Catch Us If You Can

by Miller Minus

Rating: teen
Tags: King Sombra, Troubleshoes, Twilight Sparkle, Drama, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Romance, Adventure
Length: 18422

King Sombra and Troubleshoes Clyde travel across Equestria to find Sombra’s missing horn. Twilight Sparkle follows their trail.

King Sombra has been brought back to life once again—only this time, he doesn’t have his horn. Weak without it and withering away day by day, Sombra sets out for the Crystal Empire to find his missing piece, chaperoned by the downtrodden and endlessly kind Troubleshoes Clyde.

They’d better hurry. Twilight Sparkle has caught wind of Sombra’s return, and she’s getting awfully tired of destroying him.

Winner of the M/M Shipping Contest.
Cover Art by aquoquoo.

Published 2021-11-07 14:00:01 UTC
Last updated 2021-11-11 17:27:06 UTC

1 - Appleloosa

Princess Twilight Sparkle had reason to believe that the dreaded King Sombra, malevolent stallion of yesteryear, blackhearted enslaver of the Crystal Empire, had returned. In fact, she had three reasons. They were, in order of emergence:

Five days ago, the magic observers in Canterlot had reported a shockwave of revivification magic originating somewhere to the southeast.

King Sombra’s horn had started quivering inside its safe box within the Crystal Castle, almost as if trying to get out. No matter how you oriented the box, the horn rolled towards the south.

After interrogating Discord (see: getting Fluttershy to ask him nicely), he had sworn on his mother’s grave that he hadn’t revived Sombra. Again. And Discord definitely didn’t have a mother.

And now, thanks to a crack team of crystal magic experts (see: Sunburst and a couple of his interns), who had applied some advanced trigonometry (see: they drew a couple lines on a map), she had made a quick scouting trip to Appleloosa—the estimated source of the magic wave—where she now stood next to a fourth reason to believe the evil stallion had returned:

A giant crystal fortress had appeared in the forests outside Appleloosa.

“Remind me again,” Twilight asked her guide, “who was it you said lived here?”

“Uh,” said Braeburn, fiddling with the edges of the hat he held against his chest. “Troubleshoes Clyde is his name, Your Majesty.”

“And has this… Troubleshoes… ever taken an interest in crystal magic?” Twilight peered up at the fortress again, standing high above the tall evergreens. The day was grey and cold, but if there’d been a storm right now, the lightning would be flashing menacingly overhead, casting the fortress in a terrifying silhouette. Oh, yes. Twilight knew a sinister building when she saw one.

“Or crystal architecture, for that matter?” she appended to her question.

“Oh, no, Your Majesty, Ma’am, not at all. At least, not as far as I’m aware. But Clyde’s a reclusive sort, see…” The meek countrypony shrugged and put his hat back on. “All’s I know is this here plot o’ land is where his old house once stood, and, uh…”

“I see,” Twilight interrupted. “Well, thank you, Braeburn. I’m going to see if your friend Troubleshoes is home.”

“Oh. Do you need back-up?” Braeburn asked.

Twilight made to answer before she noticed a chattering sound behind her. She looked back at her guide and saw it was his teeth.

She smiled. “No, I think I’ll be alright. But thank you for your concern.”

“Right! O-of course you will be. I’ll just… be over… there.”

Braeburn failed to gesture in any direction.

“Over where?” Twilight asked.

“Over… Back in town. See ya ’round!”

And Braeburn took off toward the trees on three hooves—the fourth holding his hat firmly on his head.

Twilight sucked her teeth, turned, and approached the hulking fortress. Ripples of light expanded from the porch steps where she touched them with her hooves.

“Neat,” she murmured.

She knocked on the door. No response. She knocked a second time. There came a response:

“Just a moment.” The voice was quiet. Unhurried.

Just a minute, Your Majesty, Twilight corrected in her head, then she shook it. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t be that kind of royalty.

Kicking her hooves on the stone-like crystal, she waited as the owner of the voice made his way to the door and opened it.

He was a sweet-looking pony, with a scruffy chin and big, glassy eyes, and Sweet Celestia on High, was he tall. Twilight had been growing during her short time on Equestria’s throne, marking little notches on her bedpost in the castle like she had when she was a filly, but this stallion still had a few inches on her.

“My, Princess Twilight Sparkle,” said the stallion. “What a pleasant surprise.” His voice sounded neither pleasant nor surprised. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Twilight cleared her throat. “Good morning, Troubleshoes. I—um… You are Troubleshoes Clyde, yes?”

“Surely.”

“Good! Er… Troubleshoes. Good morning.”

“Reckon it’s past noon.”

“Er—Good afternoon, then.”

The giant stallion shrugged his giant shoulders. “One greeting’s as good as another.”

Twilight smiled with her mouth and her eyes. “Well, I don’t want to trouble you too long,” she said. “It’s just, well, there’s been an… incident. My magic scouts have reason to believe that…”

King Sombra’s name became stuck in Twilight’s throat. The sudden appearance of this fortress had unsettled Appleloosa, if Braeburn was any indication, and she didn’t want to go around causing a panic.

“…I’m looking for a stallion,” she finished.

Troubleshoes frowned and rubbed his chin. “You have magic scouts that tell you when you’re looking for somepony?”

Twilight laughed awkwardly. “Yes, sorry, that was a weird way to put it. Have you seen anypony suspicious lately?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“No? Nopony who looks…” Twilight rolled her eyes at that brilliant blue structure surrounding them. “…out of place?”

“Not really,” Clyde answered blankly. “Not unless we’re countin’ yourself.”

Twilight laughed again. “Riiiiight. Well, don’t worry. This… fugitive might not even be around here, so it makes sense if you haven’t seen him.”

Troubleshoes nodded. “It’s good to know what’s an established fact and what ain’t,” he said. “That’s what Mama Clyde always said.”

“Sure,” agreed Twilight. “Me too.”

Twilight craned her head around his big shoulders to peer inside the fortress, but Troubleshoes followed her head with his own, blocking her view. An uncomfortable silence settled over them.

“…Where’d you get the house, Troubleshoes?” ventured Twilight.

“Built it just a few weeks back.”

“You built it! Well, that’s impressive.”

“Kind of you to say.”

“What made you decide on, er… crystal?”

Troubleshoes peered at the crystal door jamb and rested a hoof on it like a proud builder. “Welp. It’s a good moisture barrier, sturdy, and it ain’t a half-bad insulator from the elements, neither.” He tapped the crystal, and it shimmered.

Twilight raised an eyebrow. “And what… tools does one use to make a crystal house?”

“Oh, mostly just these here two hooves.” Clyde clapped his hooves together, but softly. Too soft to be seen as a show of force.

Twilight had always been a pretty good judge of character, and she already had this one figured out. Large but gentle, unable to hurt a fruitfly. Think Big Mac, but simpler. And, like Big Mac, if Troubleshoes ever came off as threatening, she knew, it was accidental.

Importantly, he had no green glowing eyes or purple smoke pouring out of his ears. He was in control of his faculties. Such as they were.

“Well, it’s a lovely home,” Twilight said.

“Thank you kindly.”

“Mind if I come inside?”

“’Fraid so.”

“…And why is that?”

“Place is a bit of a mess. I’d love to entertain you, but I’d be mortified to let a pony of your state and stature see the mess we’ve made.”

“We’ve?”

“I’ve.”

“You said ‘we’ve.’ ”

“Don’t think so, Your Majesty. I ain’t got experience in weaving. No looms in here, neither, that I can assure you.”

Twilight smiled and let out a little hum. Like she thought. Simple. Unless that really was a mistake, and Troubleshoes Clyde was harboring King Sombra in there.

What a ridiculous idea.

“Okay, Troubleshoes. Thank you for your time. I have all the info I need.”

Troubleshoes nodded. “Best of luck with your fugitive.” And the door was closed.

Twilight turned and walked back down the steps, listening to the subtle ping of the crystal underhoof. A few flecks of snow were falling, but not accumulating. She watched the grey clouds pass overhead. One cloud was as good as another, she thought.

She turned and tried to see through a window, but it was opaque. She wondered if it was a one-way mirror like they had in Manehattan police stations.

In her head, the story finally clicked. King Sombra did indeed cast this house—that much was certain—but by now he was long gone—abandoned the place when he realized he needed to retrieve his horn from the Crystal Empire. And Troubleshoes, whose home had been destroyed by Sombra’s magic while he was away, was now illegally squatting in this newly empty fortress, pretending it was his.

And really, more power to him. The housing market was frankly out of control.

As she vanished out of the chilly air, one thing was certain. She may have had plenty reason to believe King Sombra had returned, but she had no reason whatsoever to believe he was in there.

“Is she gone?”

Troubleshoes Clyde stepped back from the window feeling like his heart was fit to jump out his throat and leave him for good.

“Clyde. Answer me!”

Either his heart or his breakfast.

“CLYDE!”

Clyde whirled to see Sombra creeping down the stairs, hiding behind the balustrade and looking entirely conspicuous. He looked like a caged animal—complete with fur as grey as ash, and eyes as red as fresh blood. Not to mention the fangs.

Clyde eased a little, seeing him, remembering why he’d just lied to the Ruler of Equestria. Well, not lied. Fibbed. Stretched the truth something severe.

He had always been a decent judge of character, had Clyde. And in Princess Twilight Sparkle he saw a pony fixing to wipe Sombra off the face of the planet without so much as a second chance. And everypony deserved a second chance. That’s what Mama Clyde always said.

“Morning,” drawled Clyde.

Sombra growled his way down the rest of the stairs. “I asked you a question,” he said. “Is. She. Gone?”

“Surely.”

“Hah!” Sombra pushed Clyde out of the way and pressed his nose against the glass. “COME BACK WITH A WARRANT NEXT TIIii—Oh, she’s gone.”

“Reckon that’s a good thing, too,” said Clyde. “She probably would have heard you through the window, shoutin’ like that.”

“Do not question my creation. This house is completely soundproof.”

From outside, the cry of a gull was heard.

Clyde couldn’t help but grin. “That so?”

Sombra whirled on him, but shot out a hoof against the window to support himself. A ripple of light expanded from where he’d placed it.

“Urp,” he said.

“Y’alright?”

“Yes.”

“Y’sure?”

“Oh, of course I’m not alright, you cur,” Sombra groaned. “I’ve been resurrected leagues away from my home, by a pony who can’t even use magic, and, in case you haven’t heard me complain about it the first hundred times, I am without my horn!”

Sombra waved a hoof over the empty space above his brows to prove his point, but he must have forgotten his crown was there because he knocked it clean off his head. Clyde winced as it loudly clanged against the floor.

“Oh, that’s alright,” said Clyde. “Life ain’t so bad without a horn.”

“Silence.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sombra pushed away from the window and snatched his crown from the floor, placing it back on his head. It slid down his nose, and he pushed it up like it was a pair of spectacles.

“I’ve had quite enough of you,” Sombra announced.

Clyde could only nod. It sure seemed that way.

Sombra marched over to the front door. With a wave of his hoof it opened automatically.

“However,” Sombra said. He gave a loud sigh. “Clyde?”

“That’d be me.”

“I do not say this very often, so listen carefully.”

“Alright.”

“I thank you for your aid.”

Well, how about that? Clyde felt like pinching himself.

“You mean it?”

“Yes, Clyde. Not only have you brought me back to life—as unspectacular a job as you did—” and he waved his hoof over his forehead again “—and for as little sense as it makes.”

“Oh, it weren’t nothin’ more than followin’ a recipe,” Clyde said, gesturing to the spellbook on a nearby table.

“Quit saying that. In any case, I must thank you for that, and for throwing Twilight Sparkle off my tail.”

“Oh, don’t mention it.” Clyde took off his hat, held it to his chest. “Reckon you’d’ve done the same for me.”

Sombra scoffed, then threw his head back and gave a single “HAH!” Added: “Clyde, I would throw you to a pack of wolves if it would shine my greaves.”

Clyde hung his head down low. He could only agree.

“The point is that I am releasing you from your service to me. Goodbye forever.”

