An Offering

by Cynewulf

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Romance, Caramel, Twilight Sparkle
Length: 3248

Caramel prepares an offering of love for Twilight, and receives a last reward.

Caramel finally finishes his gift for Twilight just as she finishes the work that has kept her shut in for so long. He presents a final offering: one last painting, to complete the trilogy of depictions of her.

Published 2013-01-04 00:40:01 UTC
Last updated 2013-01-04 00:40:01 UTC

An Offering

An Offering
Edited, Read, discussed, and such by the inestimable and almighty Sniper Lord q97randomguy, and of course his Most Imperious and Majestic Darkness, The Necromancer formerly known as LonelyBrony. I have far too much fun thinking of names for you guys.

Caramel called it Carnivore.

He’d finally completed it, and had collapsed on the bed. His paintings had always been a private thing, a quiet thing. His friends knew that he painted, of course, but their interest over the years had been gently reflected. Yes, he painted. No, it was just a hobby.

He’d had a showing, once, but even though people had been very interested, he had considered it unimportant. Painting simply wasn’t what he wanted to do for a living. It was too personal, like telling all of his deepest secrets.

Not that he had anything worth telling, really. It was simply the principle of the thing. He didn’t want just anyone having this doorway into his heart. It was like someone being able to just open him up and start taking things and playing with them. It made him feel ill.

But he was fine, showing off paintings to friends, or strangers in small groups. Big Macintosh had seen quite a few; he was one of those ponies that could be quiet and not inject needless commentary. He accepted things, Caramel’s art among them.

Twilight had seen most of his paintings as well. All of them, in fact, except the two or three he’d sold in the last twenty years. She had even—he almost blushed remembering—posed for two of them. They weren’t lewd... but he wasn’t exactly displaying them. They were his favorites, his most excellent pieces. He liked to think he had said something with them.

But this painting... it was curious. He didn’t understand it, and that was not a regular occurrence. Not to mention that Caramel had never painted anything quite so quickly before.

It was disorienting, not knowing what a painting meant. It made him wonder if any of them had really meant anything at all. Had he just... forced them into their meanings, after they were done?

He was too tired to think about this. Far, far too tired.

In fact, he’d been tired for a long time, stretching back months. Big Macintosh had been giving him concerned looks for most of the month, and had finally sent him home with pay and told him to sleep. Applejack had visited, asking after Twilight and checking in on him. Baritone and Melilot from the farm had even dropped by and bought him lunch.

He’d not eaten much. He had lacked any real appetite, and still did. They’d looked so concerned, and it had begun to annoy him. He wasn’t that bad, was he? He couldn’t help it.

Caramel lay in his bed with his eyes looking at the painting on his easel. From here, he could still see all the little details that plagued him.

Carnivore was the third of three pieces, a trilogy for Twilight. Heh, I like that. Trilogy for Twilight.

The first had been Twilight simply in her natural habitat, reading in the library. She’d been so shy, blushing up a storm as he sketched and studied. He still remembered applying the brush strokes, like little caresses. That had been a wonderful day.

It had also been nine months ago. Their romance had been younger then, newer. He’d been living life in a daze, completely astonished that the mare of his dreams had even smiled at him, let alone agreed to date him. He’d smiled and named it Twilight. It was secret because it was tender, and it filled him with a proud sort of shyness.

The second, which he had enshrouded, had been markedly different. He’d painted that one only two months ago. He flushed, thinking about it. The posing had been her idea, but he’d been quite eager to go along with it.

The picture was perfect in his memory as if it had been burned there by a brand: Twilight, lying on a bed with red coverings, her mane in complete disarray; he remembered she had worked to get it just right, and he remembered how amazed he had been when she’d finished. Her eyes boring into his, and how he’d been set on fire by them! Her body stretched out leisurely... Not lewd, no, but certainly not a picture of his beloved Twilight that he was going to be sharing with Big Mac or anyone else. He had all but worshipped it, and named it Rosebud.

