Death Valley

Amanita snapped awake, her heart racing. It was dark and someone was screaming. In prison, someone screaming at night was bad. Was the cell door still locked? She rolled from her cot and scra-

She bonked into the wall. Not prison. No cell. Door wasn’t locked, didn’t need locking.

…Did it?

She tiptoed to the door and placed her ear to it. The sound was too quiet to come from below and didn’t seem to be getting any closer. But whoever was yelling, it sounded bad.

Go back to bed, she told herself. It’s not your concern. Go back to bed. Let the town handle its own.

With the same desire to fix things that had gotten her a job in the Royal Guard, Amanita nudged the door open. The sound wasn’t any louder. If anything, it was a bit quieter. Maybe something had shifted. Frowning, Amanita carefully walked to one of the windows and placed her ear to that. Louder. Outside.

Logic told her to go back to sleep. Empathy and curiosity had her pulling her furs on before logic had finished its first sentence.

She tiptoed down the stairs, through the common room, and cracked the front door open. By this point, the screaming was gone, replaced with murmurs rumbling through the streets. Worried murmurs.

“Amanita?”

She flinched and spun around. Code was standing behind her, already clad in her own furs. “Are you going out?” Code asked.

“I- I don’t know,” Amanita said. “Should we?”

“I probably should, just to be certain it doesn’t concern us. You can go back to sleep.” And Code was out the door. A second later, Amanita followed her.

They weren’t the only ones coming out. Ponies were trickling out of houses into the darkness. Lights flared up as a few unicorns ignited their horns. There seemed to be a vague current in their movement, heading down a certain street away from the Ash. Code followed them and Amanita followed Code, keeping her ears ready.

So she heard it when a pony screamed in horror.

It was like the entire herd had been stuck in the rear with a pin. In the space of a moment, everyone’s confused amble turned into a focused gallop towards the scream. Almost like a school of fish, they swerved down a side street. Amanita didn’t know what she was looking for but she followed. She lost sight of Code and didn’t bother looking. Her instincts were telling her that she needed to see this.

Then ponies were sliding to a halt, slipping across the icy road and bumping into each other. Amanita managed to catch on a rock sticking out and stumble to a less ungraceful stop. Her head spun and she had to reorient herself as she sucked in breaths. Her physical fitness still left something to be desired.

“Ma? I g-got help,” said a small voice on the verge of tears. “W-where’s Pa?”

Amanita nearly felt her heart stop. She swallowed her congealed pit, set her jaw, and turned. The crowd was just sparse enough for her to peer through it.

Crosscut, sprawled across the ground, had nearly been ripped to shreds.

She’d been attacked by something, maybe a wolf, and it had torn into her. Ragged, bloody gashes coated her body and her front legs as glistening red dribbled down her coat to stain the white snow; Amanita sniffed and some long-buried prey instinct wanted her to reflexively recoil at the coppery scent of blood, dense in the air. Other ponies were forming a circle around Crosscut, apparently too disgusted to approach or too shocked to think. Some chunks of flesh appeared to be holding on by mere strands. Blood was already pooling around her, the pool growing bigger with each moment. Wythe, that filly Amanita seen so long ago, was sitting in the puddle, pushing at Crosscut’s body.

And then Crosscut wheezed damply. Bloody phlegm dribbled from her lips and stained her teeth as she tried to turn over. The bloodflow leaking from her body intensified. Wythe started crying.

Amanita almost stepped forward. Almost started ripping up her clothes for bandages, almost ordered someone to get a torch for cauterization. Maybe, if she was absolutely incredibly lucky, she could salvage this. But memories of the town’s icy glares made her falter. She didn’t even know why; it was just a knee-jerk reaction that-

“Where is she? Where is she?” Arrastra swooped over the crowd, low enough that her hooves bumped into someone’s head. She fluttered to Crosscut and stumbled on the landing. “Wythe, baby-”

“Nana!” Soaked with blood, Wythe flapped over and seized one of Arrastra’s legs. In between sobs, she said, “Nana, I- I heard somethin’ fierce- like a wolf- an’ I found Ma like this- an’ I got Mr. Tallbush-”

“W-where’s yer Pa?” Arrastra’s head was jerking around

“I dinnae ken! I cannae find him! Nana, w-what’s goin’ on?” And Wythe collapsed into tears again.

Arrastra’s wings tensed as she realized what Tallbush missing probably meant. She looked over at Crosscut, still twitching. “Wythe, baby, y-ye must needs look away,” she stammered.