And before Clyde could answer, the big door swung open and went shut, leaving nothing behind but a cough of cold air.

Sombra stood in the frigid breeze, straightened his chestplate, fluffed his cape, and sighed out a visible breath.

So.

He had no horn, no throne; most of his magic stores had been wasted on conjuring a stupid giant house for a giant stupid pony, and an unknown number of miles stood between him and his horn.

Piece of cake.

These sorts of problems were to be tackled one step at a time, Sombra always said, so he took a step. Then a few more. Soon he was on the dirt road a few feet from the front porch. Things were going great, except that he was breathing through his mouth. And his armor was loose against his skin. And the air was slicing right through his armor into his very bones.

“Y’alright?”

Sombra felt a hoof over his shoulder and smacked it away like it was a blade.

“Clyde, when I say ‘Goodbye forever,’ I do mean forever.”

“Reckon that was pretty short for forever.”

Sombra winced. Was that sass on this workhorse’s tongue? Slowly he turned on the fool, hoping he looked terribly bemused. Clyde, for his part, looked at him the same way.

“You sure you’re alright?” Clyde said, with a touch of impatience to him.

“Of course!” Sombra snapped. “Never… better.”

“Because with all due respect, Mr. Sombra, I reckon you’re going to have a hard time gettin’ to where you’re goin’ if some porch steps are leavin’ you winded.”

“Nonsense. I—”

“And you were walkin’ down the steps.”

Sombra grit his teeth. Blast him, the workhorse had made a good point.

“What’s goin’ on, anyhow?” Clyde continued. “You weren’t in this state when we first met.”

Sombra noticed Clyde’s gaze was sick with worry.

“I’ve never existed without my horn,” Sombra said. “I… suspect it was what restored my power as I used it. Either way, the longer I spend away from it, the weaker I am getting.” He swallowed. “Conjuring this building was a poor idea.”

Utter foolishness. To tell this to somepony who could still reveal themselves to be an enemy. But… strange as it was, Sombra felt he could trust Clyde. He had always been a brilliant judge of character, after all. And he noticed, now, a new sickness spreading across Clyde’s face. The sickness of guilt.

Sombra could use that.

“How far is it to the Crystal Empire?” he asked.

“’Bout eight hundred miles.”

Sombra laughed weakly. “Wow,” he said. “I’m going to die.”

“I-it’s okay, Mr. Sombra! I have an idea.”

“I’m listening.”

“I could take you there.”

Sombra laughed even weakly-er.

“I mean it, sir! Listen, I’m well acquainted with long journeys! Me and my Mama Clyde used to travel all over Equestria in my youth. Besides, I reckon the train ain’t gonna be an option for, uh… Somepony of your particular notoriety. Am I right?”

Sombra nodded. “Yes. And?”

“A-and I have a vehicle of my own, see. I could take you there. And you’ll be hidden from all eyes.”

Sombra blinked, straightened. “You have a chariot?”

Clyde swallowed. It was a loud, yet timid sound. “Sure,” he responded. “Chariot. You could call it that.”

“Bring it here.”

A big smile drew across Clyde’s big face as he turned and ran around to the other side of the house. Sombra smiled back until he was out of sight, then groaned and sat himself on the steps.

The trees were only twenty paces away. Sombra could simply flee. It was the smarter play, after all. But, now that he’d sat down, he felt strangely comfortable. Sombra knew he was tall, but he had never before found standing to be such a long way up.

There came a sound from around the corner: of wood rattling against itself, followed by a twinkling of small pieces of metal. It threw Sombra’s mind back to the chains in Crystal Palace’s dungeons. Were they coming back to claim him once and for all…?

Clyde came back around, hitched to a metal-and-wooden saddle.

“Finally. I was beginning to—that is a wagon,” Sombra snarled.

“Sure is,” Clyde said, beaming with pride. “Never once let me down.”

It looked like it was ready to. Most of it was covered in a big blue tarp, tied down to a platform surrounded by four knee-high wooden fences.

Sombra’s incredulity gave him the strength to stand, approach the wagon, and rip off the tarp. Well, it gave him the strength to do two of those things. He only managed to paw at the tarp.

Clyde unhitched himself from the wagon and undid the tarp, which he whipped back like a showpony revealing the stage for his magic trick.

“See, look, you’ve got a bed—”

There was a single blue blanket decorated with bright yellow ducks along its edges.

“—and protection from the elements—”

Four walls of rotting planks, held together by rusting steel.

“—and some light entertainment.”

A pile of trash to one side.

Clyde leaned against the hunk of depressing material, but it listed terribly under his weight, and he thought better of it. He moved to pat the thing, but didn’t even give that a try.

Sombra stared at the giant galumph before him and bared his fangs. “If you think I’m getting in here—”

“—I’d be completely correct,” Clyde said. “Because I reckon you’ve got no other choice.”

Before Sombra could respond, Clyde turned away and strode to the back of the wagon. He gave it a hard bump with his hip, and the back wall fell open.

“Your chariot awaits, Mr. Sombra.”

Sombra’s mind calculated wildly, looking for another way to get to the Empire. But he had none. And so King Sombra, baron of evil, baleful ruler of all that lived and breathed, climbed into the wagon and laid on the blanket with the ducks on it. His cape, at least, made for some extra padding.

“Cozy?” Clyde asked, holding his hat against his chest.

“Ask that again and die.”

Clyde laughed and reinstated his hat on his head. “Welp, I know it ain’t a ride fit enough for a king, but you just let me know if there’s anything I can do to make it comfier, and I’ll do my best to accomodate.”

Sombra groaned and rolled his eyes. Then flashed them at Clyde quick enough to make the big pony jump.

“Anything?” he asked.

“Anythin’.”

“Well, you could… destroy my enemies. Wipe the world clean of those who oppose me and seat me on the throne of Equestria where I belong. Would you do that for me, Clyde?”

Clyde blinked very slowly. “Is there anythin’ I can do ’sides that?”

“Certainly. You could lose that ridiculous accent.”

Clyde tilted his head and squinted. “What was the first thing again?”

Sombra dropped his head against the wood with a thump.

“Just march,” he commanded.

“Aye,” Clyde said. “That I can do.”

2 - Ponyville

Within the dim light of Clyde’s wagon, Sombra found himself being crushed between three equal forces. On one side of him lay the pile of junk—’knicknacks’, Clyde had called them—while on the other side lay the rotted plank of wood, and on top of him lay his own crushing boredom. He needed to rest. It was impossible to sleep. The wagon bumped incessantly, Clyde whistled the most asinine tunes while he walked, and there was only a certain amount of shame that a pony of Sombra’s renown could take before coming down with a bad case of insomnia.

Sombra could feel that weight grow with every step under Clyde’s care. When he retrieved his horn, and his powers with it, the first pony he destroyed would be this insufferable workhorse. He passed the time deciding just he would do it. So many ways to torture a pony…

They were a few hours in the forests north of Appleloosa when the wagon was caught in the mud. It was the third time since they’d left, and this time they lost a wheel. Sombra had been dreaming of a parade through the snowy streets of his the Empire, waving to the adoring crystal ponies and their adorable crystal children, staring at their sunken skeletal eyes, the ribcages showing between their rags, wondering, What could he do? what could he do? when suddenly he was pressed up against the side of the wagon, the pile of ‘knicknacks’ falling on top of him like a waterfall of garbage.

“Sakes alive,” Clyde could be heard muttering.

Sombra could only sigh. What could he do, indeed.

The place was lousy with creatures unseen. Chirruping chipmunks and twittering winter birds were all over the trees having some conversation they must have found fascinating. Sombra sat with his back against a tree as Clyde fixed the wheel back to its axle. He breathed in the mulchy air of the forest, tasted the sap on his tongue.

“I thought you said this thing never let you down,” he said, staring up through the canopy. Any moment now, he would see a purple alicorn flying overhead. Any moment her magic would rain destruction upon them…

“Oh, this ain’t the wagon’s fault. It’s mine.”

Sombra let his gaze fall forward. He glared at the head, and its tiny hat, bobbing up and down on the other side of the wagon.

“You mean you’re aiming for the obstacles in our path?”

“No, sir. They’re aiming for me.”

Sombra groaned and let his head hit the tree with a quiet thump. Dappled light fell on him through the leaves, and he closed his eyes. He wondered if he still had enough power to turn into a shadow. But he couldn't risk it. Sure, in that form he could reach the Empire in a few hours at most, but he could also use it to get as far away from this fool as possible.

There was nothing worse than a pony who blamed his own shortcomings on bad luck.

***

It was at the peak of his boredom that Sombra remembered Clyde had referred to the pile of junk as “light entertainment.” Sombra doubted this very much, but proving the idiot wrong might make for its own entertainment. So he reached inside his depleted magic stores and found enough to conjure a small crystal to give him light. He took stock of the pile.

He found cans of food, powdered milk and a half-eaten bag of corn chips. He found a purse that contained a sizeable amount of bits. He found a few foal’s toys—a ball-and-cup and its associates—and in the back he found an item he’d never seen before. It was a flat metal square with a sheet of glass inside, and behind the glass was a drawing of some kind. All browns and yellows, it depicted two ponies: An adult mare and a foal not more than ten… Clyde, Sombra realized. Same white stripe on his face. Same hat. His hair was wet, and he was wrapped in a blue blanket with ducks on it, while the mare with the black hair tousled his mane and pretended she wasn’t doing so. It was eerie. They both smiled at Sombra as if they could see him.

The tarp at the front of the wagon had been left loose in case Sombra wanted to poke his head out and “shoot the breeze.” He never had. Not until now.

“Hey,” Sombra said. He poked his head through the tarp and glared at the marching Clyde. The workhorse’s face was slack and impenetrable, as usual. “You.”

“You might wanna warn me ’fore you go poppin’ out like that,” warned Clyde. “Could be somepony walkin’ by.”

“Silence.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is this?” Sombra held out the item.

Clyde’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened. He stopped marching. “Did you… find that in there?”

“Yes. Why? Does it hold some sort of magic spell over you?”

Clyde shook his head, said, “No.”

“Then why did you stop?”

Clyde smiled innocently, faced forward and resumed his march. “I just thought I’d lost it,” he said.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“That’s me and Mama Clyde. Troubleheart was her name. Sweet Celestia… That must have been over twenty years ago.”

Sombra frowned. “But are you the artist?”

“Beg pardon?”

“This drawing is incredibly lifelike. Who made it?”

A chuckle escaped Clyde’s lips, low and deep. Sombra could tell it came from his lungs and not his mouth, and he wondered if Clyde had ever tried to evil-laugh before. He'd be good at it.

“Mr. Sombra,” Clyde said, “that there’s a photograph.”

“I don’t care what it’s called. Who made it?”

“A camera did. Mighty accurate, ain’t she?”

“So it’s a unicorn’s spell.”

“No, sir. I’m not an expert in the field, but, as I understand it, it involves a lightbulb and some fancy drawing mechanisms. Takes a snapshot of whatever’s before your eyes and prints it down on a page, lickety-split.”

Sombra studied the photograph. It betrayed no error. He felt he was really there with the boy and his mother. He could almost hear their laughter.

“Remind me, Clyde, to summon this “Camera” to my domain and have her create a painting of me. My painters were good, but they were never so accurate.”

Clyde chuckled again. “Oh, I think I know where we can find her.”

“Good. See it done.”

With great effort, Sombra rolled himself onto his back and rested his head against the lip of the wagon. The sky was still blue, but the trails of clouds were colored purple, promising evening.

Evening came along, then night followed soon after, and the sky went all bright with stars. Clyde had marched from morning to dusk, and his joints were barkin’ like a pack of dogs outside a Griffonstone slaughterhouse. But the night meant a campfire, some dinner, and a warm mug of tea, and those three things could make a day of troubles worth every effort. That’s what Mama Clyde always said.

That photo Sombra’d found was a stroke of luck—something Clyde rarely experienced. It had been taken at Gold Embers Campground. He and Mama Clyde used to go there every year around this time ’o’ year, seeing as it was closed down for the season and they could sneak in without paying. It was too cold for most folk, but nothing was too cold for a Clyde.

