The tragedy came that morning, when Spike awoke far later than he meant to, with a loud, gurgling cough that shook his entire body as though trying to resurrect him, and a heavy sensation coating the space between his eyes. He immediately pitched forward, landing face-first in his blanket, which seemed far less fuzzy today than it ever had. He was aware of his breathing, or rather, the strange and vexing sensation one has when they become hyper-aware of the strained movements of their lungs and the singular impenetrability of clogged sinuses.
It did not take long for him to interpret his condition. “A cold,” he murmured, surprised at first. Then his voice raised into a fervent pitch: “A cold?! You’ve got to be kidding me!”
In answer, another cough erupted out of his body, followed by an uncontrollable urge to sneeze.
Yet nothing came. Sitting up in his bed, Spike waited for himself to sneeze, but all that occurred was a feeling closely akin to entering a thick fog. He blinked, looking partially out the window, and regretted it immediately; the late morning light cut his vision and struck him dizzy. Flinching, he tripped over the side of his bed and hit the hard floor—but in his paradoxically diluted state, he barely noticed the pain.
“Today’s gonna suck,” he said with a final burst of clarity. Another urge to sneeze overtook him, and another pregnant nothingness ensued.
It took three more sneeze wind-ups and failures for his body to calm down long enough for him to come downstairs. To his dull surprise, Golden Oak Library was empty. There was a pile of books where Twilight had been reading the night before, the spines upside-down and the edges left un-straightened. A few scattered notebooks and sheets of paper, filled with her scribblings, frequented the floor.
Spike sighed. “Twilight…”
He began to think as to how to sort the discarded items. The pile would have to be divided into their respective genres and authors while the notebooks and sheets would have to be gathered up and placed elsewhere. As he was outlining this slowly in his head, he noticed a simple sheet of parchment stuck against the spine of one of the books, addressed to him. The somewhat frantic scribbling indicated it was from Twilight.
Spike,
I’m sorry to have to leave without warning! Applejack came by this morning asking for help with surveying a fresh plot of land for her relatives down in Appleloosa. It seems the buffalo and townsfolk had noted there seemed to be some kind of residual chaos magic there. Nothing harmful, just annoying—but she wanted my expertise on the matter while she helped Braeburn and Little Strongheart set up the orchard and prepare it for the buffalo’s crossing.
I would have brought you, but you wouldn’t wake up. I guess you must be so tired from studying last night—you were falling asleep by the time we got to Dry Pipe’s Thesis on the Metaphysical Construction of Metaphorical Synergetic Convulsions!
I’ll be back later today. In the meantime, could you tidy up Golden Oaks for me?
Sincerely,
Twilight
Short though the letter was, Spike had to read it over several times before he could fully understand it. The fog of sickness made comprehension more than a challenge. When he had finished, he looked around, bewildered, thinking there was some kind of joke being played upon him, but all that greeted him was the still disparaged display of books, quills, and more.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. “I’ll get right on that, Twilight… Not like I wasn’t already gonna do it. Guh!” He sniffled, feeling another sneeze about to overtake him. But, thinking that it, too, would be a dud, he stood still, the note held before him.
“Ah… ah… AHCHOO-OO!”
In an instant the note vanished with an unhealthily pale green flash of light.
Spike wiped his nose. “Ugh… Hope Princess Celestia doesn’t mind sudden mail.”
***
He had attempted the task for nearly a half-hour before he decided to call it quits. Quite simply, he body refused to cooperate. His legs were jelly, arms weak, knees heavy, and his body was, at times, beset by massive bouts of vertigo that resembled the stampedes which Twilight had mentioned in her now-vanished letter. Normally, he would have been able to stack, sort, sift, and otherwise section-off the whole messy area Twilight had left in her wake, but by the time the early afternoon spilled through the window, he had succeeded in moving only a couple of books back into their places. He was unsure what had happened in the time between starting and finishing which would have resulted in this significant lack of progress, but suspected he had fallen asleep while standing. It would have been an impressive feat, had he not felt miserable because, or in spite, of it.
