Death Valley

Bitterroot hadn’t gone to bed, not like everyone else. Once she was upstairs, she went straight to the bathroom and started looking in the mirror. Just in case. She went out if someone needed to use it, and then right back when they were done. She heard as everyone else went to bed. She herself had no such intention yet.

She stared at her reflection, unsure whether the pony looking back was really her. She tilted her head back and forth. She leaned close to the mirror, squinting at her pupils. Was there anything growing in them? No, of course not. The notion was absurd.

And yet…

Physically, Bitterroot felt fine. Was that okay? Transformed into a timberwolf, turned back again, felt fine. Shouldn’t she feel something more? Leaves in her lungs, branches poking beneath her wings, maybe bleeding tree sap if she cut herself open. But no. Fine. Like she was okay and everything was hunky-dory.

The air felt thick as she inhaled and exhaled. As long as she focused on the physical sensation, on now, she wouldn’t go back. She could stay away from it, never think about it again, never think about how she nearly-

She clenched her eyes shut as tightly as possible and dug her teeth into her lip. She focused on breathing. In, out, in, out, in, out…

She was breathing fine. Her lungs were working. Her throat was clear. Her teeth weren’t pointier than usual. And the blood from her lip had the usual copper taste. Good. Good. All of that was here and that was good. She opened her eyes. From her reflection, it sure didn’t feel very good.

She kept waiting for someone else to come into the bathroom to interrupt her, to talk to her. Even though she knew they were asleep. Lucky buggers. They didn’t have to think about what happened.

“Hey.” Bitterroot forced a grin onto her face. Her reflection looked like it was ready to eat someone’s throat. Or maybe it already had, considering the drop of blood trickling down her lip. “You can fall asleep. It’s okay. The Princess of Dreams will chase your nightmares away.”

That was the truth. She knew that. That was Moondog’s whole reason for existence. So why did it sound hollow?

Her eyes were baggy. Maybe she’d get lucky.

In the dead of night, Bitterroot remembered.

She remembered it all.

She remembered her coat splitting, branches knotting inside her muscles, the timberwolf’s body fighting and howling and yearning for meat.

Bitterroot lay in bed and all she could do was remember.

Her body hadn’t been her own. Her actions hadn’t been her own. She’d been yanked about like a puppet- worse than a puppet, because a puppet only had strings. This was so much more. For those few minutes, she’d tried to kill every single other person in the room, no matter how much she didn’t want to. A prisoner in her own body. The pain she’d felt was nothing compared to that.

The fact that no one had been hurt wasn’t much of a balm. She’d been so close. So close to eating one of them. She could see it, far too clearly: breaking through the shield, crushing Code’s head with her jaws, ripping Charcoal’s legs off, devouring Amanita’s throat as her blood sprayed everywhere. Were timberwolves strong enough to do that? It didn’t matter. That was what she saw, over and over and over. She could very nearly smell it. It’d just been one dropped shield away.

Those were Bitterroot’s nightmares, but she wasn’t asleep. She tried. She was exhausted. She couldn’t fight back her thoughts like this. But she could get to a place where she could ignore them. All she needed to do was fall asleep.

But she couldn’t, so that didn’t happen, and Bitterroot was left staring up into the darkness that hid the ceiling with her heart battering against her lungs.

Just like it’d done before she changed.

She didn’t even want to close her eyes. Code and Charcoal and Amanita all said she was clean, but what if? For all she knew, the slightest slip in consciousness, and she could find herself stalking to Amanita’s bed to feast on her body. Because when she’d changed, the ponies had smelled…

They’d smelled tasty.

Delectable. Savory. Delicious. Appetizing. She could remember it so vividly, the wonderful, bloody scent of their meat. A siren call, the best meal of your life. All you had to do was rip somepony’s throat out. And she would’ve done it; part of her mind had recoiled in disgust back then, but the reactions of her body had pulled it along, arousal at the worst time. Her thoughts wanted her to not move as her reactions had been restless.

She would’ve devoured a sapient being and loved every bite even as she hated it.

She’d barely eaten, yet Bitterroot felt nauseated. Awkwardly throwing her blankets off, she stumbled out of bed, lurched out of their room. The contents of her stomach were clawing their way for her throat. Groping and batting at the walls, she shuffled through the darkness until she reached the bathroom. She wrenched the door open, doubled over the toilet, and promptly retched. Bile and half-digested chunks of food wetly forced their way from her mouth and into the bowl. The uniquely vile stench of vomit made her stomach heave again and again; she was empty by the third time. Strands of saliva pendulumed from her lips, back and forth, back and forth.

Like her mouth was watering.

Almost immediately, she convulsed, stress and trauma and vomit triggering a physical reaction. She didn’t even want to think about it, but those thoughts were the only things in her head. She felt sick and her heart was palpitating wildly. In spite of the chill, she was coated in sweat. Curling into a ball, she struggled to keep breathing. At some point, she’d fallen onto the ground, but she barely cared.

