I Often Hear a Song in Dreams
Yesterday, she'd been a flormbus. Marigold wasn't sure what a flormbus was, just that she'd been one. That had been what he'd said she was. But the word sent sparks of an emotion she could not place darting through her mind.
Marigold wasn't sure of a lot of things, anymore. Including her name. Marigold was what he called her, but she didn't know if that was what she'd been called originally. She did know that she'd been a pony, once, a long time ago.
She was pretty sure, anyway.
Regardless, today she was not a flormbus. Today she was a spirinkin. She couldn't describe what a spirinkin was, but it felt better than being a flormbus, so that was something. Being a spirinkin came with its own bizarre emotions, though, and that wasn't as nice. Not as nice as being a pony, she thought.
Marigold the spirinkin sensed, rather than gazed upon, the world around her (she had no eyes at the moment, it seemed). Hills of checkerboards and ever-changing quilt-patterns gave away to a cotton-candy pink sky, the sun and moon whizzing past at unpredictable intervals, casting it all in light and shadow alternately. She was the only pony—or, spirinkin—around today; sometimes, there were guests. Some as changed as her, some not. He was as unpredictable as the sun and the moon.
The thought occurred to Marigold: he had taken away her eyes, her nose, her ears and her tongue before, sometimes all at once, but he had never left her without the ability to sense his handiwork in some manner. Perhaps he just wanted someone to appreciate it. She was thankful for the small mercy.
The world had been saner once, she was pretty sure. Before he had come, when she'd been a filly. She could barely remember what that was like. What colour were the hills supposed to be again? She had no idea. It had been too long, and a lot had happened since then. She figured it was probably like that for everyone, though.
She tried to hum, as the moon did another pass overhead, but she couldn't; she was a spirinkin, and apparently spirinkin didn't have the ability to hum. She settled for smiling instead.
And then he came.
"Marigold," he said, slithering up to her through the air. "Marigold, Marigold, Marigold. How are we today?"
He paused, as if waiting for a response. Marigold tried to give him one, but couldn't; she had no vocal chords.
"Lovely," he replied to the dead air. "How am I? Why, I'm doing wonderfully; thank you for asking!"
He coiled around her.
"Now, let's see, what to do with you today?" he mused, stroking the little tuft of hair on his chin with a bird's talon. "Well, first of all..."
He clicked his fingers, and suddenly Marigold was not a spirinkin anymore. She looked down at herself—she could move her head again!—and gasped—she could do that too!—as she beheld four hooves attached to orange legs attached to an orange body attached to—
"Am I... a pony?" she asked. Was that her voice? She couldn't quite place it. Actually, had she been orange before? It would match her name—but was it even her name?
Had he really bothered to remember what she looked like?
"You are," he said. "For now."
Well, even if she wasn't the right pony, she was still a pony, and that was something to be thankful for. She smiled.
He smiled too.
"Now, Marigold, I assume you don't want to go back to being a spirinkin. Or whatever other thing I would have turned you into today."
She shook her head.
"Good," he said. "So then..." He got up close to her face. "...How about telling me what I want to know, hm? About that little village you came from? I'd like to know where it is, if you please."
Marigold shook her head.
"Oh come now," he said. "I haven't played with you that much. Just tell me where I can find your little friends and I'll leave you as a pony. I'll even let you go! How does that sound?"
Marigold shook her head. She was smiling.
His eyes narrowed. "I'm being very generous here, you know. You really should take this offer. Before I change my mind."
Marigold said nothing. Just continued smiling.
He rolled his eyes. "Honestly, you ponies, always with the smiles and the rainbows and the—ugh." He grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and lifted her into the air. "What are you so happy about, Marigold?"
Marigold just smiled.
"Fine. Be that way." He clicked his fingers. "Enjoy being a prungus. I'll be back when I decide to feel merciful again. Don't hold your breath."
And with that, he disappeared back into the sky, his shadow briefly splaying over Marigold's new body as the sun whizzed past overhead.
Marigold kept smiling (on the inside, prunguses didn't have mouths, it turned out). Being a prungus didn't seem too bad—not as bad as being a flormbus. She still wasn't sure what a flormbus was.
She kept smiling, because she was remembering a story she had heard, back in the village. From the elder, who had always been kind to her, and had always been right about such things, so she had no reason to doubt her words.
The elder had told her a story of two mares. Special ponies, with the strength of earth ponies, the wings of pegasi, and the magic of unicorns. One a pure white; the other the colour of the night sky. They'd been on a journey to find something. Something that could help, could finally stop him, set things back to the way they had been before he had come. Some great magic that could set things right.
And as the pony, now prungus, that was Marigold sat beneath the strange pink sky, amongst the checkerboard fields and quilt-patterned hills, she knew that the elder's words had been true.
She could feel it.
