Twilight isn't entirely sure what to do with her recently resurrected prisoner.

If word gets out that she's revived a notorious tyrant, then she's as good as cooked.

(Literally. She wouldn't put it past some of her current protestors to burn down the entirety of the Canterlot Castle, and her with it, if it means getting rid of her and the Mad Unicorn King.)

She wonders how Celestia would have dealt with this. Did she have the same issue when it came to integrating Discord into society?

Perhaps she should ask. Her old mentor did say to always ask questions, after all.

But then again, the ire of her old mentor is still one of her greatest fears.

With Luna, it's different. Luna wasn't her teacher, she was more towards a peer that was learning how to live, just like her.

(Well, more towards learning how to live in modern times.)

It would be nice if Sombra could learn how to live in this world of magic and friendship, too, a more childlike part of her says.

The more pragmatic part of her responds with the fact that she revived him for a reason: to tutor her in one of the forms of magic that remains unknown to most.

Her quest has always been for knowledge.

Sombra's ears flick once, twice. He's decently certain he can hear hoofsteps, clip-clopping against the tiles of the catacombs.

He takes a deep, shaky breath in, then releases it. He remains unsure if this is a hallucination.

Therefore, he deems it appropriate to simply remain laying there with his forelegs covering his face. (At least he can hide the tears. Stallions don't cry.)

He can feel a pulsing in his knees, and it's another unpleasant reminder of his monstrous existence, another unpleasant reminder of being alive and feeling things, unlike his lack of existence within the realms betwixt life and death, where he could feel nothing.

Oh, to be hollow and bereft of life again.

His ear flicks again. He doesn't remember when the footsteps stopped.

A distinct sense of being watched. Did she set up a scrying thing? He wouldn't be too surprised, a spell used to perform surveillance on him would be expected of her.

Slowly, Sombra removes his forehooves from his face, allowing his tear-stained eyes to view the world once more, though the cool air stings a little, having grown used to the hot saltiness of sad excretions.

Past the cell's metal door is an eye. Closed.

It begins to open.

Sombra's ears pin back. His breathing quickens, coming fast in short pants.

Something thuds in his chest.

(It might be a heart.)

He tries to get to his hooves. He almost trips over himself in his hurry.

(Ponies will naturally try to flee from things that threaten them.)

It's half open now. He can see the pupil of the eye as it focuses on him.

He backs away. He backs into the shield. There is nowhere to run to. He opens his mouth to try to shout. Call for help.

(You can't get anything from a dried out reservoir.)

His voice refuses to come. He shakes his head. His eyes remain locked on the eye outside the cell.

He reaches deep into his reserves to try and do something with it. A spell, anything.

The wards prevent him from casting anything. Not a single spark of magic is conjured from his horn.

(A safety measure? He doesn't feel safe here!)

There is nothing he can do.

Despite the lack of a will to live, something deep down tells him to run. To run from this threat is to live for another day.

The eye shakes, now fully open for it to see the world.

The eye is fully open, and it sees him.

It opens wide, like a dog's gaping maw, hoping to clamp its jaw around your chicken drumstick.

And then it's gone.

Warped out of existence, just like that.

Relief floods into him, spilling from the dam that he'd so carefully constructed to conceal any emotions.

His body meets the cold tiles, like a beloved son meeting their bride. He jolts afterwards from both the impact and the difference in temperature, the tiles are comparatively freezing to his currently overworked body.

(Funny, he doesn't remember doing any work. Did the panic cause this?)

His breath shakes on the way into his lungs, and he holds it there, cages it for a moment in his ribs, before releasing it again.

(Did he break eye contact with it? Is that why it disappeared?)

His ears flick, before lowering as the sudden expenditure of energy that he doesn't have begins to take its toll.

He's not sure if he can hear hoofsteps, or if it's just echoes from up above. He's not even sure if the sound of hoofsteps on palace tiles can echo down to the lowest catacombs.

(Is he dreaming again? Why would he dream of this lonely existence? It's certainly not sleep paralysis - he had that when he was a mere orphaned filly, and that involved less movement of limbs.)

Sombra takes in another deep, greedy breath, the damp air clinging to his lungs like a lifeline.

There isn't much airflow in here, the air remains stagnant and filled with moisture.

(He wouldn't be too surprised if he got mold poisoning. Spores tend to like air if it's wetter, don't they?)

(Surely the healing wards and the shield would keep any mold spores at bay, but she did mention the shield was aerated. The spores would be able to travel through, possibly.)

The thought of mold contaminating his food, breathing in those disgusting spores that could easily do in a pony of lesser physicality...

He slowly gets himself into a sitting position.

(Did spores prefer higher areas or staying closer to the ground?)

Ironic, how his thoughts seem rather scattered like the spores he's currently nervous about.

He huffs out an irritated sigh, trying to compose himself.

He can hear some hooves tapping against tiles again, and he shuts his eyes and tries to match the rhythm with his own front hoof.

One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four.

A thought filters through an anxiety-addled part of his mind, couldn't he pierce the shield spell with his horn? It's been a while since he shaved the velvet from it, so it should be relatively sharp.

Unless, of course, the Spark had modified that as well or done it for him.

He tries to look somewhat composed as he hears the hoofsteps draw ever nearer. Maybe she won't notice the way his undercoat has bristled in a line down his spine - the lighting is dim and he's lit up from underneath by the wards.

