Meet Mort
From Terry Trotchett's A Concise History of Equestria:
“If you were to ask some ponies what they thought of Equestria, there would typically be one of three responses.
Most would happily go on about how it's the most beautiful land they've ever laid eyes on. When its lush, sprawling forests aren't meeting you at every turn, you're instead walking through flat, green plains that are punctuated with fields of flowers both unique and sweetly fragrant. The animals, use to the care of the equine inhabitants, are incredibly friendly and would like nothing more than to nuzzle up against some passerby. Not to mention that, for the most part, the citizens are a kind and hospitable lot.
And Celestia's nice, too.
The second, and far more uncommon, response, is that Equestria is more than a little dangerous, with its habit of attracting not just the sweet, woodland creatures, but also the more dangerous, and often predatory, monsters that tower over your average pony, and just as often sporting a mouth big enough to swallow them whole. That they're mostly cooped up in the Everfree Forest is of little comfort, as the practically organic environment seems to envelop a little more of Equestria each year, and there's a disturbing trend of them coming out for one reason or another to incite panic, destroy both private and public property, and cause general mayhem. (Particularly on Fridays.) The equine citizens are still nice, though are looked at as being in denial of just how terrifying the land really was.
And Celestia's nice, though they think she should be a little more proactive in monster control.
The third response, even more uncommon than the second one, is that Equestria is lazy at best, manipulative at worst. After all, they'll tell you, just about everything about it has to be done by some other pony. The passage of night and day, the weather, the seasons, even the animals are dictated when to hibernate and when to head south. In their opinion, Equestria is more-than-capable of doing any of these things on its own, but at some point decided to shove the responsibilities onto its very kind, but very naïve, inhabitants. They would argue that if ponykind simply stopped picking up for its slack, Equestria might rise up and move its own celestial objects, change its own seasons, make its own weather, and if they're lucky, do the dishes.
Also, Celestia's nice, but she's suffering terribly from “beaten wife” syndrome, the poor thing.
While the third responders are the source of much derision and ridicule (because how could a world ever make its own wind without ridiculously huge wings?), they do bring up a key aspect (though, again, some would call it a “problem”) about Equestria: virtually everything about it is moderated by some other, sentient creature.
There is not one, natural process that does not have some being overlooking its operations. Not the sun, not the moon, not the weather, not the passage of seasons, not even the process that Hoofster described as “that uncomfortable thing that will eventually happen to you, that involves the cessation of breath, vital organs, and having your relatives explain to your foals that you're either sleeping, going on a trip, or taking up a long-term job that involves examining a coffin from the inside. While buried.”
Or as many others know it, death.*
*For more information about the cessation of breath and vital organs, uncomfortable explanations, etc etc, and all it entails, please turn to page 1,267.”
*****
The moon hung in the night sky, its sickle shape still able to bask the land below it in an eerie glow. A land that was, at the moment, enthralled in an almost barbaric ritual of screaming ponies, lurid dancing, and liquid concoctions of questionable taste, all surrounding a giant altar of wood and metal, where there would blare blasphemous words and unequine melodies from gaudy, perverse idols.
Yes, in spite of protests from some neighboring cults, “Hoovestock: An Equestrian Exposition,” had proven to be an unquestionable success.
A large field had been chosen for the festival, and within days, thousands had come to attend, setting up tents to either sleep in, sell merchandise from, or both. The tents were mostly on the outskirts, as further inward, there was nothing but a kaleidoscopic vortex of cheering fans and stomping hooves. Thousands upon thousands of ponies from some of the furthest corners of Equestria, gathered around a giant stage to hear their favorite bands perform. It was the last night of the festival, everypony knew it, and the fact may have attributed them to being even more loud and raunchy than the previous nights.
From across the surroundings plains, a dark figure approached the festival. He moved at a steady, calculated pace, never straying from his chosen path. He only began to slow down as he got within a hundred yards of the crowd, and came to a complete stop just before the first ponies, who mingled on the outskirts of the festival.
On first sight, he looked like any normal pony. He definitely had an equine shape that could be barely made out from the black cloak around his body, a cloak that didn't so much hang as it poured. And the horn that jutted through the top of his hood could easily belong to any unicorn, even if it were moderately scythe-shaped and, upon closer inspection, sharper then any blade that could possibly be forged, whether by earthly or mystical means.
He even looked like a pony under his hood, so long as one ignored the fact that normal ponies would have the decency of wearing skin, blood and muscle over their skeletal heads, and use normal, jelly eyes instead of burning, red dots that could be mistaken for fire pits from a distance.
He had gone by many names over the millennia, or rather, he had gone by many titles. The Pale Pony (of Death) was a common one, as was The Skull Stallion, and occasionally The Rogue Reaper. Some had even called him The Grim Galloper, though he personally thought they were taking their fondness for alliteration a little too far with that one. And, of course, there was just “Death.”
