He entered. The air was cool, or cooler, and so disturbingly still. Motes of dust passed through the directional light not of the dying sun, the toxic lining or the decaying moon, but from crystals charged with luminescent magic. He had created them from the ones Fleur had liked the most; the ones he had not eaten. Now they cast a pale blue light throughout his home.

It was not a cave. Not apparently. Rather, it was one of the few remaining structures built in pony style. Most like it had decayed, and most of the population dwelt in the tower-cities, the cyclopean fortresses built in in a world where there were no enemies left except the world itself. Spike had constructed his own home in a different place, in a half-buried and ancient bunker. One that would have decayed centuries ago had it not been reinforced with magic. Not pony magic, a forbidden and decadent luxury, but his own limitless supply.

He did not remove his armor or the black clothing he wore. There was no need to; to be covered in armor was second-nature for him at this point. He had grown accustomed to the heat of the world, and his clothing kept him warm in the icy places where ponies still dwelt.

Instead, he raised one of his claws and cast a spell, the dust instantly clearing from his garments and the thin tarnish layer of his armor fading to a brilliant gleam. The exact format of armor that was considered immature and unfashionable by dragons, who favored layers of oxide and grime. But to Spike, armor was meant to shine. The way it had when ponies had worn it. He had spent his life fantasizing of being a great knight, and now that he was the master of all Equestrian knights, he intended to keep up the image.

He paused at the shelves in his entryway. At the objects accumulated in his endless life. At a red gemstone, aged beyond measure, clasped in a golden chain; at a pair of twenty-sided dice with twenty-seven sides, a gift from Discord before he had departed from this world for the last time; feathers from Peewee, his descendents now forming flocks ten million strong across the world; beside it, Embers first helmet, on a shelf next to his own first suit of costume armor back when he had still been small enough to ride on a pony’s back. On Twilight’s back.

But what drew his attention were the pictures. Many of them faded, the color drained from them by an endless existence or the lines blurred by copying them generation after generation. Pictures of his friends. Of Twilight, when she was still young and whole, even before her wings; of Fluttershy, and Pinkie Pie, Rainbow Dash, Applejack and Rarity. Of the Cutie Mark Crusaders as children, when now one was a machine, one insane, and one dead and on the brink of soulless resurrection. A part-burned photograph Shining Armor and Cadence, and of Flurry Heart as she had grown into a beautiful young mare, and of Celestia and Luna, the other components that had been used to manufacture the Alicorn. There was a picture of Thorax, and one of Ember and Smolder in their oxygen-addled youth. And one picture that he could not bear to discard, but that he had pushed down so that she would not be looking back at him. A picture of him smiling and laughing beside her, the Heretic herself. The last known image of Starlight Glimmer.

Lost in the memories, his eyes drifted to a modern set of pictures. They were larger, fresher, and created by newer technology—and though happy, their images still bore the hallmarks of the world that back then was still far but already approaching so very quickly. When the death of Equestria had still been future-Spike’s problem.

In one, he stood beside her. A tall, thin pony, taller than even he was. Her head was narrow and beautiful, her neck, mane and horn all long and perfect, and the body that it had been grafted to assembled with exacting precision, its porcelain surface unblemished by the world that would come to be. A body so elegant and beautiful that her pink eyes did not show the horror of her forced existence. That picture had been taken only a few months after the transplant, and yet she looked so beautiful even then.

There were others. Of Spike, now the same height as her, lifting her mechanical body as she struck a pose. He recalled how light she had been, even with a body made of metal and ceramic, when once he had scarcely been able to lift her.

Then another. The mare implanted into a bulky battle-format body and Spike dressed in full uniform, standing at the base of her tripod mech. A picture taken by one of the younger ponies just before the last battle. Her last battle. When, three hundred years prior, the Germ had killed her before she had even known she was dead.

“I was so beautiful even then, wasn’t I?” she said, from behind him.

Spike turned slowly to face her. Fleur de Lis, the mare he had lived with since long before her death. Her container sat in the corner of the room, unable to move. A heavy cube, its dark surface inscribed with hideous runes that glowed with an uneasy violet light. At the center of its base, a crystal. Her link to the Alicorn, held in place by an ornate clasp and an array of tubes and conduits that fed into various places on the box, feeding magic to both the system of runes as well as the contents within. The only sound she made now was the low rushing of liquids being pumped into and out of the container, the mechanisms that kept it operational.

“You are still beautiful, Fleur.”

“No, Spike. No I am not. Not anymore.”

