevent it from ever occurring. Spirits without a body were weak, easy to capture if one knew what to do. However, now it was too late. Luna couldn’t even teleport away - leaving herself defenseless even for one singular moment would mean defeat and oblivion.

What would it matter when Wild is already de-

She couldn’t allow herself to give up. Even as she felt her own strength failing her, even as she felt herself slowing down, she continued on. A part of hew knew it was futile - the Nightmare was two, for a reason she didn’t know and had no time to think about. One of them was attacking, the second paid attention to defense, and they worked in perfect tandem. They laughed and they cackled, even as Luna could feel that they too were straining, not yet used to their new body, a body that was already tired, a body that needed to be reshaped to fit them.

There was still hope Luna would prevail and would drive them away. She had to hope.

Just then, something happened. She felt it, something coalescing into one, and the Nightmare felt it too, eliciting a pause in their battle. The very air seemed to vibrate in anticipation, the surrounding sounds becoming muffled, and then-

Luna gasped, her eyes wide. Out of seemingly nowhere, a cloud of black smoke appeared - and yet it was not smoke. It quickly formed into a pony-like shape: four legs, a tail, a long neck, and an elongated head with a horn. A red glow surrounded it, and vein-like streaks went through the entire form, jagged in some places and smooth in others, all centering in the chest area where there was, for the lack of a better descriptor, a crack. All of it made the black shape look and feel sickly, and yet it was also strong.

“Impossible!” the Nightmare snarled, turning their attention to the shape.

The shape growled and charged, arms sprouting out of its body, claws at their end. The Nightmare’s eyes widened as the claws swiped at them, and there was a weak pop sound as if something that hadn’t yet glued in place properly was torn off. Wild’s body immediately collapsed, growing blank, reverting in its colors and shapes to what it was before, if duller now. The Nightmare, now back in two parts, was sent tumbling, their shock apparent.

“Wild?” Luna voiced quietly, afraid that she was wrong, afraid that this battle had summoned something else, something other.

The shape turned to her, their expression inscrutable as only the red twisted eyes were visible, almost completely round like eye sockets of a skull.

“I am alive,” they said without opening their mouth, and they were Wild, Luna knew that voice, “I will not die today.”

Enraged and yet afraid, the Nightmare charged at him as one, desperate to reclaim the body they wanted, but Wild was there to meet them, radiating strength and determination, fueled by anger and hatred of what they tried and almost succeeded in doing to him.

The arms moved in a peculiar way, and Luna recognized they were quite real, formed properly, not much different compared to the arms of minotaurs. The hands were similar as well but thinner, more delicate even as they ended in viciously sharp claws which didn’t quite fit the rest. He swiped and slashed, dodged and blocked as a trained fighter, desperate yet focused. He moved more fluidly than before, faster, unburdened by any delay between his brain and the rest of his body.

Luna, no longer a focus of the Nightmare, chose to rest for a moment, to let her body replenish itself as much as it could in this moment. And then she moved, circling around the battle - Wild could handle himself for now. Carefully, she moved to Wild’s body even as he led the Nightmare away from it. As long as the Nightmare didn’t have a body, they wouldn’t have an edge in this battle, and even Wild would be able to defeat them all by himself.

Seeing the opportunity, Luna summoned Wild’s body, being careful not to bump his head. She swallowed a lump in her throat as she saw his sightless eyes. He appeared dead even as his chest rose and fell with each unnaturally steady breath. It could perhaps be described as calm, but there was no emotion to a body devoid of a soul. His heart was still beating, his brain was still alive, but Wild simply wasn’t there.

One of the Nightmares noticed Luna, hissed, and threw themselves at her. She barely managed to conjure a spirit shield in time, and the Nightmare harmlessly bounced off it. Wild took the opportunity to pierce the Nightmare through the chest area with... a saber. In one of his hands was now a saber, its shape identical to the training one he used, but it wasn’t a weapon he picked up - it was a weapon he formed out of himself.

Luna, under the cover of the shield, stood over Wild’s body, her heart racing. Wild, unknowingly, had done what few managed to do - to retain themselves outside their own body. He wasn’t even anchored to it - the connection was snapped. He could easily fade into nothingness now that nothing held him to this place of existence, and yet he was there, and he was alive - as alive as a spirit could be. His very soul, as damaged as Luna could see it was, was still intact, was still fighting for its survival. There was a certain beauty to it, Luna had to admit, but her heart ached that he had to experience it in the first place.