And now there was the last, the capstone.

It was a still-life, a genre he’d never really worked much in outside of simple studies. The setup was simple, yet full of symbols. He’d done research, asked Twilight questions. He loved how her eyes lit up... had they? Of course they had lit up, she loved when Caramel was curious about things in her books.

There were four pieces to the picture.

A delicate wine glass, with only a bit of the sweet nectar left. A sharp carving knife with a curious crest of a unicorn rampant. A wicked looking three-pronged fork, like a tiny trident. Besides the glass, near the center, was a tiny artifact called a Phylactery. It was no ordinary glass vial, to carry lowly fluids. It was filled with only the most precious of them, the most life giving.

What did it mean?

He didn’t know, but he knew it was what was needed. What was right. Especially the phylactery, with its shining crystal and its liquid contents. He had wondered and questioned, and named it Carnivore.

He would show it to her tonight.

Tonight... he thought about the note she’d sent him by her familiar’s flame.

He’d just walked in the door, sent home before he’d even started. Big Mac had walked him a ways down an orchard lane and they’d talked. Caramel, yer my friend. I love ya... but I can’t let ya work. You’ll hurt yourself, fallin’ asleep and barely able to buck apples.

Those words had been ringing in his ears as the green fire brought him the missive. Caramel had jumped for it, eager for word from Twilight.

He’d read it innumerable times, tasting every syllable on his tongue like honey. The paper itself smelled of her—had he imagined it? It didn’t matter. In that moment, it had almost been like she was there with him, her muzzle right beside his.

Come tonight, after ten. I think my work is finally drawing to a close. I would love to be able to finally read it to you, dearest Caramel.

Her exile in the libarary’s basement was finally over! He had been so overjoyed that his all-encompassing weariness had fallen off of him like shackles from a freed slave. And so he had brought out the canvas and he had finished his last painting for Twilight.

Well, last of this trilogy... oh, but he dreamed of the paintings he would make for her! And she would love them. He would show her how much he loved her in the delicate touches of his brush around her features, and in the bold strokes of color of his backdrops. He would at last make something immortal that deserved, truly, to be immortalized.

When he had finally finished working on it, his exhaustion had found him again. Two months of heavy eyes and constant struggle to stay awake, and he still knew no reason for it. He slept, though Big Macintosh thought otherwise. He slept too much, in fact, sleeping most of the day now.

But he tried to stay awake. Caramel was tired of oblivion. He wanted to see the sun and keep his eyes open.

His room was a mess. Looking around, he could see things scattered everywhere. It bothered him, but he simply had no energy to fix it. His covers were disheveled and everywhere, and one of his pillows had been lost overboard, but he couldn’t summon any motivation to really care.

Care enough to actually exert himself, anyhow. Caramel sighed, and closed his eyes.

And opened his eyes again. The light was different, dimmer.

Of course. He’d fallen asleep again, lost more of his precious day like some foal had drilled a hole in the hour glass just to watch it lose sand.

There was knocking on his door downstairs, and the sound of it jerked him more fully awake. Carmel fumbled his way out of bed, falling on the floor flat on his face. Groaning, he hurried down his stairs. The knocking continued, and it sounded impatient... an awful lot like—

“Thunderlane,” he said, opening the door.

“Right,” the pegasus replied with a lopsided grin. “Hey, man, was just checkin’ up on ya. How’re ya feelin’?”

Caramel shrugged. “I’m okay, I guess. I mean, I don’t feel so bad.” Truth be told, he felt awful, like he could feel every beat of his heart in his veins, like he hadn’t slept at all.

Thunderlane didn’t seem convinced. Caramel reluctantly invited him inside, and hoped the house seemed presentable enough. It helped that Thunderlane was perhaps the last person who would notice his messiness.

“Yeah... just thought I should come see you. We missed you, Friday night.”

“Fri—oh! Friday. Salt Lick, right... I just kind of forgot, I guess. Sorry about that.”