Memories of the last few days rolled past like a fever dream, too bizarre to give any credence to, too vivid to ignore. Each new item dropped its own unique weight onto her mind, made all the worse by the shock of novelty. She’d never been branded before. Never talked to somepony only for them to hang themselves a minute later. Never hallucinated. Never seen an angel. Never had her mind bound and her body remolded. Never vomited up arcane machinery. Any one of those experiences would’ve been taxing to handle on their own, let alone all at once. Their newness made them relentless, constantly vying for her attention, exponentiating their impact.

Her thoughts were being frayed and rewoven, over and over again, until reality turned into a bad trip and then it got worse. You could only deal with so many new experiences before your mind shut down. But her mind shutting down was part of the problem; that let it get taken over. So Bitterroot’s mind kept running on overdrive, more willing to destroy itself than allow that to happen again.

And Bitterroot wanted to let that destruction happen.

She wanted to feel numb. She wanted to be able to go through all this with indifference, able to shoulder the stress rather than be this panicked, confused wreck. She wanted to close her eyes and drift away. She didn’t want to be. This much, this fast, existence itself was nauseating.

But the harsh cold of Tratonmane’s air reminded her, very strongly, that she existed, that she was. Yet with the weight of the last few days on her back, she could barely muster the will to do anything more than lie alone on the floor of that stinking room. She was an abused dog, once so hot on the trail, now cowering away from the world in fear of the lash.

(Ha. Dog. Like a wolf. Ha ha, funny.)

Crushed beneath the weight of unspeakable stress, physically and mentally sick, curled into a ball of meager protection, Bitterroot shook as she helplessly, brokenly wept.

That was when the door opened. A glow drove away the black; it was soft, but after so much dark, Bitterroot flinched away and held up a hoof to block it. “Hello?” somepony asked. “I-is someone- Oh, Celestia…”

Amanita was crouching next to Bitterroot as best she could in the cramped space. Her hooves hovered just over Bitterroot’s body, like she was unsure of whether to prop her up or let her lie there. “What, what’s the matter? What can I do? I- What’s wrong?”

“I sh-shouldn’t b-be here,” Bitterroot mumbled. Because, in a way, that was the worst part of it. All she’d needed to do, literally the one thing that could’ve avoided all this, was to stay home. Not even doing something, just not doing this. Keep her stupid nose out of somepony else’s business. Amanita was an adult, she could handle a new job alone. But no. Bitterroot just had to tag along for “moral support” and get targeted by the universe. “Y-you and Code a-and Charcoal, y-you’re all… you’re s-supposed to be h-here, and I…”

“Whoa, hey,” Amanita said weakly. She awkwardly patted Bitterroot on the shoulder. “It’s, it’s okay… You were- Yesterday, if, if you hadn’t been here-”

“Crossc-cut would’ve d-died and y-you would’ve b-brought her back. A-and…”

“Hey, hey.” Amanita delicately pulled Bitterroot up into a sitting position; she hung her head limply. Amanita sat down opposite her, her back against the wall. “It’s… Is this about the… wolf?”

Bitterroot moved her head enough to qualify as a nod. “And… other things.” She shuddered. “L-like the… brand. The path up. Tallbush.”

“Wha- Tallbush?”

Right. She hadn’t told them, had she? Ha ha. She swallowed and forced herself to talk. “Well, I… saw him while you were out, after I’d c-come back. And he’d…” Her blood chilled. “…changed. He- He looked like the k-kind of- being who’d greet you with ‘fear not’. Eight legs, six wings-” The memory made her twitch and she pulled into herself, eyes screwed shut. “All this, all this stuff, it’s… It’s been happening for days and it all keeps piling up and I c-can’t make it stop.”

“I… Bitterroot, you’ve… died twice without-”

“Those were- Those were quick, I, I didn’t get to think. Now, I- I’m just- sitting here, feeling fate pluck my feathers one by one. I, I mean, from the time I met you to when we captured Circe, it was just, what, four hours?” Bitterroot’s laugh held no mirth. “I’ve been lying alone in bed for practically that long. Feeling like… the second I’m not aware of myself, I won’t be myself. And…”

Words failed her. It was all so beyond her experiences, she couldn’t describe it. What was she supposed to say? That she was worried about transforming into a monster out of the blue? It was exactly the truth, yet it sounded insane. And though she knew, knew, that Amanita would understand, she couldn’t make herself believe that. How could you deal with something that extreme?

“…and I d-don’t know,” she whispered. She buried her face in her hooves, trying to hold it all together, but her emotions slipped from her grasp and she started weeping again. “I d-don’t know what’s w-wrong with m-me and… I just- I… I c-can’t-” Words spilled out in an incoherent jumble like the tears from her eyes and she couldn’t even control her-

Amanita yanked Bitterroot into a hug, holding her close, holding her tight. Acting on reflex, Bitterroot returned the gesture, squeezing Amanita so tightly her joints ached. She hadn’t realized just how alone she’d felt. As her body was wracked with sobs, she managed to gasp out, “I c-can’t even th-think… I-I’m just so t-tired…”

“These’re… These’re the sorts of thoughts that come to you strongest when you’re alone in the middle of the night,” Amanita said. “I’m… I’m familiar with them. And… I… Back then, I- didn’t even want to talk to anypony, just- I just wanted to be able to cry without Circe deciding I was weak and cutting my heart out. Just to express myself. And, and after feeling that…”

She tightened her hug. “I won’t let you go through this alone. I’m here. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but if you want to- talk to me, scream at me to let some emotion out, just keep the door closed so nopony can see you crying, I’ll do it. I- W-whatever happens, whatever happens, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for you. I’m here.”