He stood for a moment, trying not to teeter, his eyes closed. It felt as though there were two of him—one, which was his body, and another, his soul (or whatever equivalent his thickened mind would make—truth be told, he had little words left to use to describe such metaphysical constructions. Perhaps he should have studied more.). The two things existed one on top of the other, but they were fighting to break free, in slow, methodical steps that seemed to pull layer after layer off of him. He needed to go back to work. No, he needed to sleep. No, he needed…
Food!
The thought struck him so suddenly, he almost fell over—and then he did anyway. But he focused on that single word as he pushed himself back onto his feet. Perhaps that was how he would manage to get through this task.
Yet this was when the final part of that tragedy came to pass. He went into the kitchen, intending to fix himself a delectable, doubly-delicious, bodaciously bejeweled snack (even though he was uncertain as to the validity of “bodaciously”—no doubt Twilight would have given him a stern lecture as to the danger of creating new adverbs—he felt it was used appropriately)—he went happily, or as happily as a stuffy, red-eyed, high-comatose baby dragon could—he went, believing that such a small thing as food would pay in dividends to surmount even Canterlot’s underground vaults—he went into the kitchen, smiling at first—
Then he felt his entire face slacken when he saw the empty gem bowl, and a small note that said:
IOU gems.
“Noooo!” Spike yelled—but then, he stopped before it could echo any further. He must not panic! Perhaps the culprit was still around! He began looking for clues on the bowl itself, inspecting with the precision of a petty thief whose entire hoard had been odiously sequestered. And… there!
Reaching in, he procured a bit of purple substance. He held it close to his eye—the one not twitching with outrage and exhaustion. It looked rather like a scale, in fact, but was far lighter than the ones found on Steven Magnet.
“Wait a second…”
In one claw, Spike held up the scale. He raised his other claw, then flipped it over. There was a somewhat pinkish space where one of his scales had come undone.
Slowly, with loathsomely trembling movements, he attempted to place the broken shard into the open space.
It was a perfect fit.
His eyelids twitched. Seizing upon the impossible strength only ever allotted to mares and stallions who have been divinely wronged, he threw up his hands, and along with them, the empty bowl, sucking in a deep preparatory breath. The note, as if seized by flight or fancy, suddenly flipped over, revealing another scribbling:
—from Past Spike to Future Spike. Sorry!
“NOOOOOOOO—”
CLUNK!
***
“Hiya, Spike! What are you doing on the floor?”
Spike slowly raised his head. His vision swam through a flock of pinks, browns, and some other indeterminate color he was sure frequented only the dreams of the mad (it was periwinkle). Amid that roiling chaos, there was an oddly poofy figure looking down at him, though it seemed to have an infinite number of faces, and also sprinkles.
“Spike? You’re looking at me like I have an infinite number of faces. Is it the sprinkles?”
He recognized that voice.
Spike weakly pushed himself to his feet, and felt a hoof—were hooves usually this soft, this fuzzy—brace him. He placed his hands on the sides of his head in order to force himself to focus.
“Pinkie Pie?”
Pinkie Pie—all infinity of her—smiled at him. “Yepperoni!”
“W-what are you doing here? Why are there sprinkles on your face?”
“Oh, that’s an easy one! You see, I was helping Mr. and Mrs. Cake try out a new, experimental batch of cupcakes, one that was supposed to change flavor each time you took a bite! Or at least, that’s what I thought it was supposed to do. I was their taste tester, so I would eat one, tell them what it tasted like, and then I’d eat another, and tell them that it was different! Like one tasted like caramel, one tasted like blueberry, one tasted like cheese—”
“Like in a sandwich?”
“Like in a quesadilla! Oop, don’t tell Twilight I said that!” she added hoarsely.
“But anyway,” she continued, “it got to the point that I couldn’t really tell if the cupcakes were all that different from each other. I looked from cup to cake, and from cake to cup, and from cup to cake again, but already it was impossible to say which was which. So I thought, Why not just throw a bunch of sprinkles into the mix and see if that helps? But I was already eating a bunch, so I decided to pour the sprinkles on my face! It made a really big mess that I had to clean up. And it didn’t really help me figure out if things tasted different. But I guess I forgot about to clean the ones on my face, ha ha!”
