Glimmer

The language of comedy doubles as the glossary of death.

It's something Pinkie noticed fairly early. A performer who's having the night of their lives will describe themselves as killing the audience -- but the ones who couldn't get a joke to land if the Wonderbolts were guiding it in might unleash a desperate scream of "I'm dying out here!" and more than anything else, those words are going to come across as a wish. Because there are ways in which near-instaneous demise would be more merciful than having to remain upon the stage while the spectators are just staring and silence presses against damp fur with a weight which makes it feel as if the air has become slow-drying lava. (Once again, that's the better option.) And the fur is damp because it's being saturated with flop sweat. Forget about froth: flop sweat is the real perspiration of expiration, and a comedian who's truly failed might begin to rapidly trot in place. Hoping to get the breathing thing over with all the faster.

And laughter... dies.

This always struck the baker as being more than a little unfair.

Yes, if you're speaking in practical terms, the physical act of laughing has a rather strict biological limit. Even snickering is the sort of thing which was never meant to keep going for more than a few seconds and based on some of the movies she's seen, keeping it up for more than twenty is supposed to be cinematic shorthoof for 'evil'. (Also unfair, and decidedly rude.) Giggles have been known to last for a while. But laughter... it's strenuous. Muscles can heave. It's possible to pull a few, and Pinkie's needed to pick up first-aid skills for more than just dealing with the fallout from a particularly raucous party. Plus it's very easy to laugh so hard that you wind up gasping for breath and if that keeps up for too long, it'll come to a decidedly crashing conclusion. So if simply viewed as what the pony body is willing to put up with, laughter will have to stop. Pinkie acknowledges that, although she feels it says some rather nasty things about evolution's priorities.

But when she looks past the laughter itself, seeks out the base emotion...

Sorrow lingers. It clings to existence, locks the jaw and refuses to release no matter how infected the resulting wounds might become. Glance at sorrow as it lies in the bed, barely hanging on. Wonder if this is the day when it finally fades, allows the memories it uses as a mattress to become clean and bright again, something you want to relive only without the pain, you haven't been able to truly think about the good times for moons because there's just too much hurt and if this is finally the day --

-- it notices. The regard gives it strength. And the mire deepens, as sunny pastures of years past turn into swamplands of recollection. Set a single mental hoof upon what's now emotional tar and you might wind up trying to bite it off in order to escape again. But even that won't matter. Sorrow clings, and it clings to you.

Embarrassment is effectively immortal. Something humiliating happened while you were in primary school? Bring back that memory on your deathbed and feel the blush rise, still just as fierce and hot and hurtful as it was when the dropped clips were still scattering their way across the floor. Embarrassment is forever young, and doesn't even have the common courtesy to be embarrassed about it.

But nopony can be happy forever.

The other virtues -- they last. Honesty is effectively eternal. Magic is part of the world, while generosity simply goes on. The consequences from a kind act can spread out for years after the actual deed. Loyalty has been known to linger beyond that. And maybe it's even possible to create a world where every last one of those elemental states is a constant.

Laughter -- joy, pleasure, happiness -- are all... temporary.

Why?

She tries so hard. She wants to understand. But to truly comprehend laughter, in all of its facets...

Pinkie's managed to reconcile graveyard humor. Knacker jokes. In the darkest times, the brain can decide to start finding humor in the stupidest things imaginable, because the soul is that desperate for relief. Graveyard humor possesses a very real reason to exist. Giggle at the ghostly, after all -- and if that doesn't work, guffaw in its face. Then consider switching to kicks.

Insult comedy has a more dubious place, and is best used with those individuals who are both aware of their own flaws and ready to laugh at the silly things. Attacking somepony you don't really know is exactly that: an attack. And when it's directed at a group, region, or species... no.

She's studied. (Actual study, with books and everything. Taking the train into Canterlot and attending comedy clubs, then speaking to the performers after. Laughter can be a very serious subject.) And when she truly came to learn about laughter... that's when she started to see what lurked beneath.

She's heard the language of death because it didn't even bother trying to hide between syllables.

She is in an eternal war against opponents made of immortal emotions, and the only weapon she has keeps breaking.

The empath. She knows Twilight thinks of her that way now and again, and doesn't really mind. Twilight had to relearn empathy from scratch, and Pinkie -- almost wishes there was some means by which she could personally put it away for a while.

She talks to just about everypony. They come into the bakery, attend parties, stop her on the street because the entire settled zone knows that you can nearly always talk to Pinkie. And they tell her their troubles.

Who's sick.
Just how dire that financial emergency has become.
There's a relationship about to crash into the rocks, and not even Rainbow could pull out of that dive.

And she takes in their pain. Recognizes it as if those agonies were her own.