“Nana- Nana, Ma’s- She’s-”

Arrastra turned to one of the ponies in the crowd. “D-dinnae let her see,” she said quietly. “She’s- t-too young.”

Wythe was pulled from Arrastra’s leg. She didn’t scream. She didn’t struggle. She just grabbed onto another pony’s leg and kept crying. Shuddering with fear, Arrastra somehow forced herself to look at her daughter. “Crosscut,” she said, sitting down next to her in the pool of red, “C-Crosscut, I- I’m here.”

Crosscut opened her mouth to speak; blood bubbled and popped at the side of her lips. Her breath gurgled, like she was too weak to cough and clear her throat.

“No, Crosscut,” Arrastra babbled, her words tripping over themselves as what little control she still had slipped away, “ye, ye h-hold on now, Tallbush’s a-comin’, h-he’s got, he’ll have-”

Blood dripped from Crosscut’s legs like a leaky hose, yet she still managed to reach up pleadingly. Arrastra immediately pulled her into a hug; Crosscut weakly wrapped her legs around Arrastra’s body as she draped her head across her shoulder. Arrastra rocked back and forth as she stroked Crosscut’s back and stared out at nothing, eye glassy and wet. “D-dinnae be worryin’, honey,” she whimpered, “it’ll be okay, it’ll be okay, it’ll be okay…”

Crosscut’s head twitched. Blood dribbled and pooled. Her breaths were wet, weak, labored, forced.

And then they weren’t.

“…Crosscut?…”

Seconds slipped by.

“…No… Oh, no, no no no, d-dear land, n-no…”

Moments.

Shaking, Arrastra held the limp form close, and although she barely made any sound, the world was quiet enough to hear her words. “Crosscut… My bantling…”

And in the second before reality hit the crowd, something switched on in a certain unicorn’s head.

Once upon a time, Amanita had lost somepony. Lost and alone in a world that hadn’t cared for her, it’d seemed her despair was unfathomable. Grief and a lich’s silver tongue had led her to necromancy, where she’d done worse and worse things while still calling their spirit up in the name of not letting go.

But that somepony was just Zinnia, her marefriend of but a few years, dying of a moons-long battle with liver cancer. Not her own flesh and blood. Not somepony she’d known literally all their life. Not somepony who’d gone so suddenly she hadn’t had so much as a minute to prepare. Not even somepony who’d died as she held them close, pleading for a miracle, feeling their very life ebb out like the tide. Whatever she’d gone through, Amanita knew Arrastra was going through far, far worse.

So Amanita didn’t even think as she walked forward, muscling ponies aside, ignoring their protests. She’d become a necromancer to bring back a loved one. She was going to be a necromancer and bring back a loved one. Arrastra’s opinion of her, Tratonmane’s opinion of her, as a liar and glory hound and monster was so irrelevant that it didn’t even cross her mind. The crowd got denser as she approached the center; that just made her push harder.

She was nearly spat out when she reached the perimeter, stumbling into open space and nearly slipping in still-warm blood. Arrastra was right next to her, apparently unaware of her surroundings as she hugged the body tightly. Her breaths were building to a keening wail and arteries were visibly pulsing in her wings. Amanita stepped forward.

“Ai.” Somepony, a mare from the voice, stepped on Amanita’s tail to slow her. “Dinnae talk tae her, ye scapegrace. She doesnae need yer-”

Her hooves were coated in Crosscut’s blood. Amanita reached up and smeared it across her face. With her muzzle still dripping, she turned and wordlessly snarled. The mare cursed and backpedaled into the crowd, which also pulled back from Amanita. Nopony seemed intent on getting closer to her. No more attention. Glaring at them, Amanita used a quick field to wipe herself down, then turned back to Arrastra.

Over the edge, over again. Amanita steeled herself and said, “Put her down.”

Arrastra didn’t respond. Blood from Crosscut’s neck trickled down her back.

“Arrastra. Put her down.”

Arrastra’s ears twitched limply. “L-leave me be,” she said tonelessly. “Ye’ve done enough.”

“I can help. Put her down.”

“Ye cannae help. She’s dead.”

Amanita’s stomach began knotting. “I-I’m a necromancer. I can help. Put her down.”

Arrastra said nothing. Didn’t even look at Amanita.

“Arrastra, please.”

Finally, Arrastra responded. She stroked Crosscut’s mane one last time and delicately, tenderly laid the body down. Then she got to her hooves and looked at Amanita. Her eye was wet but her face was expressionless. When she spoke, her voice was breaking and broken. “W-why should I?”