Clyde snatched some matches from a pouch hanging off the side of the wagon and got to work. Only burned himself once before he got a good blaze going, and that had to be a new record.

Then he approached the wagon. It was deadly silent in there, within and without. He hadn’t heard from Sombra for quite some time now. He hoped the poor guy was getting some well deserved rest. But he doubted it. It was a bumpy ride, and no mistake. Especially with ol’ Troubleshoes at the hitch.

Clyde quietly reached inside the wagon to gather what he needed, moving quietly, but Sombra’s dark red eyes flashed open instantly, as bright as ever, staring hard. Clyde darn near chucked the box of teabags at him thinking he was a ghost.

“Uh.” Clyde swallowed. “Care to join me?”

“Not interested.” Sombra’s voice sounded cold, hungry, and thirsty.

Clyde swallowed again. “I started a fire.”

“Not cold.”

“Was about to make a warm meal.”

“Not hungry.”

“Boil some tea.”

The eyes squinted back. Clyde saw the pupils from circular to slitted. They looked downright reptilian.

“Spiked tea?” Sombra whispered.

Clyde managed a smile. “Yes, sir. Spiked to hell.”

Clyde stepped back and unfolded the tarp over the hitch. He held out a hoof in case Sombra needed it, and, whether or not he did, the frail king hopped out onto the dirt, ignoring him completely. He stretched out his neck, then slouched with a heavy sigh. He pawed at the ground a couple times, armor jangling.

“Reckon you should take your shin-pads off,” Clyde suggested. “Might make you feel lighter.”

Sombra glared at him. “They are greaves.”

“Reckon you should take ’em off just the same.”

Sombra continued to glare. Without breaking eye contact, he slid off his armor, and his sunken crown, and tossed them into the wagon. He strode over to the fire and sat down.

Neither of them said a word as Clyde prepared two bowls of cabbage stew, two slices of bread and two mugs of apple cinnamon tea spiked with a healthy dose of Appleloosan bourbon. Clyde didn’t mind the quiet, at first. He could hardly suppress his glee. He’d had hundreds of campfires in his life. But not for a good twenty years had he had attended a campfire with company.

Sombra accepted his meal, tearing at the bread like an animal at fresh kill. Clyde couldn’t help but stare at the black stallion, check his posture and his mood. Clyde’s own mood was beginning to sour like old milk as he noticed Sombra’s angry stare go from bad to worse over a fifteen-minute spell of silence—a silence broken only by the clatter of cutlery, an occasional sip, the crackling of fire, and Sombra’s long, beleaguered sighs.

“I am growing weaker,” Sombra eventually said.

Clyde nodded. “That so?”

“Yes.”

Clyde nodded again, stared at his flickering reflection in his tea. He would move double-time tomorrow. Least he could do.

“Reckon we can reach Ponyville by noon tomorrow,” he said. “I was gonna pick us up some firewood. Be in and out quick as a housecat.”

“I’m glad one of us has a plan.”

“While we’re there, I recommend staying quiet as a mouse in the wagon. Don’t need no attention drawn to us.”

“I will not cower and hide,” Sombra said.

“I reckon you can hide without cowerin’.”

Sombra turned away and growled quietly. The conversation scurried away, like a bird flying from its cage while you weren’t paying it no mind. The night was quiet but full of sips, and the fire slowly died. Clyde stole glances at his traveling companion. He noticed Sombra really was withering, then—a bit skinnier in the shoulders and the chin—but his blood red eyes hadn’t lost their shine. Seemed nothing could dampen them. Clyde wondered if the fire was really dying of natural causes, or shriveling away under King Sombra’s stare.

“You’d make a good advisor, Clyde,” Sombra said suddenly.

“…An advisor?” Clyde asked. “Me?”

“Yes. Perhaps I won’t destroy you after all.”

“Mighty nice of you to say.”

“I’ll simply possess you instead.”

Clyde coughed and sputtered. Held his hoof to his mouth. Sombra threw back the last of his drink and smacked his lips.

“Another,” he said.

Clyde whipped him up a second mug of tea. As he added the bourbon, Sombra reached over and tipped the back of the bottle up until it was empty, spilling some of the contents in the dirt. Then he accepted the mug without any thanks. Clyde didn’t mind. He was still riding the high from the thanks he’d gotten that morning.

“Can’t say I’ve ever been possessed before,” Clyde muttered.

“It’s nice,” Sombra said, his voice lowered. “Less to worry about when you’re possessed.”

“Have you ever been possessed?”

“No.”

Clyde shifted on his log. He couldn’t decide if he’d been having too much caffeine or too much alcohol, because his heart was thumping in his chest and his face was burning something severe.

Sombra had the nightmare about the voices again. They surrounded him as he laid alone in darkness, unable to move or yell for help. The voices jeered at his failures, celebrated his downfall, promised to never remember him for as long as they lived.

Sombra did not fear this particular nightmare—or any nightmare, really. He was an avid lucid-dreamer. But on this occasion he awoke to a reality that gripped him with fear: He was still in Clyde’s wagon; he was still frail, and cold despite the warmth of his cape; the tarp had sunk down to meet him as if the sky itself were staring at him nose-to-nose; and the voices had followed him into the waking world.

They were fewer now, and further away, but still laughing, though perhaps not at him. Sombra pulled his cape closer in and tried to slow his heart down from racing.

The wagon shook, and the back partition fell open. Sombra cringed away, but saw Clyde’s dopey face and relaxed. The workhorse held a hoof to his mouth. Shh. He winked. Behind him, Sombra saw rows of snow hovering in the sky, shadowed by the bare branches of a tree. Underneath the tree was an old couple on a bench, wrapped in scarves and hats.

They were in Ponyville.

Clyde pushed two paper bags into the junk pile. Sombra heard bottles clanging and took a peek.

Appleloosan bourbon. Lots of Appleloosan bourbon.

“Have you been shopping?” said Sombra in a seething whisper.

Clyde nodded, gestured another shh, then closed the back of the wagon again. Sombra groaned and pressed his face into the blanket. He listened to Clyde get in the hitch, willed him to pick up the pace. The sooner they were out of here the sooner—

“Troubleshoes?”

Sombra’s heart set off at a gallop. He gasped and covered his mouth.

“W-well, I’ll be," Clyde said. "Fancy seein’ you here, Your Majesty.”

Oh, yes! thought Sombra. Fancy meeting Twilight Sparkle in Ponyville! What were the chances?!

“Off on an adventure?” Twilight asked.

“No, ma’am. Just visitin’ Ponyville for some supplies.”

“I can see that,” said Twilight. “You have quite the, uh… shopping cart.”

Sombra could almost feel Twilight’s eyes scanning the thin layer of tarp. Alicorns didn’t possess the ability to peer through objects, did they?

“Say, Troubleshoes, you know AJ, right?”

“Surely.”

“Why don’t we go see her about a new wagon? I’m sure she has plenty lying around. I’d help you move your stuff over, too.”

There was a long, long pause. The voices of the townsfolk had gone quiet. Probably voices went quiet wherever Twilight Sparkle went. Sombra used to command such attention, once upon a time. And now he was hiding inside a wooden dumpster with wheels.

“It’s just,” Twilight continued, “you’re bound to get yourself hurt hauling this thing around. What with your luck and all.”

“My luck?”

“Oh, sure. AJ told me about it. I’m sorry to hear.”

“Mighty kind, Your Majesty. But some things are immune to my misfortune, this wagon included. So, thanks for the offer, but I’m quite attached, as you can see.”

Sombra felt a jolt, like the wagon had been struck by a rock. Had Clyde just made a joke about being “attached” to the wagon? Sombra rolled his eyes.

“Riiiiight,” blathered Twilight. “Well, I’ll let you get on with your journey. Headed back home today?”

Say no, thought Sombra. Say no say no say—

“Yes, ma’am. Back south tomorrow.”

Sombra grit his teeth. He pushed his lower jaw against his fangs until they hurt. Clyde made a good advisor, true, but he was woeful in the field.

“Well, maybe I’ll see you around,” said Twilight.

There was another pause. Then, without saying goodbye, the wagon jolted into motion. Sombra braced himself against the walls around him. They were moving too fast.

“Slow down,” he hissed.

They slowed down to a crawl.

“Not that slow. Move at your normal speed.”

The wagon sped up again, only a hair too fast this time. Sombra didn’t risk saying anything more. All he did was wait, and tremble, and brace for his incoming obliteration via alicorn magic.

“Check if she’s following,” he whispered after a few minutes. “But don’t look behind you.”

“…How am I s’posed to check behind me without checkin’ behind me?” Clyde muttered.

“Just do it!”

The wagon stopped. Sombra held his breath.

“She’s not following. Nopony’s around. Oh, sakes alive! That was a close one, and no mistake.”

Sombra wrenched his hoof between tarp and wagon and threw the blasted fabric away from him, standing tall. He spun around to see Clyde staring up at him like a dog surrounded by a destroyed set of curtains.

“You idiot!” barked Sombra.

Clyde’s ears went flat.

“Have you never told a lie in your life? Don’t you know how this works? If you’re heading north you don’t say you’re heading south. You reveal yourself the moment you walk away from the conversation!”

Sombra made an exasperated shout and collapsed back into the wagon. He did a quick scan of the sky, the snowy trail, the trees up ahead, and Ponyville just down the hill. No sign of any spies. Yet.

“What do you think Twilight Sparkle will say when she catches wind that you’re heading north?” he continued.

Clyde huffed. “She’ll say, ‘I reckon he done changed his mind.’ ”

“She will say nothing of the sort,” Sombra snapped. “Trust me, Clyde, the only reason she hasn’t found me and thrown you in prison is because you have the affect of a moron. And at some point, somepony is going to realize it’s all an act.”

Clyde blinked. An amused smile appeared on his face. “Mr. Sombra, did you just call me smart?”

“No. Shut up.”

The smile grew.

“Oh, just… get back in your saddle and march, will you?”

The smile grew larger still. Clyde raised an eyebrow and began puling at the tarp to tie it back down.

Sombra laid himself back down and groaned. He was terribly tired, and, even worse, his outburst had done nothing to dampen Clyde’s joyful mood. Quite the opposite. It was almost as if everything Sombra tried to do to make Clyde miserable only made him happier.

He would have to double his efforts.

3 - Lake Michaygan

For nine whole days, Sombra amused himself by never speaking to Clyde. He communicated in grunts and knocks. He made no exceptions. He accepted his meals wordlessly, knocked on the wagon to see if the coast was clear whenever he wanted to get out and stretch his legs, and even pretended to be asleep when Clyde inevitably invited him to the nightly campfire. Sometimes he didn't need to pretend. But either way, it had to be done. It was important to Sombra that he spread misery to everypony he met, and that included his staff. And if he couldn’t depress such a simple pony as Clyde, what hope did he have when he was king again?

And so, as they journeyed over snowy hills, down green valleys, through pine forests thick with the hooting of owls, and along the stream towards Neighagra falls, Sombra studied Clyde’s face, posture, and the frequency of his sighs, to see if he was having a negative effect, and it was clear that he wasn't. Clyde whistled his cares away from sun-up to sun-down, never once repeating a tune he’d already whistled.

On the tenth day of Sombra’s vow of silence, Clyde broke him.

“Uh… Mr. Sombra? Sir? You might want to come out and see this.”

Sombra reached his hoof between tarp and wagon and pulled himself up with a groan.

Clyde wasn’t in his hitch. Sombra poked his head out into the air, and Clyde jumped out from beside him, pressed their cheeks together and—

“Say ‘Crystals’!”

There was a bright flash of light, and a click-whirr of machinery.

“Gah!”

Sombra pushed Clyde’s bristly face away and blinked rapidly. A bright, infernal rectangle was stuck in his vision. It wouldn’t go away.

“What is this? What have you done!”

“Just a camera,” said Clyde. “See?”

Sombra blinked and squinted at the thing in Clyde’s hooves. He could hardly describe it. It had a glass eye in its center, and it was surrounded by metal and plastic parts that Sombra had no name for. At its top was a white rectangle—the same rectangle Sombra couldn’t unsee.