Pinkie, having finished her explanation, looked at Spike to see if he was satisfied. Spike, with the infinite wisdom one gets from hanging out with a bunch of crazy mares for far too long to be considered acceptable in polite society—or any society, really—offered an incredible and hugely validating reply:
“Yeah, okay, that makes sense.”
Then he added, “But you didn’t answer my first question. What are you doing here?”
“Oh, yeah! I was gonna ask if you wanted to taste those cupcakes with me!”
“Did you eat them all?”
“Yep!”
She paused. Blinked. Computed. Assessed the situation. Spike did not.
“Oh… I guess that would make it hard for you, huh?”
Spike shrugged. “Hey, no hard feelings.”
He began to turn away, when Pinkie said, “Wait a minute, Spike! You didn’t answer my first question! What were you doing on the floor?”
“Oh, that.” Spike looked around. He saw the empty gem bowl lying nearby. “I think I knocked myself out with that thing when I threw it up.”
“Why’d you throw it up?”
“Because I was mad at it.”
“Why were you mad at it?”
“Because it was empty.”
“Why was it empty?”
“Because I ate the gems.”
“Why did you eat the gems?”
“I was hungry.”
“Why were you hungry?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmm.” Pinkie rubbed her chin with a hoof. “And so the mystery deepens. But that doesn’t explain why you look like my sister Marble after a bad break-up.”
“Oh. Well—”
Spike sniffled, feeling that dreadfully familiar urge. “Pinkie, you’d betterbackup—AH—”
He sneezed, hard, sending sickly pale green flames everywhere. It took the note and the bowl, but thankfully not Pinkie, who had leapt to the safety of the counter.
“Ugh!” Pinkie wiped his nose. “Sorry.”
Pinkie took out a handkerchief from… her mane… and gave it to him. “Remember that wise saying, Spike-san—Say it, don’t spray it!”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Spike said as he sprayed into the tissue.
“Anyway, the point is I have a cold. A real nasty one. And, uh… Twilight’s out doing stuff and she needs me to fix up the library while she’s away. So… I guess I’d better get on with that.”
He began to move away, only for Pinkie to shout, “Hold it!”
Hold what?
Then Pinkie rushed out in front of him. “Oh no you don’t, Spike! I may not be the sharpest box in the crayon shed, but I can tell you’re just one step away from decommission! There is no way I can let you do this!”
“Urgh…” Spike initially groaned, for the change in movement made him relive his previous dizzying experience. “B-but Pinkie, Twilight needs me to!”
“But there’s no way she’d let you work in such a state! It violates some of Equestria’s most important labor laws! And besides, if you’re sick, then you might spread it to the books, and then onto Twilight! And then both of you will have to deal with the terrible Equestrian Health System and their super-high premiums! Super-high premiums, Spike!”
“Pinkie, Twilight’s the personal student to Princess Celestia,” Spike managed to say. “We get a discount.”
“My point still stands! You’re sick, and you shouldn’t work until you feel better!” She began pushing him backwards.
“Aw, come on, Pinkie! I’m feeling better already!” To emphasize this, he stepped away from her and made a thumbs-up gesture. The action unbalanced him, and he would have fallen had Pinkie not caught him.
“Okay, maybe not…”
“Geez! You’re even worse than I thought! This calls for drastic measures!”
“Drastic—”
He never got to finish. Pinkie somehow deposited him—gently—into his favorite bean bag chair, threw a blanket over him, and pushed him to a far corner of the library, where the light was thin and not painful. She’d also, somehow, managed to change into a waiter’s outfit, complete with a fake mustache.
From her mane, she drew out a notepad and another sheet of paper. “Welcome to Pinkie’s Impromptu Cafe!” I’ll be your waiter for this afternoon. What can I getcha? I recommend our soup section myself, it’s quite good, really, you ask me!”
“Wha-buh-huh—”
Pinkie helpfully gave Spike the sheet. At the top was the word MENU, written, it seemed, in crayon, and underneath was SOUP. There was nothing else.
“Only… soup?”
“Soup, yes, good soup for the soul!”