(He hopes She doesn't notice the slight shakiness of his breath.)

Sombra doesn't hear the scrape of the door against the dungeon's tiled floor.

He keeps his eyes closed, ears raising to be angled backwards to feign some form of annoyance.

(How pathetic, his captor might as well be considered his only friend.)

"Sombra." Her voice calls out, nearby.

He barely acknowledges her, instead choosing to swivel one of his ears towards the direction he thinks her voice came from.

"I brought food. And juice."

Sombra opens his eyes, turning his head to simply stare at her.

He remains unblinking for a while as they lock eyes for a moment, before he focuses his eyes to stare in her general direction instead.

Both of his ears remain angled backwards, a clear show of irritation, while hers remain forwards, alert for any spoken words from him.

He really doesn't want to give her the dignity of a response.

He does so anyways.

"Why."

She cocks her head, her bangs almost wiggling (like treacherous snakes) with the motion.

"Why wouldn't I? As a prisoner, you are entitled to certain rights, regardless of whether or not you're going on trial. Food, hydration, and the ability to sleep."

Sombra gives a grunt of acknowledgement, before he turns his head to the meager offering of food. (And a juicebox. Really?)

"...Do you think of me as a child of some sort, Sparkle?"

Princess Twilight Sparkle's face goes deadpan, her mouth widening as though she's trying not to smile.

He stares at the juicebox with suspicion. He still hasn't bothered with blinking, knowing that staring at someone without blinking is often considered hostile in some form.

"You tend to act childish, yes. I wonder if this is a result of becoming a tyrant, or because you didn't have much of a childhood?"

Sombra turns his gaze to simply glare at her. "Probing into my life again, I see. What more can I tell you? You've likely been through every artifact I have, keepsakes, treasures, notes, my journal." An irritated snort escapes him. "You might as well consider the journal a confession from me. Aren't you lucky, you have it in writing."

"I want to know why you'd turn to this sort of magic."

"Because it's my birthright, and because it's my destiny. Why else?" He scowls, eyes focusing on the juicebox again. "Do you really need me to spell out 'I would vastly prefer to have some form of privacy, my memory is not perfect and I do not fully remember whatever in Tartarus I wrote in that journal because it was over fifteen years ago' for you?"

Twilight's expression, he can see it in his peripheral vision, morphs into one of slight confusion and concern.

"It's 24 years after the Reunion of the Sisters, so 24PR, post-reunion."

"...Reunion?" Sombra's ears flick to Twilight's direction, before his head also follows the motion to look at her directly. "What do you mean."

"...What year do you last remember it being?"

His eyebrows furrow as he thinks, looking at the juicebox again, before his ears pin back in frustration. He knows she's expecting a response, and a quick one at that.

What escapes him is an irritated growl. "Rrgh... I don't remember. Why all these stupid queries?"

"They're not stupid. They just... help me gauge how to help you."

Flabbergastation is smeared across Sombra's features for a good few seconds. "...Sparkle, are you insane? Why in the name of Celestia's Phoenix would you want to bother helping me?" One brow furrows. Utter confusion.

"She calls it Philomena." Twilight helpfully supplies, a placid smile on her face. "And I believe the offer of friendship should be extended to you."

"And what happens if I refuse? Did you even account for that?" Sombra's hackles raise, his undercoat bristling further.

"Let's just say the alternative isn't as nice."

"Then it's not an offer, it's a bail condition. I'd rather stay here and rot." His pupils shrink despite the lighting conditions of the jail cell, and he makes sure to enunciate each word clearly for Twilight to hear.

Her eyes flick to the food, the wards, then him.

"I'll leave you to have your meal. Please do consider the offer, it'll make things so much easier."

He wants to say the phrase 'over my dead body', but even the sanctuary of death can be reversed by a magically gifted alicorn.

He takes to seething quietly instead, ears pinned back to the point of grazing his head as he listens to her hoofsteps, slowly becoming farther away, then a long pauae, and then the sound resumes, becoming quieter and quieter as she puts more distance between them.

The desire to eat isn't even there, but to force food down his throat means he'd at least be doing a basic task to continue living.

Sombra inspects the plate of food carefully — if the life-giving- no, healing ward, could heal him, then it stands to reason that it extends to all life, and thus mold.

He really hopes she isn't trying to poison him.

There is toast and a dollop of jam on the plate in front of him. The toast is cut into strips, as though she's expecting him to dip the toast in the jam.

What an odd way to prepare toast, he thinks. The Spark was, without a doubt, weird. After all, why revive him?

And why prepare toast in this manner? Couldn't she have just put the jam on the slices of toasted bread?

Experimentally, he sniffs at the food, trying to judge on whether the scent of it will bring some form of appetite back, and to judge if there's any of the telltale scent of mold.

About all the information smelling the food gives him is that it definitely smells like toast.

He nibbles on one of the toast strips. This feels monumentally stupid.

Author's Note

i have no idea what jam smells like and have a somewhat weak sense of smell in general.

this is probably because i lived with my alcoholic father for at least three years.

anyways, extended isolation in darkness with only one captor for company at inconsistent times (re: when she can get some time away from ruling) could probably cause hallucinations.

while sombra does have decent dark vision, it'd be somewhat impaired by the glowing from the wards.