“Because if you don’t, your granddaughter will grow up an orphan.”

Arrastra flinched as if struck. Her mouth worked soundlessly as she glared at Amanita, tears dripping down her cheeks. She ripped her gaze away from Amanita to look at the crowd, where Wythe was still whimpering into somepony’s leg. Her wings twitched restlessly, leaves in a storm; she blinked and buried her face in a hoof as her body shook with emotion.

Maybe it was a low blow. Maybe a low blow was what was needed.

“Please. I’m begging you, let me try,” Amanita pleaded. “What’ve you got to lose?” She needed a second chance. Arrastra needed a second chance.

The valley reverberated with dying echoes, yet the silence of the last second before an impact was woven through the crowd. Everypony wanted something to be said; nopony wanted to be the one who said it. Finally, Arrastra raised her head. Her eye burned with the hatred of betrayal, smothered by her tears. “You’un already b-broke this promise,” she growled. “Do it again, and, h-hope tae my die, I w-will eat you alive.”

And she stepped aside, stumbling into the crowd, sobbing.

Amanita’s heart was pounding in her ears. The die had been cast. Maybe she’d regret this later, but that was for later. For now, she ignored it as she turned to the crowd. First things first, she needed her equipment. “Where’s Code?”

Silence.

“Colonel Code? …Colonel Restricted Code!” she demanded. Actually demanded. Who did she think she was, making demands? “The earth pony who-”

Code shoved her way out of the crowd and dropped a bag at Amanita’s hooves. “You had a look on your face and I thought you might need them,” she said.

Amanita rifled through the bag, searching for her ingredients. Check, check, and check. She laid them out one by one. “Thank you,” she said to Code.

“Do you need me for anything?”

“Just keep the crowd back.”

Code immediately whirled on the crowd. “Alright, ponies, just like before!” she roared. “Amanita needs room, so stand back!”

It took more yells than the first time, but she soon had space. Familiarity seized Amanita’s gut in a vise. If all this happened the same way again… She blinked, shook her head, pretended not to notice the way she felt like she’d just run a marathon. She needed to do this. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

Okay. Okay. Breathe. Okay.

From the top.

Circle. Her breathing strained.

Runes and sigils. Her nerves buzzed.

Candles. Her vision defocused.

Hum. Her bones chilled.

Down and stone. Her joints ached.

Wait. All of the above, and then some.

Despite her body’s protests, the process still came easily.

The main steps passed in a blur, but anxiety gleefully stretched the final moment like taffy. Amanita felt like she’d see individual light rays at a crawl if she opened her eyes. She tried to keep her mind clear, tried to wait, but one thought kept running through her head, over and over and over: Please work, please work, please work, please-

It worked.

Liminality embraced her as she slipped out. Crosscut was dead. Crosscut was recently dead. It hadn’t fully sunk in yet, so her soul was but a minor paradigm away. Finding her and pulling her back, pulling her life across timelines, bordered on reflex, over before it began. It was like the universe itself had already decided Crosscut shouldn’t have died and just needed Amanita’s help to make it so. The very waves of oughtness that pushed Amanita out of physicality roiled and twisted and pushed her back. More importantly, they also pushed Crosscut back.

As Amanita gasped and tried to stay upright, Crosscut’s body quivered and shuddered minutely. Beneath her blood and furs, visible through the tears, her wounds were vanishing. The ponies around them became silent and that silence became oppressive. Tension stretched through the air, drawn by hope and fear, ready to snap with just the right action.

Crosscut coughed.

The crowd’s collective flinch was so in sync, Amanita both felt it and heard it, a slight twitch in the earth and a low rumble. Crosscut coughed again, louder, more clearly, and propped herself up, eyes open. Murmurs broke out and rippled across the assembly, some of them profane. Amanita thought she heard some ponies running away. She ignored them. They didn’t matter. Her own actions did.

Crosscut laid a hoof on her chest, breathing deeply and cleanly. Then she blinked and looked down as her breathing picked up. She patted herself all over, taking stock of her body; though she was caked with blood, she was whole. She looked out at the crowd, too confused to have much of an expression. “What?” she asked the world. “H-how-”

“MA!” Wythe, still stained with her mother’s blood, bolted out from the crowd and torpedoed into Crosscut, driving her back to the ground. “Ma, you- Pa- He’s-” Whatever she was trying to say kept dissolving into childish gibberish and she kept restarting, sounding on the verge of tears every step of the way. Her wings beat fitfully and she clung to Crosscut like her mother was the last solid thing in the world.