Perhaps she'll come up with something to say, or do. A funny line. The offer of a gathering, to bring other ponies close to the one who's suffering, and maybe that'll help. A quick antic: sometimes that does the trick. She's managed to temporarily kick a lot of ponies out of depressive states through pratfalls, and she's not going to call it 'a simple pratfall' because when you're a quadruped, making a stumble-and-splat look casual (and feel harmless -- okay, almost harmless) is a skill.

Maybe the other pony will laugh.

They'll feel better. For a little while.

Then they'll leave.

Eventually, their pain will come back.

And Pinkie, who took that agony in for her own... will still have it. With no means for getting rid of it.

Ever.

...it's not the worst thing. She tries to tell herself that fairly often, largely in the hopes that doing so will eventually make it true. Yes, she's carrying the pain for so many ponies (and in what's an even more unfair move, doing so somehow doesn't always take very much of it away from them). In a way, Pinkie represents the combined hurts of Ponyville, all compressed into a bouncy, curl-disorganized package --

-- she... thinks Twilight would understand that now, if they tried to talk about it. The change gave Pinkie and the librarian one more thing in common. They're both carrying others with them. For the rest of their lives.

Yes, Pinkie gets to feel everypony else's pain. Isn't that better than not being able to recognize pain at all? If you couldn't understand when somepony else was hurting, if your first instinct wasn't to make it stop -- then would you really be capable of understanding anything?

She tries to tell herself that bleeding for others is a good thing. Plus it's rare for an empath to truly be alone in their own head, and... she needs the company. It helps keep some of the older thoughts away.

But she only has so much blood.

When so few wounds ever seal over... when she feels her strength ebbing...

Laughter is temporary. Problems can be permanent. And Pinkie, chosen by Laughter to be its Bearer, is the custodian of an interim solution for perpetual issues.

She's part of her community. (Perhaps too much so.) There's been times when she's found ways to direct resources and collected ponypower towards those who need it. At just about any given moment, Pinkie will know not only who doesn't have money to deal with the latest crisis, but the names of those who both do and would be willing to spare some of it. Mr. Rich is willing to help. But even he can only do so much. Or she can bring in other forms of assistance, social and legal and everything else -- but the recipient needs to be willing to accept it, along with being capable of acknowledging there's an issue at all. When it comes to the more abusive sources of torment, some can't.

And when it comes to her own Element...

All right: so she made somepony laugh. They feel better now.

Is that going to last?

Did it actually fix anything?

Chronic pain can mean more than just the physical.

Laughter is supposed to heal.

If the pain comes back, then it didn't.

(Who heals her?)

Laughter.

She's supposed to represent -- incarnate -- the concept of Laughter for an entire nation. For, in some ways, the world.

Doing it for a single settled zone is hard enough.

Fluttershy thinks she's overburdened? (She is. Pinkie knows. They talk about it every moon. Pinkie takes in that pain, makes it part of herself, and then it never fully goes away.) In theory, even if her fellow hybrid could never manage to steel herself to the point of actually turning an animal away... the cottage only has so much space. Include the grounds and it's a lot of space -- but the fact remains that there's an absolute population limit. Reach capacity on what the land will support, and that's it.

Pinkie knows just about everypony in the settled zone. (It's 'just about'. Some ponies want to be left alone, and it took years for her to figure out how to both acknowledge and do that. Cranky wasn't that last lesson in that ongoing course, but... he was one of the harsher ones.) Their names, occupations, birthdays and, far too often, exactly what's troubling them and how little she can actually do about it.

And Ponyville has been picking up population in every moon.

Go meet that pony. See if they'll be happiest with a welcoming party, or if this is a case where Pinkie just quietly leaves a greeting basket by the front door and hopes the new arrival eventually works up the strength to open the card. Otherwise, she has to learn about the latest resident. Their favorite kind of music, any party games they might favor, the ideal snacks to set out --

-- how long ago their parents died, which is the whole reason they moved here because even though inheriting the old house technically gave them security for their rest of their lives, they just couldn't stand to hear the silence any more --

-- she can introduce them to the town. Try to make sure they're settling in, that they find friends. But she tries. She can't just giggle into the air and watch a life magically become better. And when it comes to Ponyville...

She saw what happens when nopony is trying to help. When the steam just keeps building up in the boiler, because nopony can turn Laughter's vent and bleed off enough pressure to temporarily prevent the explosion. If viewed from that perspective, the mark switch was extremely educational. Fluttershy couldn't do it. And that wasn't just a lack of skill with jokes and social situations. Fluttershy carries the pain for every animal on the grounds, and... that's enough. She shouldn't have to take in any more. Ever.

And once the spell had been countered, after nearly everything was back in place and poor Twilight was trying to reconcile a whole new set of agonies, not to mention a fresh pair of limbs -- that was when Pinkie realized. That when it came to Ponyville...

...it's just her.