“When did you get that?” he sputtered. “When did you take it out? I—”

“I got it at a pawn shop Ponyville when you were sleepin’, and I took it out just now. When you were sleepin’.”

Sombra noticed only then that the contraption had spat out a rectangle of glossy paper with a black square in the middle. Clyde took it in his teeth and began shaking his head like a dog with a chew toy.

“…Is this part of the process?” Sombra asked.

“Sure is.” Clyde took the page out of his mouth and held it out in front of him.

“Crystals!” Sombra spat. “That’s me!”

“Eeyup. Well. Both you and me.”

Sombra snatched the conjured image and held it up to his nose. The first thing he noticed was the color: this new photograph had everything in the rainbow, not just brown and yellow. Sombra’s red eyes and cape, the brown-ish blue of the wagon and tarp and hills behind them. A wisp of violet magic floating out of Sombra's mouth—magic leaking out from the shock. Without a doubt, the two brightest things in the photograph were Clyde’s big green eyes, inside which Sombra could see the image of the camera.

Crystals. The detail.

But detail was the only thing it had going for it, Sombra decided, because he himself looked terrible. One of his eyes was closed as if winking, and his mouth betrayed bitter disgust. And it somehow made him look pale, broken, battered, and fat.

Clyde cleared his throat. “Maybe I shoulda warned ya.”

Sombra glared at Clyde, who looked happier than ever. Without breaking eye contact, Sombra reached into his magic stores and sent a tiny flash of purple magic at the photograph, evaporating it instantly.

Clyde’s smile faltered, but only a little. “Now, why would you go and do a thing like that?” he asked.

“Because it’s evidence, Clyde. It places you and me together. I don’t care. But it could sink you.”

“It’s not because you looked a little, uh… unbecoming?” Clyde asked.

“No.”

“Well, if you say so. Just seems a shame, is all. Your first ever photograph, up in smoke.”

“Clyde, if you successfully deliver me to the Crystal Empire, I will be in as many photographs as you please.”

Clyde’s whole body flinched and his mouth fell open, and his smile finally, finally, disappeared. But he didn't look miserable. Not even close.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” asked Sombra.

Clyde shut his mouth. “No reason. Say, I reckon we skip the fire tonight. I feel good. Could march all the way through to tomorrow night, I reckon.”

“That seems like a lot.”

“Oh, I can handle it, don't you worry none.”

“Very well. See it done.” Sombra grabbed the camera from Clyde and tucked it under his arm like it was a helmet. “I’m keeping this,” he said.

Clyde scrambled into the hitch as Sombra turned around and held up the camera again, studying its pieces. Now here was real entertainment.

“Nice to hear your voice, by the way,” Clyde said.

“March, workhorse.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clyde was growing mighty fond of Sombra’s cold shoulder routine. He’d been enjoying these long days in the hitch; the press of the wood against his shoulders and hips had cleared his mind of all the junk that was usually in there, leaving it as blank as fresh snow against a hillside.

Say one thing about Troubleshoes Clyde, say he loved putting his back into things.

And when he’d finally busted Sombra out of his shell with the camera trick, he’d only started enjoying the work more, since it was now peppered with the clicking and flashing of the camera from under the tarp. Clyde was having all kinds of fun imagining Sombra placing the camera all over the wagon and snapping photos of himself, never quite being satisfied with how he looked. If only he wouldn’t destroy all the photos. Clyde would have wanted to see them, even the unflattering ones.

Especially the unflattering ones.

As promised, he marched all through the day, and the night, and then the day again. At a couple hours after sunset, Clyde found a small, secluded beach along Lake Michaygan, parked the wagon in the brush, and made his campfire. His body ached, but not just from the stress. It ached for company. And in that ache Clyde found the golden nugget of a bright idea, something he didn’t get many of in his life.

It was simple, really. He didn’t invite Sombra to dinner this time. Instead he left a bowl of soup in the wagon and grabbed Mama Clyde’s photo on his way out. Didn’t even glance at that black shadow of a stallion in his keep. Then, he sauntered down to the fire, placed the frame in the sand next to him, and took up his meal. And sure enough, just as he finished, Clyde heard hoofsteps in the sand behind him. He buried his grin into his bowl, lapping up the remains.

Sakes alive. Corn and leek soup never tasted so sweet.

“Nice of you to join me,” Clyde said as he stared at the waves. “Hope you—”

A photo appeared before him, held up by Sombra’s hoof. It depicted the black stallion himself, laying back against the blanket with the ducks on it, holding the camera above him with both hooves. He had his head turned just so, lip curled in a snarl, one fang shining against the glint of a purple light from somewhere. Fierce and deadly, and no mistake.

Clyde swallowed. “Nice shot,” he said.

“I thought so.”

“Mind if I…?”

Sombra dropped the photo in the sand and moved to Clyde’s other side, where he made a tired sigh and sat himself down.

Clyde shoved the photo under his hat.

Sombra opened his mouth, closed it, and frowned. “Where’d it go?” he asked.

“Threw it in the fire,” Clyde fibbed. “Evidence.”

“Ah. Good thinking.” Sombra sniffed loudly and sighed. Clutched his cape around his shoulders. Clyde wondered just how skinny poor ol' Sombra was getting under there. His half-lidded eyes stared at the fire like it was a hole he was fixing to fall inside forever.

Sombra turned his head and made an upward nod at the picture frame wedged in the sand between them.

“She die or something?” he asked.

“Eeyup. Long time ago.”

“Pity.”

A wave climbed up the shore—way, way up the shore—and spilled into the fire-pit. The fire hissed and died, thrusting them both into darkness.

“Reckon I could have built that further up,” Clyde commented.

“No,” said Sombra. “That was a freak wave.”

“Just my luck.”

Clyde tipped his head back and noticed the sky for the first time that night. There were enough stars to make out the edges of the galaxy. There’d been so many gray winter clouds on their journey, and Clyde never noticed the difference the absence of light from the towns made. If the fire had still been burning, he might have missed it.

Sometimes bad luck was just good luck in disguise, he thought. It all depended on how you looked at it. And then he had another thought. An ugly, selfish one:

Was there a way to make this journey last forever?

Sombra cleared his throat, seemingly to get Clyde's attention. He didn’t need to. Some small part of Clyde hadn’t stopped paying attention to him since they’d left Appleloosa.

“Why do you suppose your luck is so poor, Clyde?” Sombra asked.

Clyde shrugged. “I never really questioned it before.”

“No?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.”

Clyde could see Sombra’s shape in the darkness, but only barely. Carefully, he placed his hooves in the sand and shifted himself closer. Close enough to hear him breathe, even over the waves. Clyde wondered if he’d shift away. He didn’t.

“How are you holdin’ up?” he asked softly.

“Awful. It’s as though I wake up on a new, strange planet every day, each with a stronger gravity than the last. I get these sudden bursts of strength, but they’re fleeting. I need my horn yesterday, Clyde. I’m not meant to be an earth pony.”

Clyde nodded. He watched Sombra chewing at some piece of his mouth, watched the foggy breath ease out from his nose. And his luck must have been turning around, because right then and there, ol’ Troubleshoes Clyde had his second bright idea of the night.

“I know what you need,” he said.

“Yes, my horn. We’ve been over this.”

“No, not that. I mean, yes that. But before we get there, you need a warm bed and a meal from a proper chef.”

Sombra blew a raspberry. “Right,” he muttered. “Let me know when resorts begin accepting the damned.”

Clyde frowned and turned his attention back to the waves. “I know a hotel in Neighagra,” he said. “And we’re passin’ through there anyhow. The owner might still remember me. I’ll get you a room, Mr. Sombra. I promise.”

From the corner of his eye, Clyde could see Sombra turn his head towards him and arch one of his caterpillar eyebrows. Then he turned back away.

“Whatever,” Sombra mumbled. Clyde heard Sombra shuffle and wrap his cape tighter around him. “I probably wouldn’t even be having this problem if you’d just revived me in the summer, you know.”

“Want me to build another fire?”

“No.”

“But—”

“Leave it. I’ve always felt more at home in the darkness.”

“Alright.”

Clyde put his hooves behind him and lowered himself onto his back. The sand cradled his spine, and he sighed his secret sigh—the sigh he sighed when he’d had a hard day’s work, and had brought himself right where he wanted to be.

He didn't get many chances to make that sigh. He was rarely where he wanted to be.

He closed his eyes, listened to the quiet rush of the waves, and waited for the next time his traveling companion spoke.

“I lied just now, Clyde.”

“That a fact?”

“Yes. I was born an earth pony.”

“…Is that a fact? Then where’d the horn come from, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

“We found it in a glacier. It was… Well, we never discovered what it was. But we could tell it held power. Unbelievable power. At least, unbelievable back then.”

“…”

“And it was a time of poverty and famine in the Empire, so I… I had it attached to me. I thought I could wield it to help my people. And I was right. Though... Many didn't accept my methods.”

“Do you reckon you could live without it again?”

“Not a chance. I would crumble to dust before the month is out.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“I lied too, Mr. Sombra.”

“Wow. And I didn’t even notice. You're learning.”

“Mighty kind of you. But the truth is… I don’t question my luck because I know the answer already. I deserve it. Plain and simple.”

“Explain.”

“Well. Really, it ain’t bad luck at all. It’s Mama Clyde’s ghost. She’s hauntin’ me.”

“Pfah! Laughable. The mare in that photograph wouldn’t haunt that little boy. Try again.”

“I told you that picture was from a long time ago.”

“So?”

“…”

“…”

“I never met Papa Clyde. He died sometime before Mama had me. Some mysterious illness. I only knew him from what Mama Clyde told me, and what she told me was that he was fit as a prize fighter, my old stallion. Could cause a tremor in the earth just by splittin’ a log. And then… gone. Five days was all it took. Five days, and no doctor could figure out what was the matter. And then I came along, and I was a poor substitute, I reckon.”

“…”

“So my Mama raised me, and she did a mighty fine job. We lived off the path, mostly. Stole campsites. Attended rodeos from the shadows. It was a great life, and I wouldn’t trade a day of it for the world. Till she got sick with a mysterious illness of her own.”

“Hm. Disease cares not who you are.”

“That's a fact. She started to get weak. Throw up every other meal. And I learned that she never really forgave modern medicine for not savin’ my father, because she wouldn’t see a doctor for anythin’. I tried to convince her. I even invited one without tellin’ her one day, and after she’d finished yellin’ she told the mare to stand across the room from her and do her fancy diagnosis from there if she was so smart. Wouldn’t let her touch her with so much as a stethoscope.”

“…”

“I stayed by her, those years. Did the chores. Cooked the meals. Washed her, fed her, carried her to bed. And she just kept… gettin’ angrier. Don’t think she ever forgave me for sneakin’ a doctor in the house. Don’t think I ever forgave myself for not knocking her out with a lamp and letting the doctor study her while she slept.”

“…”

“…”

“How old were you when she died?”

“Twelve.”

“When I was twelve I was held in a dungeon on suspicion of being a spy. Didn’t get out until fifteen.”

“…”

“…”

“Well, now. From the dungeon to the throne, eh? That ain’t nothin’ to scoff at.”

Sombra scoffed. The noise startled Clyde enough to flinch. He flexed his stomach and sat back up, holding his hat on his head and feeling the rectangular shape of the photograph.

Sombra placed a hoof onto Clyde’s shoulder, then pressed until he was back on his hooves. It smarted, but Clyde made no complaint. He couldn't really speak at all, not with those silhouetted red eyes fixed on him. Didn't care much about speaking at all.

“My point is not to out-do your misery,” Sombra said. “My point is that children get blamed for a lot of things outside their control. Sometimes their only crime is being born. It’s a tale as old as time.”

He patted Clyde’s shoulder, then his hoof slid off, and he wandered off. Clyde listened to him walk away. Listened to the red cape drag in the sand, and leave a trail. Then he heard two hooves climbing into the wagon, followed by the groan of a pony, the groan of the wagon listing under a weight, and… two hooves positioning themselves in the sand.

