The Modern Prometheus

Fluttershy, that kindest, dearest of ponies, who had stayed by my side longer than any other, who had watched over me the whole of my hospital repair, was gone. She had hardly left my bedside in all that time, sitting there with an animal or three, sometimes talking, sometimes silent, always caring, so attentive that at times I felt like shouting her away, letting my frustrations boil over and scorch her—but what would be the point? She would be there the next day anyway, that was just how she was, and I knew my worthlessness would not prevent it.

There was a sadness in her eyes, I thought, every time she looked at me, which I hated: a remembrance of all that I was, inevitable because of how we had met, that hurt me every time I looked at her, and she at me. All this flooded back, of course, as Twilight sat me down, quite carefully, and explained to me into nes as dry as dust just how the mare had perished. I barely heard her. In that moment I felt all the weight of all my years of idleness settle heavy on my shoulders, as I had not felt in ages, the worse because I, who did so little, who wasted her days in nothings and forgotten texts, who spent one third of every day wandering around the town for no particular reason, hoping only to see somepony with whom to talk, to smile, to share a word, but too ashamed to answer when they did, was alive—and she, who did so much, was not.

She left behind her grieving friends, grieving family, animals who were quite lost without her. If I died, I knew I should leave behind none of that. These thoughts I could not banish, even as I despised my very self-absorption. The kindest of ponies was gone, and the most wretched could not even mourn as she deserved.

My own misery was nothing, however, to the misery of my friends, who had the advantage of their own abilities, and thus the knowledge they could have saved her. It hung like a cloud over each, and Twilight especially felt the pain of it, and though she took care in public to seem smart and cheerful, behind her eyes she was much the same as she had been that night: tiny, tragic, and utterly detached. They were wavering, they were grievous, the rain that echoed still within their hearts was slowly wearing them away, and I wished again and again for something, for anything I could do, to break the cloud above their heads as once I did with ease. Months passed, I discovered nothing.

Zecora had a life before the Everfree, and had known much, she said, of grief. For this reason she kept me well supplied in months that followed with books she knew would spark my interest, books of myth and magic and terrible crime, and one day, coming by my house to find me staring out along the road at something I was sure I must have seen, she delivered me a stack of Zebra histories from her personal collection, bound in fibre, and among these, later, as I sat down to pick one out, I found a book undoubtedly you will have heard of. It was a small, red volume, unassuming as all the rest, lettered in gold on the front with the words I came to love, and hate, and would haunt me in my nightmare for all the years to come, the words I see before me still etched in every wall and crevice of my mind, burned in blackest ink behind my eyelids:

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS
Stories of the Sailor Xenith and Her Travels in the Far Kingdoms
A New Edition

Back then, it was as little and obscure as all the rest, harbouring none of the infamy it has come to bear. I heard last week that in the Crystal Empire the book is banned, that every copy which can be found is burned, that every pony who now has read it must submit to a spell that clears it from their minds. I do not know if this is the right thing to do, but surely it must be better than the alternative. Its reputation, its notoriety, must make it an object of interest to some even before its outlaw, and now, I fear, it will become much harder to forget. Harder to find, indeed, but more prized by those who have it. The only solution would have been its destruction before release, or, if not that, that destiny had contorted so that Zecora might never have bought it, that I might never have picked it up, and that the whole rest of the mess might never have happened. Alas.

Knowing none of what was to come, searching for a thing to read before I settled down to bed, I found the book among the stack and took it out to read it. Dawn, and morning, and midday—for I was no fast reader—came, and found me still awake, still reading, and when at last I put down the text and rubbed my eyes and looked around me in surprise of the brightness of the day, a smile touched my lips. “Huh,” I said, I remember distinctly, and thusly my obsession was begun.

One year later, I am standing at the door to Twilight’s castle as the night rain thunders all around me, and my knock is strong as hers was not as I hammer at the door. At length, she opens it.

“Rainbow Dash?” Her eyes are dull, dark and heavy, and I wonder, barely, if I have woken her from sleep or if this is how she looks now, that she has been sleeping as late and fitfully as I have. It does not even occur she has not seen me in six months.

“I can do it,” I tell her. She squints, and I stomp the ground impatiently. “I can do it,” I repeat. “Fluttershy. I can bring her back.”

She does not understand. She will not, not for days, till she’s invited me inside, and talked, and read the book, and read my notes, and seen all that has eaten the last year of my life. Then, she understands, and watches with eyes so wide I see their rims all white as I heave and push the shovel back into the ground, as I toss the dirt behind me, till suddenly it sinks into something that is not earth, something softer, younger, and full of rotten juices. Till she stands with me and pulls the corpse from its muddy bed and fills again with dirt the grave marked FLUTTERSHY.

That is in the future. She shook her head, and welcomed me inside. If only she had not.

I will not relate all that happened around the resurrection of my dear friend, and certainly I refuse to give instruction to it. If that is what you picked this up for, you may leave safely, frustrated in your ambition. If you are grieving, then I am sorry, but trust me, this is better. Some enemies were not meant to be defeated, some barriers should not be overcome. If mountains were made for ponies to succeed, then that is fine: whatever built our world did not mean for this to join their rank. Death is necessary. I know you know that now, I know the world knows it, but still I must repeat it; my conscience will not let it lie. The book should never have made its way to me, Twilight never should have let me in, Fluttershy’s grave should never have been broken. Most of all, our experiment never should have worked. Weep. Mourn. Move on. If that is what you need to hear, I’m glad, and you may take it from somepony who knows: do not do as I did.

For what emerged from our stone sarcophagus, the crucible in which I concentrated all my study, the coffin built to violate itself, was not Fluttershy. Or, rather, it was, but that’s what made it worse. My year paid off, my obsession worked out, my mind found itself the mother of a newly grotesque child, a thing more poorly formed than I, and for a while, I was pleased. I looked out upon my labour and judged it good. Fluttershy was returned, she was back from the dead, she could sing, and laugh, and love again.

Only she wasn’t.

Well, she was.

Except she wasn’t.

It’s complicated.

Fluttershy was not herself.