One way to fight a spirit was to be a spirit. Luna knew how to temporarily be nothing but her own spirit, to exist outside of any vessel even as she couldn’t go too far away from it. It was a liberating sensation, yet it was also dangerous. This danger was exactly why she couldn’t fight the Nightmare this way - her body would have been vulnerable for as long as she was outside of it, easy to take over by anyone else. This vulnerability would allow the Nightmare to steal her body easier than what they did to Wild - and his own previously-weak connection between soul and body was something to investigate later, to find out why this connection wasn't as solid as it should have been.

As long as Luna could protect Wild's body, the Nightmare was on the level field with him, and so Luna maintained the shield even as she felt she had little strength remaining. If the fight went on for too long, she knew she wouldn't last.

A pain-filled screech filled the air as one of the Nightmares was torn to pieces by Wild. The shreds of the spirit, unwound from the whole, didn't fade away, however - instead, something odd was happening. Luna's eyes widened as she realized what was going on - Wild, seemingly unintentionally, was absorbing the spirit matter into his own form. She had never heard of it before, and her brain raced to come up with an explanation even as she watched the results.

Wild's form became somewhat more defined as more shreds wove themselves with his being, although the damage to his soul remained. He became less smoke-like, less scattered around, and he even appeared faster in his movements. Luna feared this was yet another trick done by the Nightmare to destroy him, but no, it was not. The spirit mass left from the first Nightmare was devoid of their will, their intent, their being. Their entire personality was gone, disappearing into nothing, and Luna found it both horrifying and fascinating that it was happening. She wondered what exactly it meant.

The fight continued, and it was clear the remaining Nightmare was weaker than Wild, barely able to defend themselves let alone strike back. Wild pushed on, striking with sharp claws and the saber, unrelenting. Finally, it looked like the Nightmare had no strength left, and Wild seized them by the throat. Wild's not-eyes glared hatefully into the featureless face of the Nightmare for a very long yet extremely short while, and then he tore them apart. Phantom screams echoed in a way that sound could not as the Nightmare was destroyed completely and utterly.

The whirlwind of energy settled, and silence fell. Luna and Wild both knew that the Nightmare was gone for good, never to return. Luna felt as if a mountain was lifted off her back - no longer would the Nightmare torment her or anyone else, no more would anyone be fooled into playing host for them.

Luna lifted her shield and sat down, breathing heavily. Her horn was buzzing and itching, feeling a bit too hot from all the magic she had to cast, and sticky sweat covered her from head to hoof. The only thing she wanted was to take a shower, to eat a feast, and to sleep a whole day, and not necessarily in that order. However, she couldn’t do it yet.

“Wild,” she called, and she saw his spirit shudder as he turned to her. His not-eyes, she could tell, weren't looking at her, and although he lacked any expression beyond that, she could feel he was now afraid as his anger and rage faded. Afraid of what was to come next, afraid of what Luna would say and do, “Please, come back.”

Slowly yet deliberately, Wild drifted over to his body. His arms and the saber were all gone, and now he was entirely pony-shaped once again, waving slightly as if in a breeze but more solid than smoke. He just stood there for a long while, studying his own body, looking at it with something on his mind that Luna couldn't catch. Finally, he flew into his body, the black and red of his spiritual form disappearing into the flesh and bone of the physical form. His body shuddered, there was a blink, and now Luna could see Wild in his eyes.

He struggled to sit up, moving as if even this brief period of absence from his body was enough to make him forget how to use one, but he eventually stood up. Luna could see his guilt, his fear, his apprehension written plainly on his face.

“I am not going to hurt you,” Luna assured him, speaking clearly and honestly, “I would never hurt you. I am sorry I... I pushed it all on you, made you run away.”

I was stupid to run away, Wild signed, denial on his face, I can trust you. I know I can trust you.

“I am... happy to know that I am worthy of your trust,” she gave him a smile, feeling undeserving of the words he had just signed, “The Nightmare... they used your doubts, and they used my own stupidity to... bring you here.”