Then silence. Clyde turned around again, and could just about see the shape of Mr. Sombra’s rear end sticking out from under the tarp, his cape flung over his near side.

“Uh…?”

Sombra pulled himself back out and sat down.

“Clyde,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I am only now taking stock of the bourbon you purchased in Ponyville.”

“Oh.”

“We could have been drinking every night and still had some left over.”

“Reckon so.”

“And we haven’t had any at all.”

“True enough.”

There was a subtle turn of the head. A devilish flash of two red eyes.

“Mr. Sombra, were you in the mood for some spiked tea?” Clyde asked.

Sombra’s eyes squinted. Then he reached inside the wagon and pulled out a paper bag filled with bottles, and with a grunt he pulled it out. Clyde watched that silhouette come back over to him and drop the bottles between them.

“Fuck the tea,” said King Sombra.

“Run the other way, Clyde! Fake her out!”

“Woop! Can’t catch me, Mama! Yee-haw!”

Sombra wheezed and fell forwards, threw out a hoof to stop himself falling face-first into the bonfire. The warmth was everywhere, in his throat, on his face, in his chest; and the drink smelled disgusting on his breath. His stomach hurt so hard from laughing it felt like he’d been stabbed.

Clyde, meanwhile, was running circles around the bonfire, feinting and ducking and jumping away. But wherever he went, the wind followed his every step, blowing smoke in his face. Eventually he stopped and paid Sombra a big, goofball grin, his eyes bright and shining and wet.

“That’s unbelievable!” Sombra laughed. “You disaster magnet!”

Clyde bowed deep. He doubled over coughing, and Sombra doubled over laughing. His cheeks hurt from wiping away so many tears.

Crystals, but they were drunk.

“Reckon I’m a pretty good campfire guest, eh?” Clyde said, his voice slurred like street slush. “Don’t need to worry about smoke with ollllllll' Troubleshoes by your side.”

Sombra pressed his faced into the sand and laughed a different laugh—a laugh from the stomach, from the heart, starting deep and raising it to a crescendo of glee… what was the word?

Cackling. Sombra was cackling for the first time in months.

When finished, he rolled over and wiped one last tear from his eye. Clyde sat beside him and was staring down, open-mouthed and grinning.

“Sorry,” Sombra said. “That was strange.”

“I didn’t hate it.”

Sombra suddenly shot up. “Go swim in the lake,” he commanded.

“Beg pardon?”

“Just go.” Sombra pushed Clyde’s big chest with two hooves, but only managed to push himself into the sand. “Go, you fool!” he shouted at the sky.

Clyde rocked up to his hooves, and Sombra had to brace himself against the laughter once more as Clyde snaked his way towards the water, stumbling serpentine.

“Go!” Sombra encouraged, following, and just as unsteady.

Clyde splashed into the water, holding his hat on his head, shouted, “Jeepers, that’s cold!” then fell to his elbows, got back up and kept running until the water was at his stomach.

“Alright, stop, stop!” Sombra called after him.

Clyde stopped.

“Now turn around.”

Clyde turned around.

“And raise your hoof out.”

Clyde followed the command. He pulled his hoof out of the water, and with it came a bright yellow piranha gnawing on his hoof.

“Yyyyyy-owch!”

Sombra threw himself back into another cackle, then looked up just in time to see Clyde fall on his backside in the lake.

“Alright, get out! Before your filthy rotten luck gets you eaten alive!”

With a heavy sigh, Sombra lay his head against the sand and stared upwards. The clouds seemed to stand still, but they held no snow or rain, and they were punctured with holes revealing the night sky beyond. In one of those holes was the dark, blank circle of the new moon. Sombra felt like spitting at it.

A thud shook the beach beside him, and Sombra turned his head to see Clyde on his stomach, his forelegs splayed behind him and his rear end in the air. Then his hindlegs collapsed with another thump, and they both chuckled.

“Mama Clyde is mean tonight,” Clyde muttered.

“Eeyup,” said Sombra. He threw a hoof over his mouth.

“Eeyup?” asked Clyde.

“Eeyup,” Sombra burped. “I reckon so.”

“You reckon so?”

“And no mistake.”

Clyde laughed his dopey, empty-headed laugh. Sombra decided it was time to stand. He made a plan, then put it into motion: First, he rolled over on his stomach. Second, he froze. He’d rolled towards Clyde, and their sides were now pressed against each other. Their bourbon-filled, foggy breath mingled. Their hooves were touching. A breeze brushed Clyde’s mane from the base of his neck up to his head, gently nudged his hat off his head, and something fluttered out into the sand.

The photograph he’d given him.

Sombra pushed himself onto his elbows. “I thought you said you threw that in the fire,” he said evenly.

“Uh,” Clyde said. “Uh.” And at first, Sombra thought Clyde was avoiding his gaze. But no. He was staring at his lips.

Sombra had a question for Clyde, there in the sand, but he never got a chance to ask it, for at that moment he heard something overhead.

Wings. Somewhere far off, but beating loudly and only getting closer.

Clyde scambled up to his hooves and scanned the sky. “Wagon,” Clyde shouted. “Go!”

Sombra rose to his hooves, gathered his cape, nearly fell into the bonfire. His heart pummeled his ribcage. When he reached the back of the wagon and steadied himself, he cast one last look behind him to see Clyde splashing his face with water, running up the shore, snatching the photograph from the sand and holding it over the fire. He hesitated, then their eyes met, and he nodded. He threw the photo in and stepped back to watch it smolder.

“Go,” he whispered.

Sombra clambered inside the wagon head first, his ragged breath echoing against the tarp. He tried to turn around and close the back of the wagon, but it was too late now. Something hit the sand with impressive force, and Sombra bit down on his lip.

“Hello there, friend! Nice evening, ain’t it?”

Sombra relaxed, but only slightly. The voice was raspy, choked, masculine. Not Twilight Sparkle, or any of her friends. But then, he couldn’t be sure of that. Twilight Sparkle had friends everywhere.

“Howdy, boys,” Clyde responded. “Nice evening for a fly, I reckon.”

Boys? thought Sombra, then he heard another creature land. Softer than the first.

“We ain’t flies,” said the second intruder.

“Take it easy, brother,” the first one cut in. “Sorry about my his mood, friend. We’re normally friendly, just... feeling a little hungry tonight.”

“Sorry to hear,” Clyde said.

Curiosity won over fear, as it so often does, and Sombra poked the tarp up with his nose just enough to peer outside.

Dragons. Both of them brown, scrawny at the arms and heavy at the waist. The one who’d spoken first was a head taller, standing with his claws on his hips. An affect of command. The smaller brother held his forearms against his chest and picked at the scales on his elbows.

Sombra had seen dragons before, but only rarely, and never were they so fat. Hungry, indeed, he thought. They had flanked Clyde, spreading out casually as the workhorse backed away towards the brush. You can take them, Sombra thought. You’re bigger than them. Divide and conquer, Clyde, divide and conquer!

“Look,” said the tall dragon, “we’re sorry to barge in on your private evening like this.” He took a sudden, large step forward, and Clyde flinched. “But we had to set something straight. See, we dragons? We own fire. And we don’t appreciate seeing little ponies build their own. It just ain’t natural. Isn’t that right, brother?”

“Y-yeah. Why don’t you spit in the dragon lord’s face!”

“Why don’t you spit in all our faces?” The taller dragon had his eyes locked on Clyde’s. “But don’t worry. It's an honest mistake. And you can make it up to us poor, hungry dragons, with the right gift.”

Clyde backed into the brush and stopped. “Ah… Fresh out of food, matter of fact.“

Sombra clenched his entire body, willing Clyde to turn and run. Or, better yet, don’t turn; run straight at the tall one and shoulder-check him into the fire.

“Doesn’t have to be food,“ the tall dragon said evenly. “Could be bits. Could be whatever you have inside that crapheap over there.”

Sombra ducked out of view.

“I’ve got bits for you, boys,” came Clyde’s timid voice. “Don’t you worry none. Just hold on, now. Lemme get ’em.”

“Good boy.”

“Yeah. Good boy.” And the brother laughed a scrawny, tittering laugh.

Rage bubbled inside King Sombra as he listened to Clyde’s defeated hoofsteps. The shame in his breast was heavier than ever. It didn’t matter what Clyde had said. You could not hide without being a coward. And while hiding from Twilight Sparkle was bad enough, now he was hiding from lowlifes. Hiding from worms. Why should he fear them? Why should he fear anyone? And who gave any creature the right to threaten a servant as loyal and dedicated as Troubleshoes Clyde?

The rage stopped bubbling, like a stovetop had been turned off underneath him. There was nothing left inside him but heat.

Clyde’s frightened face appeared in the back of the wagon, searching for his pouch full of coins. Then he met Sombra’s eyes, and his mouth fell open. He shook his head. Brought a hoof to his mouth.

Shh.

Sombra became a shadow.

“Hey, what’s going on over… there?”

Sombra’s hooves disappeared, then his body, his chest, until only his head remained, surrounded by wisps of black smoke. He blew out a breath, and the tarp blew away across the beach. Then he rose. His shadow made the firelight flee, pushed the waves back into the ocean, caused stars to blink out as if the new moon had grown as big as the sky.

King Sombra cackled with everything he had. The lake echoed back at him, as if trying to appease him.

“H-holy—” said the small dragon.

“—smokes,” finished the other.

Sombra floated his head towards them, came down to their level, and grinned. Drool dripped down his fangs into the sand.

“Sorry about my mood,” he growled. “I’m normally friendly, just… feeling a little hungry.”

The dragons screamed and scrambled. The taller one took off into the sky. The shorter one ran straight into the fire. He yelped and twisted through the coals, sent sparks everywhere, got up, looked for his brother, but found himself alone. Sombra laughed and laughed, a full-body cackle, and he heard that delicious scream of the doomed. He tipped his chin up to the sky and howled with laughter, with strength, with happiness and satisfaction and power. He hoped the whole world heard him. He hoped all of Equestria knew he had returned.

“Mr. Sombra!”

Sombra exhaled. A tremendous weakness flowed through his muscles and veins, left him numb. Gradually he lowered himself to the ground, and his hooves reappeared to support him.

“They’re gone. Hey. Don’t you worry, now.” Clyde’s hoof fell on his shoulder. Sombra went to smack it away, but only had the strength to lay his own hoof overtop.

“Mr. Sombra? Hey, Sombra, easy, easy!”

Blackness crowded the edges of Sombra’s vision. He twisted and fell towards the sand, but something caught him just in time, and he dangled there for a moment before the blackness took everything and left him with nothing.

4 - Neighagra Falls

Sombra woke to the sound of rushing water. The wagon rocked and jerked steadily, metal pieces clinked, and the tarp fluttered in the wind at the wagon’s rear, letting in the blue-gray mist. Sombra wondered if Clyde had abandoned the wagon on a hill, and he was now rolling steadily towards a ravine to be washed away from the Equestrian history books forever. But he simply couldn’t hear Clyde’s hoofsteps over the water.

Sombra shifted and grunted in pain. A dehydrated headache pulsed through his entire body. He’d passed out full of alcohol and empty of magic. The unicorn double-hangover. Gritting his teeth, he raised a hoof and touched the wagon edge. He was too weak to even knock.

“Coast is clear,” Clyde said.

Sombra stuck his hoof between tarp and wagon-edge and pulled himself an inch. Then two more. Until finally his head was outside.

Clyde stopped walking and turned his head back, while miles ahead of him, the sky fell in. Sombra’s heart hammered in his chest, and he dragged himself up to his elbows. All he could see was a terrible storm without clouds pouring water into the background of a hilly town, and Clyde, instead of turning the wagon round and running away like he should have been doing, instead moved his eyes all over Sombra’s face. Perfect little beads of moisture were stuck to him, as if he was waterproof.

“Is it… raining?” Sombra muttered.

“Nope. That there’s Neighagra Falls.” Clyde turned forwards again. “Haven’t been since Mama Clyde took me at eight years old. You ready to get on your hooves? The hotel is ten minutes out.”