“Forgot. I guess... Big Mac says you’ve been fallin’ asleep all over the place. Kickin’ like his little sister at those trees.”

Caramel bristled as they stopped in his small living room. “Thunderlane, what do you want?”

Thunderlane, he was happy to see, had the decency to look abashed. The pegasus’ wings unfolded and hung between flared out and not. Caramel imagined that he was about take off, retreat into the safety of the sky. He wished it would happen, too; he was already exhausted. The idea of listening to Thunderlane—anypony, for that matter—sounded like purgatory.

“Man... look, I’m doin’ this wrong. I’m just worried about you. Did Twilight and you break up? Stallion up, Caramel! We’re your friends; you can talk to us. You’ve been like a walking corpse fo—”

“Twilight and I are doing wonderfully. She’s been busy and that is all. Thunderlane, I appreciate your concern, but I’m exhausted. It’s been a long day and I’ve been working on a project.”

His voice was deadpan, but the cold steel was still in it. Thunderlane’s frustration wilted, and he backed towards the door.

“Sorry... Caramel, man, I’m just...”

“I know. I’ll see you later, Thunderlane.”

And with that Thunderlane finally did retreat.

As he left, Caramel felt none of the expected release. He still felt the same weariness. It was like he was a glass that had been drained to the dregs. He could feel a headache coming on, and he rubbed his head. But it was alright, he thought. He turned back and walked towards the little kitchen.It was alright, because tonight he would see Twilight again. He smiled to himself, and searched for some food in his already sparse pantry.

He thought about the painting that he bore on his back, wrapped up in canvas paper.

Why had he named it Carnivore? Why that name? Of course, it had seemed logical, with the subject manner, but it had come to him second. The first name for it had been much less... ominous? That was a good word.

And why had he painted such a morbid thing?

He supposed there could be a lot of different possible reasons. The Phylactery was a rather ancient artifact, one he supposed he had gotten out of Twilight’s books. The crest was of an ancient and all-but-forgotten house of mages. Had he been thinking of her esoteric knowledge, how vast her reservoirs of lore were? It sounded about right.

But it was so dark. No, not dark. In fact, it was actually surprisingly bright. He supposed it was the abundance of red in the composition. What a strange color, red. He’d never used much in his other landscapes and studies. There hadn’t been as much call for it, really, until Twilight’s Trilogy.

What had the first name been? It was lost. Oh well. This name would work.

His plodding hooves echoed in the silent and abandoned streets of Ponyville. This was a quiet village, and ponies here turned in with the sun. All around him, the lights were on. He could hear the last few sounds of chatting ponies, parents sharing a few moments together with the foals in bed. Caramel passed a house hosting a party, and he could see ponies inside talking and laughing. The light from their activity reached into the street, and he tried his best to stay right in the middle of the path. It was far too bright, too garish for him. He liked how easy the dark was on his eyes.

He wondered if Thunderlane or Baritone were at that party. Big Mac might have come in to town—he did that more and more these days. They were all convinced he was seeing someone in town. Caramel had watched it from afar.

He felt excellent. His hooves hurt, yes, and his headache was still there in the back of his head, but he felt great. With every step, he was happier. Twilight was closer!

Up ahead, the lantern in the window gleamed out at him like a winking eye. He grinned wide at it, and forgot the whining of his empty stomach. She had left him a light as she always did! She would soon receive her picture. She would know what it meant, and she could tell him what he meant.

When he came to the door and knocked, he found it unlocked. Smiling, he entered.

The main room was dark. Caramel ignored the books on the floor and the boards on the windows. He saw nothing but the light that came from the side hall, where the reference books were. Therein laid a candle next to a rug. His heart hammering with excitement, he bit the corner of the rug and pulled it back, careful lest his hindleg should catch on a discarded book.

Under the rug he found, as he had so many times before, a trap door he knew would lead down into the basement archives. There was a small copper handle and he bit it, ignoring how cold it was. The door opened easily, and the stairs were before him.