Spike approached her and placed his hand on the box, wincing from the pain as the cursed runes touched his flesh. Runes assembled by the one form of pony magic that a dragon could not bear to wield. And yet he dealt with the pain. It was trivial compared to what she had gone through.

“Please. Don’t touch it. It hurts you.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I do. I cannot bear to see you injured.”

Spike sighed and withdrew his hand. The burned flesh immediately regenerated. “I don’t care what you look like. You’re still here, aren’t you? And the box is nice.”

“I cannot move, Spike.”

“I can have the box fitted with a mechanical system--”

“Zat is not what I mean, Spike.”

Spike paused. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You were visiting the Icon of Generosity again.”

Spike nodded. “Does that bother you?”

“No.” There was no hesitation in her mechanical voice. “I understand. I miss her too. She was a close friend. To a great many of us.”

“I spoke to Sweetie Belle.”

“Which one?”

“117.”

“Ah. I never much liked that one.”

“She said that someday Rarity will come back. And you. You still have a connection to the Alicorn. We can still bring you back. I just need more time.”

Fleur paused. The only sound from her was the gurgling of her pumps. “Do you truly believe that, Spike?”

“What I believe doesn’t matter. What do you believe?”

Fleur took a moment to answer. “I am dead, Spike. For three hundred years. I have resigned myself to zis fate. And zat is not an answer to my question.”

“No,” said Spike. “It isn’t.”

“Such sadness you still carry. For the last of us still so strong. When we had met, zis, I did not understand. I see now, it is necessary. The burden you must bear. Being alone, and never alone. Zat you allow me to remain here...”

“I want you here, Fleur. If you are willing to stay.”

“Of course, Spike. Of course. But I see your eyes, even zough ze disease has left me blind. When you see me. I do not want you to bear sadness, not for my sake.”

“If I had known, if I had pulled you out in time--”

“So zat I could have died in quarantine? We were exposed the moment we landed. Ze strain could not be stopped by our armor. Ze Heretic, she was a clever woman.”

“Is. She is still alive.”

Fleur paused. “Because of course she is.”

Spike took a breath. “I’ve been given another assignment. And it’s...it’s that one. 997-G.”

“I know zis. Which is why I have submitted a request so serve once more.”

Spike stiffened. “What? Fleur, no, you can’t! You can’t do that--”

“Just because I resemble furniture does not mean you have ze right to command zis, Grand Seneschal. This is my decision. Ze request has already been accepted, and a tripod prepared to be compatible with my...situation.”

“Fleur, you died on that rock--”

“Yes. This is truth. And death, she is a minor inconvenience. Many died zere, Spike. And I will not be whole again. Not until my war is finished.”

“Then what is it? Revenge? Fleur, you’re retired. You don’t have to fight, you don’t have to be involved in another war. Please. Please stay here, where you’re safe--”

“Why? My love, I cannot die twice. My once was inglorious indeed, murdered by betrayal of one I once trusted. Ais cannot go unremedied. I am a De’Lis. It will not stand. Nor can you stop me.”

Spike glared at her, but was then forced to smile. “No. You’re right. I guess I can’t, can I?”

A low mechanical chuckle escaped the box. “He finally sees reason, perhaps? Where is Ae famed dragon stubbornness I expected?”

“I was raised by ponies, wasn’t I? At this point I’m more pony than dragon. Even if I don’t get an epic robot body.” He flicked the corner of the box, causing the runes to fluctuate just slightly. “I have preparations to attend to, but I’ll be back.”

“Spike. Surely you are not planning to sleep in the foyer again?”

“You can’t come to bed. So I’ll come to you. Like I always do. I always sleep so better when you talk to me before I drift off.”

“And because I alone can wake you up on time, no doubt.”

Spike shrugged. “True. This is one is really important. I need everything to go perfectly.”

“On 997-G? Do not bring poor luck to yourself, my dear. Expect nothing to go well, let alone perfectly. This is why I shall be there, beside you in battle. Like we once were. To bring zis cycle to its end.”

Spike retained his smile, but with difficulty. “To bring it to its end. If that’s what you need, Fleur, I’ll do everything in my power to make it happen.”

“Do you promise?”

Smile nodded. “Of course I promise. No matter what happens this time, everything is going to be okay in the end, isn’t it? I won’t lose you again. I promise.”

He stared at the box and could not help but feel that Fleur De’Lis was smiling—and not help but wish he could see it just one more time.

Author's Note

Mortality, a reversible constraint, is of no meaningful consequence.