Bitterroot tried to say something. All that came out was another sob. She clung to Amanita like a life preserver, burying her tear-drenched face in the coat of the only source of warmth in the room, crying. And Amanita never made the slightest attempt to stop her. She seemed well-versed in the language of grief.

As they sat in each other’s arms, Bitterroot’s sobs turned to whimpers turned to uneven gasps as her emotions ebbed out. Eventually, she managed to find her voice again. “Celestia,” she muttered. “I just- I don’t know where t-to go from here.”

“I don’t think that’s stopped you before,” said Amanita. “Remember when you walked up to a necromancer with a half-million-plus bounty on her head and asked if she was nice based on a hunch?”

Bitterroot’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a grin. It wasn’t quite not a grin.

“And I didn’t know where to go after getting out of prison,” Amanita continued. “But I found a path. Thanks to you. And- Look, whatever happens, I’m here for you. I know I have a job to do, but I won’t let you be alone.”

Sniff. “Promise?” It was childish, but it was the closest thing to security Bitterroot had.

“Promise. Cross my heart and hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye.”

Hope to fly? And where did the cupcakes come from? The choice of words was so strange it shoved all of Bitterroot’s anxieties aside. She pushed herself upright and frowned at Amanita. “What?”

Almost immediately, Amanita’s cheeks turned red. “It’s a, uh, Princess Twilight says it sometimes,” she half-mumbled, rubbing the back of her neck. “It’s, um, I think it’s from one of her friends in, uh, Ponyville. And when she makes that sort of promise, she takes it very seriously. I mean, very seriously. I was just, y’know, doing the same thing and I, I forgot you… don’t know…” Her voice trailed away.

Well, if Amanita and Princess Twilight could both consider that a sacred promise, so could Bitterroot. She smiled weakly. “Still. Thanks.”

Then her grin slipped. “You… The ritual that you performed, it made me… I’m safe, right? It’s not going to… h-happen again?”

Amanita nodded. “You’re fine. The ritual should’ve purged you of all hostile transformative magics. I know Code already said that, but you’re clean. Trust me.”

“Good. Great. Yeah.” Bitterroot chuckled nervously. “W-why can you and Code say the same things, but I believe you more than I do her?”

Amanita bobbed her head around, biting her lip. “Code is… I’d love her as a surgeon but hate her as a doctor, if that makes sense.”

“…I can see that.”

“If somehow we’re all wrong and you transform again, well, we already dealt with you once. We can do it again.”

Bitterroot could only nod. She sniffed and wiped down her nose. Definitely not the preferred course of action, but… accurate.

“And if worse comes to worst, I can always kill you and resurrect you. That should heal you.”

The way Amanita sounded so earnest made Bitterroot snort.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Bitterroot sat there, listening to her heart beat — beat, not pound. She was still and not shaking. She wasn’t quite calm, but she wasn’t panicking. Her hooves were almost steady when she raised them to her face. She was… about as good as she could expect at the moment. Not good, but not very bad, either.

“Thanks for that,” Bitterroot mumbled, wiping her face down. The hair on her face was already getting crusty. “I… feel like I shouldn’t need-”

“Hey. You’re here for me. I’m here for you.” Amanita reached out and patted one of Bitterroot’s hooves. “That’s that.”

A nod. “S-sorry I woke you up.”

“Well, ah…” Amanita coughed. “You, um, didn’t. I was… already up when I… heard…”

Bitterroot’s ear twitched and she looked up. Amanita was both trying to meet and trying to avert her gaze as she shifted her weight around and her ears twitched. And her voice; it was the semi-guilty voice she used whenever she got to talking about necromancy outside of the Crazy Eights. Bitterroot’s interest was piqued, just enough to start jockeying with stress for brainspace.

“It’s, it’s Pyrita,” Amanita mumbled unprompted. “I don’t care what anypony says, she died in the mine around the same time the ley line twisted. I-” She ran a hoof through her mane. “Something happened when she died. I’d bet my life on it.”

Bitterroot found herself grinning. Interest found itself pulling ahead of stress. “Sucker’s bet. You’re a necromancer.”

“That’s irrelevant. I don’t know a thing about self-resurrection yet.”

“Yet.”

Amanita rolled her eyes. “I don’t know whether Pyrita’s death caused the corruption of the line, or if she’s just collateral, or- whatever, but her death’s important somehow. So it’s time to cross a necromantic line I haven’t crossed yet.”

Bitterroot felt an odd tingle run down her spine. It was like a chill, but she liked the feeling. Anything to get her away from those thoughts. “Yeah?”

“Grave robbing.”

“I’ll get the shovels.”