Caramel descended into the dark archives.

It was a wide room with a low ceiling. Low-burning candles on the walls illuminated the dim corridors of dusty shelves and silhouetted the forms of ancient chests full of maps and artifacts long forgotten. Caramel wondered if they had a Phylactery. He hadn’t ever seen one, had he?

Twilight was waiting up ahead.

Caramel navigated the narrow alleys of books, sneezing only once. He heard faint feminine giggling up ahead, and it made him smile wide.

At last, he came out from the forest and found Twilight.

The bed was red. It was here that he’d painted the second picture for her as she lay out leisurely. His heart thundered in his ears. Twilight was there, sitting on the bed, leaned back just a ways, smiling at him. Baring her teeth, saying hello, only he heard it in his head. He knew she was saying hello, even though she didn’t say a word.

“I came, Twilight! Just like your note told me to,” he said, like a happy child.His voice was soft, as if was afraid it might shatter something if he raised it.Somehow it seemed right. He guessed it was because he was still technically in a library. He giggled at that.

You did, her eyes seemed to say, filled with mirth. And I see you brought a painting, a new one, her eyes continued as she tilted her beautiful head. Her eyes were so black, and red as they had always been, two strong and vibrant colors. How he had grown to love them. How he’d lived without them dominating all of his painting escaped him.

“Would you like to see?” he whispered.

She nodded, still not speaking. She didn’t have to. This was what he wanted. She was looking at him! She knew who he was! Inside, he was dancing.

He set it up to show her, smiling all the while like the smile was glued in place. Carnivore sat proudly on his little easel like a statue on a proud pedestal. He watched her imploringly.

She looked at it curiously, tilting her head this way and that, and then smiled. She left the bed and walked over to him, kissing Caramel on the forehead. Where she touched him, it was cold, and he was suddenly aware of how hot he felt. Did he have a fever? Was it just that she was cold? He should help with that...

But she was admiring the painting, taking it in.

“Carnivore,” he whispered.

She looked back, startled.

“The painting. The still life, I named it Carnivore. Do you know what it means?”

She blinked at him, but then smiled. Twilight had always been quiet. But yes, her eyes promised, she knew exactly what it meant.

He laughed as one surprised by sudden luck. Of course she would know, she always knew the answer to the questions. All of them.

Finally, she came back to him and kissed him softly on the lips. It lit his whole body on fire, and he felt alive as if he had never felt tired before. He trembled, and his legs seemed weak and yet they had never been stronger. His head was muddled; everything around him blurred.

He was laid down on the bed. She was kissing him, her caresses and ministrations finding his shoulders and hooves. He felt her kisses against his neck. And then she sank in two sharp fangs and he groaned.

He stared up at the ceiling, crying out, and he no longer knew what he felt. As she feasted, Caramel began to lose feeling in his hooves. He remembered snippets: This is the last time Caramel. He knew. Caramel, do you know why? Of course he knew, it had come this far. Twilight caressing the black grimoire like her new lover and he hated it, but he loved her. He loves her, will love her. She needs this, blood for something that’s important, something very important and big and he doesn’t understand. It has to do with magic. Her eyes are red now. He wonders if it’s from the blood. He misses reading in the study. Twilight is cold.

Is he falling? It feels like he’s falling down some long pit but it’s alright, Twilight is warm. Why are the Archives so cold? Shouldn’t they be warm? Usually they’re so warm... He hated falling.

Oh. He remembered what he was going to call the painting.

An Offering.

Author's Note

Rosebud comes from me needing a name that was suggestive but not so much so, like the painting.

Gather ye Rosebuds while ye may, little chilluns.

I hope you enjoyed it. Please, leave a comment.

Part of the inspiration for this came from an Ambrose Bierce story called Incident at... well crap. Some bridge of another. And kind of a Star Wars short story based off of that one, in homage, called "The Longest Fall." Caramel is not turned into a vampire.