“You weren’t serious about that.”

“Oh, I was mighty serious then, and I’m even more serious now. That magic show you put on took you out for three days.”

“That magic show prevented you from being robbed.”

“That it did. And I’m planning to use some of that money you saved to put you up in a four-star.”

Absolutely not, Sombra tried to respond, but only a gurgle came out.

Clyde unhitched himself, came around the wagon and opened the tarp up. He moved quickly, but without hurry. Sombra shuddered against the wind running over his fur.

“Wha… Where’s my cape?”

“Bundled up and buried out by the lake, along with your armor and crown.”

A flicker of anger sparked in Sombra’s chest, then was gone. He was too tired to be mad.

“…May I ask why?”

“Your talk of destroying evidence got me thinking. If a photo of us places you and I together, then so does your stuff in my wagon. Don’t worry. I know where it is, if you ever want to go dig it back up. I’ll even wield the shovel.”

Clyde’s bright green eyes kept moving all over Sombra’s body. He looked so serious, all of the sudden. Sombra realized he wasn’t the only one wondering if he’d survive this journey.

“Come on. The only way you’re getting into that hotel is on your hooves. Just a short walk, and you can rest an entire day.”

“…I’m cold.”

“Use the blanket.”

Sombra shifted himself off the blanket and threw it over his shoulders. He scooted to the back edge.

“Here.”

Clyde offered a hoof. Sombra stared at it. Closed his eyes. Accepted it. Allowed himself to be brought down to the earth. The pain had made him unable to feel anything else, it seemed. Not even shame.

Sombra gave walking a try, found it excruciating. But he managed to circle the wagon, dragging his hoof along its edge and ignoring the tiny pricking of splinters. Clyde came around the other way and stood beside him.

“Think you can muster ten minutes?” Clyde asked.

But Sombra wasn’t thinking about the ten minutes. He was thinking about the rest of the journey. A great distance still remained, but it was measly compared to how far they’d already come. And when he crossed that final gap, he would have his horn back, and with it his throne, and, most importantly, he wouldn’t have to feel so weak ever again. Or wear this diabolical duck-blanket.

“I’m vetoing the hotel,” he announced. “We must keep—”

“I don’t remember givin’ you veto powers.”

Sombra grumbled aloud. “Be reasonable, won’t you? I’ll be recognized.”

“Reckon you’d better keep your head down, then.”

“Clyde—”

“I promised you that warm bed.”

Fury welled up in Sombra’s chest. “And if I am recognized and thrown in a cell? If they call Twilight here so she can wipe me off the face of the planet?”

“Won’t happen.”

“Oh, you infernal—”

Sombra whirled on Clyde and jabbed a hoof into his chest. “You think your mother’s ghost is haunting you?” he snarled. "Well, she has nothing on me. If I am destroyed by your foolish sentiment, do you know what I’ll do?” He lifted his nose just underneath Clyde’s and bared his teeth. “I will stalk you till the end of your days, Clyde; I will ruin every friendship you ever make, buckle every house you try to build, make you violently ill before every single one of your precious little rodeos, and inside every cup of bourbon you pour for the rest of your days, you will find the unmistakable taste of my urine. Do I make myself clear?”

“You do.”

The anger vanished, replaced with exhaustion. Sombra hung his head and nearly rocked it into Clyde’s chest.

“I will not let your kindness ruin me,” Sombra muttered. “Understand?”

Clyde immediately responded, “All due respect, Mr. Sombra, but if my kindness ruins you, then I ain’t doin’ it right.”

***

Sombra sat on the edge of the wagon and swung his hindlegs below him. He clutched the blanket around his shoulders and stared at the picture frame in his hooves. Little Clyde and Mama Clyde. He had already stared at this photo for hours on end from inside the wagon on that endless journey. But he stared at it again now as an easy way to follow Clyde’s instruction:

Don’t look up, or at anypony.

His red eyes would give him away. That was all Sombra had left of himself, he realized. Even his magic was gone now. He couldn’t conjure the smallest crystal. All he had to do was shut his eyes, and he was the same as anypony in the world.

Clyde marched up beside him looking serious, yet proud. Excited, even. “Alright, I got us each a room. Come on.”

What happened next wasn’t clear to Sombra. One moment he was preparing himself to hop off the wagon, and the next he was laid slack over Clyde’s back, hearing, “easy now, easy,” whispered quietly in his ear.

“I got you.”

The frame slipped from his hooves, and Clyde caught it against his chest.

“Grab on, Mr. Sombra.”

Sombra grabbed on. The earth moved beneath him. Every time he blinked, it seemed to change. The dirt path became gray and dark wooden steps, creaking under a large weight. Then it was carpet and light, and a warm breath of magic passed over him. Then stairs. The kickplate of an open door. And then a mattress came to meet him, soft and smelling of flowers. Clyde placed the picture on the stand next to the bed, and Sombra rolled over, saw a knotted wooden ceiling, then a window with open curtains. And then Clyde was kissing him.

The feeling was unmistakable. A warm, wet touch, gentle as a feather. First it was on the spot just below his ear, then against his cheekbone, making his head loll to the side. Then his chin, his jaw, and his neck.

“What are you…?”

The kisses stopped. Clyde stepped back and bit his lip, blushing severely.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t… I just…”

“I didn’t tell you to st—”

Clyde’s face lit up purple for a split second. A thunderclap of magic buffeted the window.

Adrenaline flowed through Sombra, and he sat up in the bed.

“Twilight Sparkle,” he breathed.

Clyde gulped. “Eeyup. That’ll be her.” He ran to the window and scanned the outside world like a wild animal searching for a predator in the forest. Then his ears went flat and he crouched.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Oh, no no no—”

“What’s happening?”

“She’s here alright.”

“What’s she doing?”

“Well, uh… She’s lookin’ at the wagon. Lookin’ inside the wagon. AIEE!”

Clyde threw the curtains closed and backed away like a monster might burst through them.

“She just, um… made eye contact with yours truly.” He gulped. Threw his hooves over his head. “Oh, this is just my rotten luck.”

“It’s over, Clyde,” Sombra said.

“No!” Clyde shouted. “No, don’t say that. It ain’t over till the rooster sings.”

“Surely it… begins when the rooster sings. No?”

Clyde chewed at his lip. “You know what I mean,” he murmured.

“Clyde.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You’ve made a valiant effort. But it’s time to turn me in.”

“What—? Never!”

“Clyde, listen to me!” Sombra barked. “Go down there, and tell her I enslaved you. Any other course of action is foolishness.”

“How’d you enslave me without your horn?”

“I have no idea. But it is your only chance.”

Clyde sputtered, searching for a response, but he didn’t find any. Sombra lolled forward, felt Clyde’s strong foreleg catch him by the chest and lay him down on the bed.

“I reckon you’re right,” Clyde said gently. “Turning you in is my last chance. But it ain’t yours.” Clyde turned to face the hallway. “No, sir. That’d be me.”

Sombra’s eyes were falling closed. He stared at the image of Clyde and his mother, sitting in the frame on the nightstand. The last thing he saw was Clyde taking it away. The last thing he heard was the door quietly latching shut.

For the record? Twilight was at ten reasons now.

The revivification shockwave.

The agitated horn.

Discord’s flimsy testimony.

The impossible fortress.

“We’ve” made a mess, huh, Troubleshoes?

Speaking of Troubleshoes, why was his wagon currently parked outside a Neighagra Falls hotel, hundreds of miles north of Ponyville, when he distinctly claimed to be headed south from there?

And why had a pair of impoverished dragons appeared in Twilight’s castle that morning, claiming to have been attacked by what they described as an “evil shadowmonster” accompanied by a “giant so-and-so of an earth pony?”

Why did the aforementioned wagon smell like a stallion who hadn’t showered in eons?

What was with all the black hairs inside the wagon?

And why was it that when Twilight finished inspecting the wagon, she saw Troubleshoes’ guilty-looking face in the window of the hotel, looking like a pony who had done a lot more wrong than squat in some unoccupied evil fortress?

At some point, Twilight’s list of reasons to believe that King Sombra had returned to Equestria had morphed into a list of reasons why she would never underestimate Troubleshoes Clyde EVER again.

But it was her own fault. She knew that. After their encounter in Ponyville, she should have planted a tracking spell on the wagon when Clyde wasn’t looking. Or sent somepony to keep tabs on him, like Rainbow Dash—she would have jumped at the off-chance of kicking King Sombra’s flank. Or, even better, Twilight could have just thrown the tarp off and destroyed Sombra right then and there. What did she have to lose if she was wrong? A moment’s disrespect for some countrypony’s privacy?

Well. There would be no more respect for privacy today. Not until Sombra was neutralized.

From outside, the hotel was full of noise, but when she entered it, a silence entered with her. The front hall hushed, ponies moved aside. Clanging cutlery from the dining room went still. Eyes fell on her from all around.

She stood in the middle of the cavernous foyer, noted the front desk off to one side, the dining room off to the other, and the suites on the mezzanine. Twilight considered going right up there and blowing each door off its hinges one at a time, but decided the front desk was a less authoritarian approach. She made her way there, only for her attention to be yanked towards the dining room, where a lone earth pony with a small hat sat staring at a steaming mug of tea between his hooves. Twilight strode towards him, then slowed, and stopped halfway. Her anger vanished. Heartbreak replaced it.

Whatever was going on between these two stallions, she was right about Troubleshoes Clyde. He was a kindly, simple pony. He had the eyes. She didn’t know how he’d done it, but that shadow-faced jerk had found a way to lead a good pony astray. And for that he would pay extra.

Twilight sighed and shook her head. She crossed the rest of the way. Clyde seemed to be unable to look at her, though he was trying. Sitting across from him, Twilight gestured at an approaching waiter to leave them be. She allowed the clamor of the room to return and give them some privacy.

“Hi there, Troubleshoes,” she said over the din.

Troubleshoes hadn’t looked up from his teacup. “Her Majesty Ms. Sparkle. What a pleasant surprise.”

Twilight flinched. There was somehow even less surprise in his voice this time, and absolutely nothing pleasant. She studied his face for something, anything, that might reveal a mind-control spell. But there was nothing.

“Are you… feeling okay?” she asked.

“Oh, right as rain, thank you for askin’. You found that fugitive yet?”

“Not yet. But I think I’m close.”

Clyde nodded sadly. “That’s good to hear. Mighty kind of ya to be clearin’ evil ponies off the streets for the rest of us good folk.”

Twilight smiled. “Well, it’s my job. But—”

“I been thinkin’ ’bout good ’n’ evil lately.”

Troubleshoes took a long sip of his tea, and seemed to decide mid-drink to down the whole thing. He dropped his cup with a clink on its saucer, and he sucked his teeth like he’d just downed a shot of tequila.

“…Have you been drinking?” asked Twilight.

“Been thinkin’ about it a whole lot, in fact.” Troubleshoes found the courage to level his eyes at Twilight. “Thinkin’ it must be hard, delineatin’ the two. Good and evil. Who’s to say who belongs in which category?”

“We’re good ponies, Troubleshoes,” Twilight said.

“Mighty kind of you to say. But I’m not so sure I fit your definition of good.”

Twilight shifted in her seat. “You don’t think you’re a good pony?”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t,” said Troubleshoes. “Just said I didn’t meet your definition.”

He was getting angry. Twilight took a deep breath, and hoped her calmness would rub off on him. The last thing she wanted to do was cause a scene.

“Why don’t you fit?” she asked.

“Hard to explain.”

“Try me.” She reached a hoof across the table and laid it over his. “Please.”

Troubleshoes stared at their hooves for a moment, then pulled away and squared his shoulders. “Lemme give you an example. Let’s say there’s this real awful stallion on the loose. And he’s the lowest o’the low. Leaves a trail of destruction wherever he goes. Can be a mental torture to an entire community for years ’n’ years. You’d want to lock ’im up, I s’pose.”

“What’s your point, Troubleshoes?” Twilight said.