Her daughter’s voice seemed to give Crosscut an anchor; all her confusion and anxiety vanished as she hugged Wythe as only a parent could. “Shh, shh,” she cooed, tousling Wythe’s mane. “I’m here, possum, I’m here.”

Amanita stepped back. Her work was done and they needed space. As she did, she looked at a certain other pony. Arrastra had the vaguely shocked expression of raw, boundless emotion on her face, too overwhelmed to feel much of anything; even her breathing was jerky and choppy. Her eye brimmed, overflowed with tears as she blinked rapidly. Her wings and knees refused to remain still. Eventually, her rear legs gave out and she collapsed onto her haunches, where she simply watched Crosscut, too overcome with feeling to manage physical movement. Amanita turned away from her and towards the crowd. Everypony was staring at her like she was a toxic balloon about to burst. To that, Amanita only had one thing to say.

“Questions tomorrow,” she announced. “I’m tired and I’m going to bed. G’night.” She pointed herself at the inn and strode forward.

The crowd pulled back tidelike as she approached. From her? For her? Amanita wouldn’t’ve cared even if she’d had the energy to care. She had a path. She took it.

The crowd thinned and the town darkened as Amanita walked. This far out in the wilds, starlight and moonlight alone were just enough to navigate by, even with less than a quarter of the full moon poking its way over the mountain ridge, and she didn’t need to light her horn. So she noticed it immediately when she reached the Ash and another hornlight came racing out from the darkness.

Tallbush slid to a stop in front of her, barely winded in spite of the saddlebags around his trunk. He looked back and forth between Amanita and the crowd around Crosscut and swallowed. “Is Crosscut still livin’?” he asked quickly.

Amanita didn’t stop walking. “She died. I resurrected her. She’s well.”

“Wha- She- She died?” yelped Tallbush. “An’ ye- That’s-” He galloped up to her and blocked her path. “Explain,” he snapped.

“Necromancy.” Amanita sidestepped, scowled when Tallbush sidestepped as well. “I’m a necromancer. I resurrected her.”

“-!” declared Tallbush. He looked between Amanita and the crowd. “But- Pyrita-”

“As I said yesterday, there are limits to my magic,” said Amanita. “Pyrita died too long ago. Crosscut didn’t. Go see her.” She pointed towards the crowd.

“But- Okay, see here, you’un need tae expl-”

“Code’s there. Talk to her.” Another sidestep.

Another block. Tallbush seemed to be shaking. “No, no, she ain’t done it, you’un did, ye need fer tae-”

“Listen,” growled Amanita, shoving her muzzle in Tallbush’s face. “It’s the middle of the night. I was woken up. I just pulled somepony from beyond the veil of death. Something no alicorn knows how to do, by the way. I’m tired. And if you don’t let me go to bed, I honestly might just kill you right now and resurrect you tomorrow.”

She wasn’t kidding. The siren song of her bed was loud.

Tallbush flinched back, stung by the venom in her voice. He seemed speechless. He looked at Amanita, at the crowd down the street, and pawed vigorously enough to gouge a furrow in the frozen ground. Then, his ears folded back, he stomped down the road. Leaving Amanita’s path back to the Cave clear.

Amanita’s steps turned into stumbles about halfway up the staircase as her adrenaline ebbed away. By the time she reached the second floor, she was nearly leaning against the wall to stay upright. Blinking to keep sleep away for just a minute more, Amanita loped into her room.

Bitterroot was still asleep, but Charcoal was up. She was pacing around the room, her long tail flicking wildly, and a stream of frantic nothings was bubbling from her throat. Her head snapped up when she heard the door open, then dropped when she saw who it was. “Thank Shine,” she mumbled.

“Code’s okay, too.” It seemed right to say.

“Great.” Charcoal smiled weakly. “I… I heard…” She trotted to the window, peered out into the night, returned her attention to Amanita. “What happened out there?”

“Crosscut was attacked by a wolf and died.”

Charcoal put a hoof to her mouth in horror, her ears folded back. “Oh, Shine,” she breathed. “That’s terrible!”

“Yeah, but I fixed her,” said Amanita. “She’s okay now. Ask Code when she gets back. I’m tired.”

The two looked at each other for another moment longer. Amanita knew Charcoal had gotten it when her ears shot up like catapults and her jaw dropped. And once she knew Charcoal knew, she felt no anxiety in turning away, stripping off her bloody furs, and climbing into bed without another word. Sleep found her in seconds.