He looked at the items listed underneath, and once again found only one thing written: Ruby Noodle Soup.
“I… guess I’ll try the Ruby Noodle Soup,” he said.
“An excellent choice, my young, sick friend! I will put your order in right away!” Pinkie scribbled in her notepad, gave him a salute, threw off her waiter’s outfit, and then—for whatever reason—zoomed out of Golden Oak Library, the door swinging almost longingly after her.
“… Huh.” Spike scratched his head. “I… guess that’s that then.”
He would have been more confused, but truthfully, he was still very tired, and besides, the blanket was quite warm, and the bean bag was quite comfortable.
“I'll just wait for a bit…” he muttered, before closing his eyes and slipping away.
***
“Psst! Spike! Wake up! Your food’s ready!”
This time it did not take Spike as long to awaken. Nor did his vision swim into colors out of this space or the next. But he was still groggy and heavy-headed, and he let out a soft groan.
“Ugh… I didn’t sleep for too long, did I?” he asked.
“Nope! I just finished making your meal, actually!”
She reached behind her and returned with a small blue bowl. It was filled with a thick broth that steamed gently into the air. In the middle of the bowl, sitting rather like a fat Spaneish king, was the richest ruby Spike had ever seen. It shined with a monstrous gleam, and seemed, to his ailment-addled mind, to wink provocatively at him.
“This is Ruby Noodle Soup?” he said.
“Yep!” Pinkie placed a spoon into the bow and swirled it around for a bit. Some flat noodles bubbled to the surface. “The best treatment for a poor dragon’s cold! What do you think?”
“It looks really good,” Spike admitted. “But where did you get the ruby? I’ve never seen one like it before!”
“My sister Maud gave it to me as a birthday gift,” Pinkie said. “I was gonna use it for rock candy, but it’s a bit too big, unfortunately. Here! Dig in!”
She made to push the bowl into Spike’s hands, but he suddenly held them up. “Your birthday?” The revelation manifested into another burst of clarity. He pushed the bowl gently away. “Wait, no. Pinkie, I can’t eat your birthday gift!”
“Why?” Pinkie tilted her head. “It’s not like I’m gonna eat it. Or wear it, actually. Red doesn’t look good on me! Rarity says it drains my essence, makes me look old.”
“But—your sister—”
“Trust me! Maud would be more than happy to know her ruby helped save somepony’s life!”
“I’m sure it’s not that dire!”
“The point still stands, Spike!” Pinkie exclaimed, sitting in front of him. “Come on, at least give it a try! I promise you’ll feel better!” And she placed the bowl back before him.
Spike looked at it with a somewhat worried expression. But after a moment, he nodded. “Well, I guess… if your sister won’t mind…”
Tentatively, he grabbed the spoon and stirred the soup, watching the noodles leap around the fat ruby like absurd frogs. He raised the spoon to his lips, and took a sip.
Perhaps it was because he was so sick, or because when it came to all things Pinkie, one could hardly hope to find the means to explain all that she could do. Regardless: words could not have expressed what that soup tasted like. Only that, for Spike, it was a like a stallion dying of thirst coming to a miraculous oasis in the desert and, upon drinking from the well, realizing that it was filled with the food, drinks, and flavors of his childhood which had lain in the shadow cast by the deep rust of time and thus had been forgotten—forgotten until he, Spike, had taken that first sip.
Soon he was gulping it all down. He slurped up the noodles and the broth. He crunched on the ruby like it was some forbidden fruit. And all the while, he felt his insides begin to warm; his sinuses cleared; the fog of sickness rushed out of him as though cast out by magic; and he found, when he paused for breath and looked at Pinkie, and saw past her the golden flash of the afternoon pulsate like some living flame—he found that neither his head nor his eyes were hurting anymore.
Pinkie smirked. “That good, huh?”
Spike blushed. “Y-yeah.”
“Great! Then you stay and keep eating. When you’re done, how about you and I work together to fix up this place?”
Spike smiled. “That’s a good idea, Pinkie.” But, now lucid again, he allowed himself a smirk. “I’ll just take my sweet time with it, then.”
