//------------------------------// // Chapter 8: Tortured // Story: Changeling Chronicles: Consequences of Canterlot // by Cyanblackstone //------------------------------// He swallowed and ... It was a nice feeling, helping his friend, Bold decided. It made him feel really happy. In fact, he’d never been so happy as he was at this moment. Not even when ... Bold blinked, and suddenly, everything shifted, returning to a view of his home. His horn throbbed with pain, and he felt exhausted. And Chrysalis was shaking him vigorously, demanding something. It took a few more seconds for his mind to clear completely, just in time to catch her question: “How many times have you overdosed?” “Overdosed?” He’d overdosed... buck. He curled up around the pain in his horn—or tried to, as her insistent hold stopped him short. “Not again...” he muttered. “Thought I was over this...” Chrysalis released her grasp, and he toppled forwards as his support suddenly fell away from under him. “Why are you equines all idiots?” she moaned. “How you ever managed to defeat us is a mystery.” “What?” he stammered. Then a shock of pain ran through his hoof, nearly making him buckle, and he blanched. It wasn’t a one-time thing, apparently; he had no curse strong enough. He made do with repetition. ‘Here comes round two,’ he thought blackly. ‘Wonder if I’ll survive this one.’ Chrysalis began to rant something off, but even though she wasn’t five feet away, he didn’t hear her. What she had to say had absolutely no bearing on the grim situation. His hoof strayed towards the bag—he needed some morphine. A lot of it— more than was safe. He might very well kill himself if he gave himself the dosage he was thinking of. Without it, he might not survive anyway. Chrysalis made it a moot point by slapping his hoof away, her anger only ratcheting up and translating to her voice. “Bucking Luna and Celestia, it’s starting!” The changeling broke off her monologue in confusion, staring at him, but the next flare of agony, this one making the previous feel like love taps, broke his locked knees. More, cascading in speed and intensity, stole his last footing and curled him on the ground. Less than half a minute in, he began to crack. “Help!” he moaned, escalating into a scream as the flares merged into a single never-ending abyss of pain. “Help me—nnrrgh!” It transformed mid-plea into a primal cry of agony. ----- Taken completely by surprise, the changeling queen stood just out of reach. What had just happened? One moment, he was unconscious—the next, awake—and now he was screaming on the floor. It had blindsided her; was this the result of a venom overdose, or something else? She’d never seen anything like it before, and she was at a loss. Instinctively, she focused her empathic sense on Bold—which was the worst move she could have made. They were of a potency beyond that which she’d ever felt—even with her own drones. The first emotion she felt, disconcertingly strongly, was fear. Bold was scared for his life. The second was despondency, a feeling of giving in and letting the pain consume him. Speaking of which, his pain wasn’t quite as bad as hers had been just after she’d awoken the first time in his apartment, but that was like saying the fire was only burning down most of the building, or only half of somepony’s limbs were being sawed off. It was quite bad enough that, added to her own not-inconsiderable store of remaining pain, only barely held at bay by the morphine and her own inner discipline, that her unprepared mental walls began to fall like dominoes in a storm. She had to get away before she ended up just like him. She HAD to. But as she backed a step, Bold’s manic, pain-filled eyes found hers. “No,” he groaned. “Don’t...” She backed another step. “You’re sick—I can’t stay here—not like this—I have to go—” “Don’t!” he persisted, panting, one hoof clawing slowly towards her. “Don’t... go...” His body convulsed, lifting him off the ground and throwing him back down. “Please...” She had to get some distance. The pain threatened, a wave of such might it promised to leap along the empathetic link which she was now powerless to break in full force. It was one of the few drawbacks of instinctively knowing the feelings of everypony around oneself. So she backed through the door and into the kitchen, but as she turned to the door—uncaring of the consequences of revealing herself—a sudden rush of despair slammed through her defenses and sent her stumbling into the counter, clutching at the wood like to keep from curling to the ground and giving up. The emotional whiplash was so strong that her vision swam and her ears felt stuffed with cotton. Her hooves shook, robbed of what little strength they had recovered. Her horn, still slightly sputtering as it tried to repair itself, dimmed, then failed entirely. It was all she could do to stay upright. Chrysalis took one halting step, and then another, trying to escape, but there was no lessening of the weight which sapped her limbs of their strength. She fell to her front knees, but forced herself back upright and slammed against the wall, relying upon it to keep her erect. There was no possibility of making it far away to escape the feeling before it overwhelmed her. Besides, there was nowhere to go, anyway, she recalled lethargically. Everyone outside of this apartment hated her and would most likely arrest her—or just lynch her as soon as they could. There was no point in leaving, unless she wanted to die. Already, her mind grew depressed. There wasn’t much time—if she couldn’t escape it, she’d soon join Bold Words, quivering on the floor, if not worse. There were two ways to stop empathetic overload—get away, or fix the problem causing the strong emotion. But how to solve such a crushing weight? She staggered, leaning against the drywall, back to the door. Bold had curled into fetal position, constant spasms of agony rocking his trembling frame. He was sobbing, tears of agony mixed with the deepest sorrow she’d ever felt. “I... I don’t want... to die,” he cried. “I don’t want... to... to die...” His voice trailed off into mumbling after that, and his eyes slowly focused on a far-distant point. Chrysalis felt her last defenses crumbling, and without warning, she noticed her flank was on the carpet. She had blacked out momentarily and fallen over, and there was no chance of getting back up. Sluggishly, with excruciating sloth, she edged, dragging herself along, towards Bold, who was thrashing uncontrollably, eyes shrunk to pinpricks, babbling soft gibberish. He was beyond help now, it was obvious. All she needed to do was find the strength to lift one hoof—only a few measly inches—and drop it back down. That was all. There would be peace, and to hell with the finality of the consequences. But as she finally drew within hoof’s distance and painstakingly raised her hoof, she caught the gibberish—which wasn’t gibberish at all. “I don’t... want to... die...” he whispered brokenly. “I don’t want... to die... alone...” Her leg froze, stuck in its awkward position. No matter how much she hurt, no matter the mercy it would be, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Though she wanted to, oh so badly, her body refused to obey, and disconcertingly, she didn’t know why it wouldn’t. Never before had she found herself unable to do anything, no matter how grisly or dirty. But, for whatever reason, it was now that her body failed her. Her chance faded quickly, and her hoof fell, no longer propelled by her will but by gravity winning its battle with her spent muscles. Gently it dropped, with all the finality of a funeral bell, and she resigned herself to the pain. But the moment her hoof landed softly onto Bold’s fur, his eyes lost a little of their pain-madness, and his chant broke. “Chrys....Chrysalis... you didn’t... leave?” “No,” she rasped. “I’m still here.” It took a moment to regain her wind, and then she continued sourly, “It’s not like I had a choice...” She still had the presence of mind to clamp her lips over her thoughts only ten seconds before, but it was a near thing. But Bold wasn’t listening. “Thanks,” he whispered, once more staring at the ceiling sightlessly, “For... caring enough... At least... I won’t be... when...” Then he stiffened once more, and his coherency disappeared, his mouth resuming its mantra, but the pain she felt was (while no less intense) somehow less important. Less... all-encompassing. Her barriers, slowly, waveringly, began to rise. She couldn’t stop herself from feeling the pain, but she could narrowly prevent it from overwhelming her. It was only after several minutes that she noticed his chant was missing one conspicuous word.