...all right, so that's not how it actually is. Ponies help each other all the time. Additionally, she's not the only mare in the settled zone who can kick out a joke. There's some great comedic timing in Ponyville, although most of Twilight's is strictly accidental.

But that's how it feels.

What's a mission to Pinkie? A chance to help. To make sure her friends come through it, and to help them heal after. If she can find the words which will do it. The contact and presence.

(Who heals her?)

It's also her chance to sleep in.

That's not even a joke. In Ponyville, keeping baker's hours means getting up while Moon is still present. The bread has to rise with Celestia, after all. And then it's three ponies trying to keep Sugarcube Corner running while simultaneously looking after two very young foals and seriously, preschool classes can't come soon enough. Then there's party schedules to worry about. Birthdays, weddings, special occasions and oh dear Sun, do not talk to Pinkie about graduation season. And who needs her to drop by and check on them? How's the printing going on the one-sheet for that emergency fundraiser? (Mrs. Bradel gives her a discount. She can also use Twilight's little press at no cost, but the capacity is a lot lower and the colors are never as bright.) Also, did anyone remember to water the houseplants while Cloudchaser is away -- okay, fine, Pinkie clearly remembered that, but now she's got to do it and getting into that residence may take a little work. Preferably something which gets cleared up long before she has to be at the new arrival's place for lighting setup and to run quality control on the grass bundles.

And now it's time to go see Mr. Downs.

Yes, he has ponies in and out of his home all day. The nurses take shifts. But she likes to drop by and tell him a joke. See him smile, if only for a moment.

It would be very easy to tell him the same joke on every visit. It's not as if he would remember. But she tries to have fresh material every time. He deserves that.

It's hard enough to just keep telling him who she is.

...if she's on a mission, then she's probably fighting for her life while desperately trying to protect those she loves. Neither activity tends to come with a schedule. Missions have seen her sleep past Sun-raising. She might not touch flour for days. Her world shrinks to the ponies around her and whatever has to be done. Some of the stress could even become somewhat less immediate. If only by comparison, trying not to keep Harmony from dissolving in a pool of just-shed blood can be almost relaxing.

Except that she keeps thinking about what might be taking place in Ponyville without her there. How much the pressure is building. She's been trying to teach others how to turn the valve, along with ways to be happier on their own, but...

...laughter isn't even a temporary solution, most of the time. It's a palliative treatment. And the treatment itself...

Sometimes she finds another answer. There's been times when she wound up being that solution.

It doesn't keep new problems from arising.

How much does the offer of transient mirth truly help, when laughter itself always dies?

She wants to believe that she learned from her mistake with the mirror pool: at the very least, she's not going to do that again. But she's still overburdened, overbooked, it's just Pinkie to manage it all, she doesn't know what's happening back home without her and Ponyville could be falling apart --

-- but it's not just that.

Her mark tells her to make other ponies happy. She's spent a post-manifest life trying to deal with the fact (and fate) that it has suggestions for how to go about it, but doesn't know how to keep them that way.

To make... other ponies happy.

The lifeguard who barely swims. An echo chamber which bounces and blends the words of others until it can pretend some of what emerges was its own.

After her manifest... she made her parents happy. For the first and, as it turned out, only time.

She was happy.

And then the party ended.

If other ponies are happy... she can take that in. Empathy allows her to truly comprehend their joy, and she feels better for having been the one who brought it. More complete.

Laughter always dies. The party must end.

She laughs as part of a chorus. Smiles and giggles and chortles and recently, does her best to keep any snickering duration well under the Guaranteed Evil line.

When was the last time she laughed for herself alone?

(Who heals her?)

She's dreaming. And in her dream, she's at a party -- without being part of it. She can see those in attendance, distantly sense their joy. But it's like she isn't quite real. Ghosts don't exist, but -- what else could she be, when ponies don't hear her, can't see her, and keep walking through her?

They're happy. Their pleasure is solid and true, certainly more solid than she is. They laugh and smile and have a good time, and she can sense all of it -- but the echoes haven't started. There's a hollow place within her and it refuses to fill with jubilation's reflections.

Because there have been so many times when she's been afraid that the only way she can ever be happy is if somepony else had been brought to that state.

That deep-buried fear is at the core of this dream. The Pinkie who exists in the nightscape can do no more than call out, trying to talk and sing and joke with all those around her while her words phase through their ears and when she desperately tries to touch, her hooves do the same.

But the crowd is happy.

(Always absorbing the burdens of others. Empathy as a sponge which never gets squeezed out.)

The herd.

Pinkie's mark tells her to make others happy.

She's alone.
Alone in a crowd.
Forever.

Because that's what her mark wants.

When is it my turn?

Outside a strange window near the hosting bed, milky quartz facets fail to truly gleam under Sun.

The pain builds.