“Well, what if, instead of throwin’ ’im in a cell and swallowin’ the key, you just… let ’im go? All’s forgiven. And that pony’s so smitten by the kindness he’s received that he goes and pays it forward. Does somethin’ nice for a change. Even somethin’ small, like, say—say he sees a rabbit drowning in a pond, and he pulls it back out to safety.”

“And if he went on to do bad things again?” Twilight cut in. “What then?”

“I reckon you can’t say. You can’t ever know for sure.”

“Nor can you know if he’ll change for good.”

“Eeyup… That’s a fact.”

Twilight rose from her chair and circled the table. She extended her wings in what she hoped was a warm gesture, and crouched next to the wayward earth pony and laid a hoof on his back.

“And it depends, too, Troubleshoes, on just how evil this pony is. Did he ruin lives? Did he torture and enslave innocent ponies?”

Clyde chewed his lip.

“Justice is a lot like physics, Troubleshoes,” Twilight said. “Objects in motion tend to stay in motion, unless you act on them and change their course. But some objects just… don’t want to change course. And the only thing you can do is make sure they don’t hurt anypony in their path.”

Troubleshoes had shed a single tear, at some point. Twilight saw the track under his right eye, and nothing more. Her own eyes were burning. What has he done to you? she thought. And how do I bring you back?

But Twilight was finished talking. She had to put a stop to this now. Whatever came next out of Troubleshoes’ mouth would decide his fate.

“I just can’t help it,” he said. “I just can’t stop thinkin’ about that poor rabbit.”

Twilight hung her head and stood. “Where is he?” she demanded.

The room was silent again, watching them. Twilight noticed Troubleshoes’ jaw begin to tremble. She forced herself not to care about any of it.

“Final warning, Troubleshoes. Tell me. Now.”

The big earth pony shrank in his chair, and he looked away. “I can’t say I know to whom you’re referring.”

“Oh, for the love of…”

Twilight spun around and marched out of the dining room, wings flared and horn buzzing. She made her way to the mezzanine stairs, while behind her, Troubleshoes came running like a one-pony stampede.

“Wait! I said—WAIT, Ms. Sparkle, please!”

Troubleshoes stumbled past Twilight at the top of the stairs like an animal rushing to its mother. Twilight stood aside and let him scurry up to the door to one of the suites, and it occurred to her that she didn’t know which room held King Sombra until he’d done that.

And this was the pony who’d tricked her. Twice.

“Step aside, Troubleshoes,” she warned.

Troubleshoes shook his head. “I can’t let you in there,” he said, trying to sound strong.

With a roll of her eyes, Twilight lifted Troubleshoes into the air with a spell and floated him off to the side.

“You’re under arrest,” she said. As she turned to him, she saw the crowd of ponies gathered down below, all of them staring at the scene unfolding before them. She would probably make the news for this.

Nope. Still didn’t care.

The door came off its hinges with a satisfying crash. Twilight stepped into the room, prepared her horn again…

…but the room was empty. Twilight blinked. She stepped further in. Twirled once one way, then the other. Not a thing out of place. The bed was made. The only evidence a guest had even been in here since it was last cleaned was the picture frame Twilight saw on the nightstand. Had he fled? No. The window was shut and locked from the inside.

She heard a thump outside, realized she’d let go of Troubleshoes. She picked up the picture frame and studied the two clydesdale ponies inside, one of them a strong mare in a poncho, the other carrying the unmistakable goofy grin of a young Troubleshoes Clyde.

The mare had a black mane.

Twilight turned to see Clyde wandering into the room, looking completely guilty. But guilty of what?

“Troubleshoes,” she whispered. “The fugitive I’m looking for isn’t you. You know that, right?”

Troubleshoes didn’t answer. He only leaned against a wall and rubbed a sore spot on his shoulder.

Had she hurt him? She tried to remember the last few moments, but her mind was blank. Her most prominent recent memory was the crowd of ponies outside, watching the arrest unfold, gasping as she blasted the door into the room. Seeing the new ruler of Equestria do something… that Princess Celestia would have never done.

“I’ve made a huge mistake,” she said. She turned to Troubleshoes, and said, “I’m sorry. I… I have to go. You’re not under arrest. I…”

She knew she should go back out there. Placate the crowd. But she couldn’t. The shame was eating her alive.

So she teleported home.

Sombra wondered how he could possibly be alive. He’d spent a few weeks wondering that now, in fact, but he’d never been this confused. He guessed it was a miracle.

Speaking of miracles, he was standing. Rocking forwards, and swaying side-to-side, but standing.

There’d been a commotion outside his room. Hooves thumped. Voices shouted. Sombra had dragged himself out of bed, fallen to the floor, and pushed himself back up to face the door. If Twilight was going to strike him down, she would do it while he was on his hooves.

He’d shut his eyes against the sound of a door being torn off its hinges, but felt no impact from it flying towards him. Because it wasn’t his door. Then he’d heard a few murmurs, a blast of magic, and after a long, swaying silence in which Sombra struggled to keep his eyes open, there was a knock on his intact door.

“Eh?” Sombra said.

The door creaked open, and Clyde poked his head through. He slipped inside and shut the door behind him. He was shaking like he’d seen a ghost.

“…Wha—?” Sombra managed.

“I don’t know,” Clyde responded. “I don’t honestly know.”

“Ex…plain.”

Clyde sat on the bed and lifted his hooves to demonstrate—one hoof for him and one for Twilight.

“Well, I-I mean, she was comin’ up the stairs to get you. And I just thought, you know, she don’t know which room you’re in. So I… stood in front of the door to my room instead of yours. And she blew the door in and walked in and…”

Clyde put his hooves back down and stared at Sombra. He wasn’t shaking anymore.

“…and she said she’d made a mistake. Hightailed it back home, I guess.”

Sombra blinked. Something wrapped around him like a pre-heated blanket, and he felt his strength returning. Relief? Maybe. But more likely it was pride.

He stepped to the edge of the bed, placed himself in front of Clyde’s wandering green eyes, and stared at them until they stayed locked on his.

“Troubleshoes Clyde,” he said.

“Yes, sir?”

“Do you mean to tell me… that you outwitted Twilight Sparkle?”

Clyde’s eyes widened.

“I reckon I did.”

Sombra flew into the kiss. He shot forward and pressed himself to those dumb, wavering lips until they went firm and pressed back. Then they pressed harder. Sombra felt his legs weaken, heard the bed release Clyde’s weight, felt himself pushed back and back until he bumped into a wall and his spine rose up against it.

They broke free, but only by an inch. Sombra threw a hoof around Clyde’s neck and pulled his big head toward him. He pushed their heads together until the bridges of their noses lay flush.

“Wowee,” Clyde breathed.

And it was such foolishness. It was unbecoming for a pony of his position. But Sombra pulled their lips together once more, made his whole body relax, and allowed Clyde to ease him away from the wall and into his embrace.

It was the strongest King Sombra had felt since being revived.

6 - Home

Five months passed. Twilight allowed herself to be swept under the tow of her endless work once again, keeping her eye out for signs of King Sombra, and always finding none. Her reasons to believe he was alive had all faded and gone, one by one. Canterlot sensed no further shockwaves of crystal magic of any kind. Sombra’s horn, safe in its box, had stopped moving. And she’d even met the ghost of Discord’s mother. Lovely lady.

Twilight still visited the crystal fortress outside of Appleloosa. It was unoccupied now; ever since the trail went cold in Neighagra Falls she’d begun searching the place regularly, scouring it from its foundation to the highest gable, and always finding nothing. And when spring came it started to melt like a castle made of snow, to slouch and bow and dissolve under the hard Appleloosan rains. The door didn’t work anymore. You had to teleport to get inside, and sometimes she still did just that, to search for whatever it was she missed.

She’d considered calling a census for all of Equestria just to find out where Clyde had gone, try to make things right. But that felt a little too… nanny-state. She’d always maintained that ponies should have the right to disappear from time to time. Sometimes it was what they needed.

But, one day in April, a note appeared on the door to the fortress. Twilight’s heart gave a jump when she saw it, and she almost tore it in half taking it off the door. It read:

If you’re looking for ol’ Troubleshoes Clyde, you’ll be happy to know he’s moved on to the following address:

And underneath that, a Neighagra Falls address.

…And underneath that, written in scratchy, violent writing:

Unless you’re a solicitor, in which case he DIED.

Twilight grit her teeth and snorted like a bull. She crumpled the note in her magic with enough force to collapse it into a black hole.

Twilight approached the small two-story detached home as quiet as a mouse that was trembling with rage. Then she saw him coming over the far side of the roof: Troubleshoes Clyde, wearing his small hat and a belt full of tools. Twilight ducked behind the wall like an assassin and listened, thinking, Troubleshoes on a roof? That can only lead to…

“Whoa-ooaaahh!”

Crash.

From the sound, Twilight could tell he’d landed in the sharpest trees in the garden. Because of course he had.

She was about to come around the corner to help when she heard the screen door open, and she froze.

“Clyde! Are you alright?”

Twilight both recognized and didn’t recognize the new voice. And she noticed, too, that they had referred to Troubleshoes as “Clyde” instead of “Troubleshoes” like she’d been doing. She closed her eyes and listened.

“I think so,” Clyde groaned. “Yowch!”

“I told you I can do the roof.”

“I reckon you’re still in recovery.”

“Do I look like I’m in recovery?”

“Can’t be too careful. Another month or so, I reckon.”

The new voice sighed deeply.

“I’ll get the winch.”

The front door clanged against its frame, and Twilight peered around the corner. Clyde was suspended in the branches about a foot off the ground, picking twigs out of his forelegs with his teeth. His hat was hung on a branch high above him. When he met her eyes, his whole body flinched.

“Hi there,” Twilight said. “Long time no see, Clyde.”

Clyde swallowed. “Hullo.”

“Need some help?”

Clyde cast a quick glance at the front door. “Surely,” he muttered.

With a quick spell, Clyde was out of the bushes, turned right-side up, plucked clean of twigs, and set back on his hooves. Twilight placed his hat on his head and straightened it out.

“Much obliged,” said Clyde.

“Don’t mention it.”

The other stallion’s voice boomed from inside the walls of the house.

“Where’s the winch again?! Is it upstairs?!”

Clyde looked at Twilight with wide, terrified eyes.

“What was the last place we had to fish you out of?!”

Twilight smiled. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Clyde swallowed again. “Reckon that’d be the most polite course of action.” He turned to go inside, and Twilight followed carefully behind, scanned the kitchen that they entered. She found no traps, only pictures everywhere. Landscapes, trees and waterfalls, close-up shots of small animals; they were on the counter, the wall, every piece of furniture inside. Clyde featured a lot. Including in one she recognized on a table next to the front door. The one of Clyde and his mother.

Clyde hung his hat on a rack, and called out, “Summer!”

The movement upstairs stopped abruptly.

Summer, noted Twilight.

“Reckon you’d better come on down!” Clyde went on. “We, ah… have a guest.”

The sound of hoofsteps came back, but slower. Quieter. ‘Summer’ was on the tips of his hooves.

A black-on-grey earth pony stallion stood crouched at the top of the stairs, hiding unsuccessfully behind the banister. He had blood red eyes. It took Twilight a moment to release herself from his stare and take in the rest of his features, such as the black mane coiffed with a sinister swoop. And the wrinkles in his face from a lifetime of laughing evilly.

But then he straightened up over the railing, and he looked different. He had a kind smile, a trimmed strip of beard along his chin. He wore a prim and disarming plaid shirt of purple and black. And he was fit. Certainly more fit than a certain evil king she once knew.

“Princess Twilight Sparkle,” said Summer. “My, what a pleasant surprise,” and his voice sounded both surprised and pleasant.

Nopony said anything. For the first time since she’d come in, Twilight noticed a clock ticking loudly on the wall, above a picture of Clyde and Summer together.

Summer cleared his throat and came down the rest of the stairs, squared his shoulders and raised a hoof to Twilight.

Twilight shook the hoof and nodded politely. “Nice to meet you,” she said.

“Yes.” Summer laughed awkwardly. “Nice to… meet you too.”

