Twilight Sparkle and the Stupid Original Pony

I woke tumbling across the room – the impact of Twilight’s hooves carried through from the dream and knocked me out of my bed. Bruises formed as I watched, adding dark, angry, mottled shadowing just visible through my skin. My right arm was badly broken.

I called in sick from work and spent the morning largely motionless. I knew my arm needed professional attention, the splint I had improvised was hardly adequate. At least it wasn’t my primary hand out of service.

I did not want to visit the hospital again. I was pretty sure I was already on their watch list as a probable psych case. Like as not, the amateurish extraction of the dosing implant in my arm would be counted against me. All it would take is showing up with injuries and outrageous, clearly delusional of course, claims of how they were sustained in a dream and my next FSB might come laced with a painless termination additive. The irony of my reluctance for euthanation did not escape me.

I could lie, of course, but having been a proselyte of truth all my life the idea did not appeal, nor did I truly think I could do it well.

After finally steeling myself to risk medical care I drifted back to sleep before I could venture to the hospital. Instead I found myself at the foot of a familiar hill near Selphia.

Leon was there, suavely holding two swords ready for another lesson.

“What the fuck happened to you?” He dropped the swords with a clang. “Did pony do this?”

I was ashamed to confirm his guess, but I nodded ‘yes’ wishing I could have shielded Twilight somehow.

“It’s my fault.”

Setting the remaining clangs beside the practice swords where they lay on the ground he began examining my arm. “Don’t you have doctors in your world?”

“Yeah, but I’ve been avoiding the hospital. After my last trip, showing up claiming to have been kicked by a magic pony could get me euthanized.”

“They might have good reason to do that. If I heal you, are you just going to back to her and get yourself hurt again?”

“Ugh, probably.” It was my fault for driving her to it, but I had to be honest with myself. I would probably do the same again, given the chance.

Leon made an exasperated noise as a glow began to form around his hands.

“I’m going to fix the bone, but you can keep the bruises. Enjoy.”

He was angry: If I hadn’t been sure, the harshness with which he positioned the sections of my fractured bone together made it clear.

“Listen, kid,” he grated as the bone-ends slid roughly together, “Ninety-nine percent of a priest’s work is not the dramatic shit like casting out demons and breaking curses like you hear around the campfire at night. It’s stuff like relationship counseling for idiots in abusive relationships.” He was a good friend but he didn’t pull any punches expression his opinion of my infatuation with Twilight. “Idiots like you, idiot.”

I managed to avoid crying out from the pain as the bone ends ground against each other. When he was satisfied they were positioned correctly he spoke a healing word like it was a curse. Leon’s restorative magic was effective, after a moment there was only a fading sense of warmth where the break had been.

“For every honest to Ventu exorcism I ever did, there were a dozen soulful little victims in love with their abuser.”

The bruising remained: deep and extensive, still dark enough to show through my skin, but I could move my arm again. Gingerly I wiggled my fingers and made a fist.

“Thank you.” I tightened my fist until the muscles were a blaze of agony but the healed fracture stayed intact. “I’m ready to rock.”

“Hmmmph. You’re obviously too brain-damaged for a kick to the head to matter. Maybe next time she’ll kick you in the junk.”

“Nah, bro, remember she tried that already. Turns out that's the only part of me she likes. Now, what if you’re wrong?”

“Eh?”

“What if this really the victim’s only chance at love?”

Leon was troubled by my suggestion. He thought about it for at least a minute, before he shook his head.

“If that was the way the universe worked,” his voice was gravelly with suppressed emotion, “I would choose to defy it.”

“Perhaps you understand my position better than you realize.”

“Do you think you’re some kind of saint?”

“No, I’m just an idiot, you said so. But she is my muse, my dream, my saint.”

—

I was in the aisles of the dark stacks, hoisting a hoary old grimoire up onto its place on the tall granite shelf when Mr. Landers found me.

“Young Akos, my disciple of Kaos, I thought you were out with an injury?”

“I decided that I can deal with it. No broken bones.”

He peered at my arm.

“I don’t know how you got all that bruising without a break. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Let’s see. I’m in love with an imaginary pony, she’s not interested in love, she broke my arm rather than speak my name and she says she’s going to find another sex partner because apparently she thinks she’ll prefer having sex with a partner who doesn’t love her. In short: not okay.

“I’m okay,” I said.

A lie isn’t a lie if it's transparently obvious, right?

“If you need help with anything—” he flashed the elder sign “—anything at all, consult me. I am more resourceful than you can know.”

That, I did not doubt. Some unseen hand had guided my career to the one facility where I might plumb these rarefied occult writings to my satisfaction. If it was Landers himself, the benefit had been mutual: I was good at my work. But, the elder sign? That was daring of him, his confidence in me was almost alarming. But even surprised by his action, I noted how he had carefully stood with his back to door lest anybody entering the room see the forbidden gesture. Only the two of us have access, but in matters of life and death, discretion pays off. Too bad I did not dare to confide in him how my notion of realities had been up-ended.

“Uh, thank you sir. What did we talk about?”

The dark stacks were an electronics free zone lest any of the volumes restrained there find a communication channel to the outside world. Some of the more dangerous tomes did not welcome their captivity, and with strange aeons even a sub-baud data exfiltration rate could mean eventual freedom. The lack of electronics meant that no surveillance records would be available. Any time two personnel entered simultaneously it was incumbent upon them to log their topics of conversation. If the personal logs were ever audited it would be best they agree.

“I inquired after your well-being and invited you to lunch, off-site. You accepted, after a brief screen of transparent excuse.”

“Got it.”

—

Lunch was good, uneventful. I was out of practice with real food, but I had not completely forgotten what to do with it. Conversation was harmless and and confined to non-classified archaolinguistics – who’d be to know which table in any given café might have a hot mic? Upon our return to the library where everything was definitely on record, he let slip the bombshell.

“After the isolation breach in Bucharest last year, I am planning bi-yearly audits of the dark stacks.” That would be the two of us, off camera, with a week-long task, twice a year. Plenty of time to talk and a valid reason to claim we made no smalltalk. “Just as a safety measure.”