Wild was looking away, thoughts roiling in his head.

“I destroyed them,” Wild said aloud after stilling his legs from making signs, “I... killed them.”

“You did,” Luna said, and he flinched. She hurried to assure him, “The Nightmare was a scourge. For centuries, they sought out victims to possess or take over. They have harmed many, and you have brought an end to it... something I could not do myself. I wish you did not have to, but it happened anyway, and I am glad you came back alive,” she hesitated for a moment, “May I... give you a hug?”

Wild shifted in one spot, his eyes going to Luna and then returning to the ground, uncertain, various emotions flashing on his face too fast for Luna to follow. And then he nearly lunged himself at her, hugging her, and she hugged him back. He sniffed once, twice, and then broke out in sobs, holding her tight.

“Everything is going to be alright,” Luna told him in a soothing voice as he cried, his body shuddering. The fight had entirely disappeared from him, and now he was just a scared young stallion, and Luna could feel he was not much older than his body would suggest. Still young, and he had experienced more than most would ever go through in ten lifetimes, “I am sorry you had to go through what you had, and I will help you, I promise.”

Since that moment, the darkness in the ruins was gone. They would remain just that - ruins. Memories and emotions would be attached to them, but no more would there be a malicious presence waiting for the unaware and the foolish, looking to lure them in and take it all.

It was barely noon when Luna and Wild finally emerged from the ruins of the Summer Palace, walking away together from them back to a place Wild could now perhaps call home.

Either of them had yet to notice a new mark on Wild’s flanks: a perfect black circle.

Author's Note

Finally, Wild gets his talent mark. What exactly that means, we will learn in the future.

Here's some infodumping about what exactly happened. I may or may not include some of it in the future in the story, so feel free to skip the entire quote section.

Wild, essentially, had the connection between his soul and his body severed. Previously, the connection was weak because he traveled between worlds. His weak connection is exactly why he would sometimes be outside his body when his body was sleeping. With the connection between his body and soul severed, he can now leave it at will and return to it just as easily. The downside is that spiritual attacks of any kind against him while he's in his body would essentially throw him out. There will also be a general sort of weirdness going on because of his situation, an odd feeling he wouldn't be able to get rid of.

Now, let's talk about souls in this story. Every being has a soul, and a soul usually interacts with the world using a body. In case of creatures with brains, it does so through the brain. The brain, in essence, is an organ that connects the body to the soul. The soul influences the brain, and the brain influences the soul. So, if your brain develop a certain way, that will reflect on your soul, and a soul that is changed outside of the brain will change the brain in turn.

A soul's color is influenced by the personality of the soul, although there is no objective system of which colors means what. Mostly, the colors on a soul are the colors the person associates the most with themselves. For a regular pony, the colors would most likely be the same as the colors of their fur and mane.

The cracks in the soul represent mental trauma. Physical trauma doesn't influence the appearance of the soul, although a person who, say, lacked a leg for a long time would likely have a form that lacks that same leg. It, once again, has to do with how a person sees themselves.

In case of Wild, he is pony-shaped because he believes himself to be a pony now, although the appearance of his arms shows that he also sees himself as a human, although one that is hidden beyond the appearance of a pony. Color black represents how he sees himself, namely full of metaphorical darkness. Color red is, unsurprisingly, blood - Wild has hurt others and Wild has killed, so he sees the red of blood as a stain on himself.

I sure do love my infodumping. Could honestly dump all day instead of writing the actual story.

Anyway, I have a bit to add about Wild's gender identity. In the beginning of a chapter, it is revealed exactly what he thinks of gender when it comes to himself, and he honestly just doesn't get gender. I suppose he can be described as gender apathetic, and he only calls himself a man because that's what he's used to. It doesn't bring him discomfort when he's called a man but neither does he feel any sort of elation at being called a man. I think he'll continue calling himself a man - or a stallion since he's now a pony and sees himself mostly as one.

When I was questioning my own gender identity, I also thought "Hm, I don't think I care all that much which gender I am". For me, it makes sense to call myself non-binary. I am quite obviously masculine, but I don't really feel like calling myself a man. I am just Elu.

That is all for today - I will see you all next week!