Twilight noted the stallion’s every movement, from his gait, to the weight of his step, to his smile at Clyde. She noticed him make a point of picking up a chair and moving it beside Clyde so that they could both face him from the other side of the table. Visibly, Clyde relaxed when Summer was near. His mouth twitched in a smile at a casual pat on the shoulder.

“How’d you meet?” Twilight asked.

“Oh, here in Neighagra,” Summer answered. “I was traveling for work, see. Er… I’m a photographer. And, well, I was doing a piece for the rodeo here, and that’s where we met, and… I just thought there was something about that clown! And I, heh…”

Twilight winced. It sounded rehearsed, yet he was still blowing it.

“Well, we hit it off well,” he finished lamely.

“Real well,” Clyde agreed.

Twilight nodded. “I was looking for you at your old place. Saw the note.” She glanced at Summer. “And the addendum.”

Summer laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. Clyde stared hard at him, and Twilight could easily read the look. I told you that was a bad idea.

“Right, Summer said, clearing his throat. “Well, I had to drag Clyde back to his old home to say hello to his old friends in Appleloosa. Introduce me to them.”

Twilight smiled. “Must have been a shock to some of them.”

They both chuckled.

“Yes,” Summer said. “What did Braeburn say again?”

Summer and Clyde looked at each other and said in unison: “So, is he your pardner? Or is he your… partner.”

They laughed and shook their heads. Even Twilight smiled. She could feel the tension lifting off of them. But within her, it was only growing heavier.

“So I never found that fugitive,” she said.

The laughing stopped.

“Oh?” said Clyde. “Maybe… he wasn’t returned after all.”

“I suppose not,” Twilight agreed. But then she hummed in disagreement and tapped the table. “Except, no, he must have returned. Because of the way his horn reacted.”

The clock ticked loudly in the background.

“Perhaps it’s broken,” said Summer. “Just a false alarm.”

“Could be,” echoed Twilight with a smile. “But, you know, that doesn’t make any sense. Because why else would it… Hey, I have an idea.”

She looked gravely at Clyde’s partner.

“Do you want to see it?”

Before either could respond, Twilight reached with her magic across the river, across the plains, through the snowy mountains to the Crystal Empire’s vault, and she beckoned the horn from its safe box. After a loud burst of magic, it was on the table.

Summer and Clyde both recoiled. Summer’s mouth fell open. Twilight could almost see it watering.

“It does the strangest thing when it gets close to its master,” she said.

The horn started to vibrate. Then rock. Then wobble. It rotated itself, and then began to roll towards Summer.

“Yep,” said Twilight with a heavy sigh. “Just like… that.”

Twilight shook her head, and she felt a tremendous sadness washing over her for Troubleshoes Clyde once again.

“I’m sorry, Clyde,” she said. “I really am.” She closed her eyes and readied a spell.

The rocking stopped. Twilight’s eyes sprang open. The horn was still, fallen over like a blood-red banana. It went dull and brownish. There was no sound in the room but for the ticking clock, and the pregnant hum of Twilight’s spell.

She relaxed. So did the other two. She picked up the horn and stared at it. It might as well have been a rock.

“Like I said,” Summer muttered. “Broken.”

Twilight opened her mouth, then closed it without speaking.

“Why did it stop?” she whispered. The stallions didn’t answer, and that was just as well, because the real question she wanted to ask was locked deep inside her.

What did I miss?

And then she saw it.

Clyde was holding Summer’s hoof.

Twilight followed the press of their hooves, up their forelegs, to their shoulders, then suddenly she was looking into Clyde’s kind green eyes.

He wanted her to leave.

“Well,” she said, and she spirited the horn back to its box. “This has been lovely, you two. I’m sorry I can’t stay.”

“Sure,” said Clyde. “Reckon you’re a busy gal.”

“Yeah. Heavy lies the crown and all that.”

“I can only imagine,” answered Summer.

Twilight found that amusing.

At once, and awkwardly, the three of them stood up. On the table, Summer and Clyde’s hooves were still entwined.

“Nice of you to visit,” said Summer. “Come back any time.”

And though he said that, Twilight could read something different in the room. The two stallions were eager for her to leave, but restraining themselves from physically pushing her out the door.

“That’ll be tough,” she said. “I still have to find that fugitive, after all. But when I do, I’ll be sure to come back and update you. How’s that sound?”

“In that case, Twilight Sparkle.” And Summer laughed an easy, relieved laugh. “Goodbye forever.”

5 - The Crystal Empire

Clyde went to sleep that night feeling like the luckiest pony in all of Equestria. But when he woke up the next morning, the bed was empty.

Say one thing about Troubleshoes Clyde, say he’s never far away from his next reality check.

After a good spell of staring at the ceiling, he rolled himself out of bed, stretched his spine till he heard it crack. Despite how little he’d drank last night, he felt woozy, like his body wasn’t his anymore.

No sign of Sombra anywhere. He had a knack for disappearing like a shadow, making you wonder if he was even real. Clyde walked to the window to look outside, and found even less sign of him. The bright blue tarp fluttered idly in the early morning wind, covered in a light sheen of mist from the falls. Sombra had fled, o’course. That sudden burst of energy last night meant he didn’t need Clyde no more, so why would he stay?

“Just my luck,” Clyde whispered to the window. That was how he usually greeted the day.

The only thing worse than a lifetime of bad luck was a moment of good luck that was snatched away before you had any time to appreciate it. That’s what…

Actually, Mama Clyde never said that. Clyde reckoned he’d come up with that one all on his own. Didn’t make it hurt any less.

Somberly, he checked out of both rooms—ignoring the glee on the innkeeper’s face to be saying goodbye to such a troublesome guest as he—and stepped out into the freezing cold air. He shivered as he huffed out a breath to warm his hooves. He went behind back to the wagon, wondering where he would even go. But when he went to throw Mama’s picture in the wagon, he nearly bit his tongue off at the sight of Sombra wrapped up in the blanket with the ducks on it, shielding his face with a thin foreleg from the piddly grey light.

“I…” Clyde muttered.

Sombra’s red eyes flashed at him. “Raising that a little high, aren’t we?”

Clyde lowered the tarp and stuck his head underneath. He put his hooves inside to pretend he was rummaging. But really he was reaching out.

“Y’alright?” Clyde asked.

Sombra groaned as he pushed himself up to his elbows. “I will be once I have my horn. Start marching, Clyde.”

“Hang on,” and Clyde started to clamber inside the wagon. Probably looked a right fool, from the outside, but he didn’t much care. He crawled halfway in, then went further, up to Sombra’s lips—

Sombra lurched his head back and glared.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped.

Clyde brought his head back. “Sorry,” he said.

“Just march, Clyde.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clyde withdrew from the tarp and tied it back down. Well, he told himself, there you have it. There and gone, just like all the good fortune that ever came his way. But it wasn’t so bad. The Sombra in his wagon was no longer the Sombra he knew from Neighagra, or from Ponyville, or from anywhere on the trail. He was back to being the Sombra from Appleloosa again, first climbing into the wagon. The Sombra who hated him.

And that was the Sombra that he’d fallen for. So why let it bother him now?

Clyde spat in the dirt and got to work at the hitch. There wasn’t any time to be sad when you had work to do. That’s what Mama Clyde always said.

They crossed the plains in eleven days. Well, Clyde crossed them; Sombra spent those long days curled up inside the wagon, freezing his ears off as the temperature dropped by a few degrees every day, and by at least fifteen degrees every night. He didn’t have the strength for any campfires. He struggled to know when he was sleeping and when he was awake. He wondered if he would die.

At intervals Clyde would stop and take the tarp off the wagon, sit Sombra up against the back wall and feed him some soup. Coax him to sit by the fire, but never push. Sombra noticed, even in his tired state, Clyde staring at his lips. But by the third day he stopped doing even that.

At some point, Sombra woke with a wide woolen blanket draped over him. It made him warmer, and the weight comforted him. He wondered where it came from, and then remembered a moment when the wagon had stopped—the only time it had stopped and Clyde hadn’t fed him—and Sombra heard Clyde speaking to somepony.

“I’ll give you forty bits for it. No? Alright, I’ll double it…”

The wagon wheels rolled through puddles, through mud, then through the familiar sound of crunching snow. Sombra listened to Clyde’s hooves crunch, crunch, crunch, heard him breathe heavy, heard him sniff but never complain. And Sombra was struck with the realization that every step they took closer to the Empire brought Clyde one step further from his own home. Further than he’d ever been from home, most likely. All those steps, and not a single complaint. Just a hot, heavy breath. A sniff. Crunch, crunch, crunch. The only time he ever spoke was to ask Sombra how he was doing.

And then, on the eleventh day, the temperature rose. Not by a few degrees. It had been winter, cold and dry and desolate, and then the sound of Clyde’s hooves faded to a dull thump, like he was touching earth again, and the temperature shot up into the sky. The cold air fled the wagon, replaced with a warm breeze laced with the echoes of summer birds.

“Uh… Mr. Sombra?” Sniff. “I reckon you can come out now.”

Sombra tore the blanket off, suddenly sweating, and he kicked the back of the wagon open. He stepped out into the summer. His hooves crushed a bed of daffodils. He supported himself on the side of the wagon, breathed in the moist air, and exhaled.

And there was Clyde: Sitting beside the wagon with his forelegs straight, catching his breath, and avoiding Sombra’s stare. His mane was wet with sweat and the clumps of snow that were melting off him. He stood up and shook like a dog, sending drops of water all over the grass.

“How do I look?” Clyde said with a grin, holding his hat over his head.

Sombra sighed. “Terrible,” he said.

“Aw, shucks,” Clyde chuckled. “You’re quite a sight yourself.”

The Empire was hidden behind Clyde’s bulky body. Sombra craned his neck to peer at it, but Clyde moved his head in the way.

“Clyde?” Sombra said.

“Yes, Mr. Sombra?”

“I thank you. You are released from your services.”

Sombra aimed himself just to the side of his loyal workorse, and began walking past him. But Clyde sidestepped, and their shoulders collided. Sombra released an involuntary chuckle, then cleared his throat.

“Clyde, get out of my way.”

“Don’t think you can order somepony you’ve let go.”

“Clyde—”

“And the way I see it, you walked into me. Why don’t you get out of my way?”

“…You’re angry with me.”

“Me? Never. Just teasin’ you, is all.”

At least he could see the Empire now. It stood under the horizon of a small hill—the city, his city, shining and shimmering and waiting for his glorious return. Less snow than he remembered, though. Brighter colors. Probably a lot less strife. Only an hour’s walk away, even at his pace, and yet it felt like it was on another planet.

With a subtle motion of his head, Clyde pressed their necks together, and Sombra let out an involuntary sigh.

“Don’t do it.” Clyde’s voice was quiet but hard. “You’ll die if you go in there.”

“And I’ll die without my horn.”

“That’s your take on things.”

“You’ve seen what’s happening to me. The longer I’m without it the more I wither away. Please, I—”

“Can I ask you a question?” Clyde said.

Sombra felt Clyde’s hoof run through his mane. Automatically, he returned the gesture. He wasn’t ready for what Clyde was about to say, but then he felt a kiss just under his ear, and he relaxed.

“Sure.”

Clyde pushed their heads together and whispered in his ear: “D’you reckon you’re gettin’ weaker the longer you spend away from your horn? Or… are you gettin’ weaker the closer you come to it?”

Sombra’s eyes went wide. He pulled his head back and frowned. “I have no earthly idea,” he said.

Clyde’s green eyes were shining with the joy of somepony with a bright idea. “Welp. I am… almost out of money, and no mistake. And there ain’t no way we can get your horn back. But, we have enough supplies to get back to Neighagra Falls. I could find work there. Every rodeo could use another clown. And if you start to feel better, well… then we’ll know.”

King Sombra, evilest of the evil, bringer of misery and strife, found that his heart was fluttering in his chest. He rocked forwards into Clyde’s fur and rubbed his face in it. He felt Clyde kiss the spot where his horn should be. And the only thing he knew for sure was that he didn’t even want his horn back if it meant that Clyde could never kiss that spot again.