He, personally, preferred to go by Mort.
Right now, though, nopony would be asking for his name, largely because they would actually need to see him first. Mort was as incognito as one could become without ceasing to exist entirely: he was less visible than the air, more silent than the vacuum of space, and had all the physical presence of a sunbeam. He was a quintessential ghost.
He stood at the edge of a teeming, mass of ponies, gauging them. He always had a little trouble wrapping his mind around the concept of these activities. The goals were often very nebulous, they had the most bare-bones of scheduling, and they seemed to operate on a principle that equated more ponies to being more “fun.” He wasn't sure how; from where he stood it looked to be an utterly chaotic mess, and yet, somehow, it often worked. There were some things about the species he felt he would never understand.
After taking a breath (or rather, imitating the action of taking a breath, as he didn't have lungs), he proceeded into the crowd. Out here the ponies were relatively sparse, giving him ample room as he walked towards his destination. His eyes caught tents where they were selling trinkets, pictures, instruments, and of course, food. Food that, from what he could perceive, was probably well beyond any state considered edible, much less healthy, though the ones eating it didn't seem to mind. Just another odd quirk about them.
As he moved in closer, the crowd began to thicken, and he became more careful with how he approached and where from, to avoid getting too close to any pony. Every so often, though, some equine would stumble in their euphoria, and as a result an errant hoof or flank would graze through him. The stumblers, almost immediately, would have the sudden feeling they were being watched, question just what their purpose was in the universe, and suffer from a heavy feeling of dread. These thoughts and feelings, though, were fleeting at best on their own. Even more so with the addition of alcoholic beverages, a roaring crowd and deafening music.
Despite that, Mort would always utter a quick apology, even if they couldn't hear it anyway, and continue on his way. All creatures, on some spiritual level, knew when he was around, and the slightest of touches was enough to put almost anything on edge. Few living beings were comfortable in his presence, and he did his best to cordially respect this fact by avoiding them. A difficult thing to do inside crowds.
And as Mort soon saw, it would be especially difficult when presented with several thousands ponies, packed into a piece of land only a few acres large. The closer he got, the more it seemed he was not moving through a crowd, but a sea of equine flesh. He paused for a moment to glance at his surroundings, feeling like a rat in a maze. The stage was easy enough to see, and simple to get to, provided he walked through a hundred ponies on the way there. Grazing them was one thing, but to pass through them completely could really ruin the good vibes they had going.
Not that it really mattered, he thought. All of them were going to be pretty upset one way or another soon enough. He wouldn't be here otherwise...
He shook the cynical thought from his head, and focused at the task at hoof. There was a herd of ponies between him and the stage. If he wanted to get through them, he needed to look at it from another angle.
And he knew just who to ask.
He raised his horn into the air, his mind reaching outside his ethereal form. In front of him a pony flipped a peanut into the air, opening his mouth to catch it. The peanut slowed in its descent, grinding to a halt along with the rest of the world around him. Color and sound dulled before vanishing altogether from his senses. He felt himself beginning to float off the ground, though quickly remembered that it was merely an illusion. His body was still in Hoovestock. His mind, however, would be taking a little trip.
The collective shade subconscious was, as always, quite empty. It was a quintessential sea of chaos, almost devoid of anything. As he flew through it, Mort would occasionally hear the almost mechanical buzzing of a simple shade, using nothing but the instincts it was given at creation. Once or twice, he was certain he heard a stream of consciousness, most likely from another intelligent shade. He was tempted to get closer to see who it was, or if it were a shade that had just gained sentience, but decided against it. Not only was it kind of rude, he was also afraid they might detect him if he did. And there were some shades he did not want to anger.
It was easy enough to find his destination. It shone in the void like a beacon, attracting him much like a moth to a flame. It did not matter where in Equestria he did this, he would always feel its pull, instinctively knowing where to go. Normally, he would feel the others as well, moving towards it in swarms. However, it wasn't quite time for them to show up yet. It meant a much quieter trip, but it also meant he was going to be alone with Her.
The light grew brighter the closer he got, and he could see what was flowing into it. It was collected by the shades unconsciously, continuously being gathered and transmitted at every moment in their travels. “Data” was the best way to describe it, weaved in a way that most creatures wouldn't even be able to conceive, much less practice. Not even Mort could make much of it, as his kind was only made to collect it, not understand it. The last time he tried, his mind had been completely overwhelmed by the precise details of what he had learned to be flowers. It was the last time he ever tried something like that. (Incidentally, he also couldn't look at a flower anymore without feeling oddly ashamed and dirty.)
He dove into the light, and for an instant was bombarded with what may have been everything, from the shifting of the earth itself to the flapping of a butterfly's wing. A thousand details in one instant would be joined by another thousand details, all jumbling together into an incomprehensible mass of information. Just as he was fearing that his mind would be overwhelmed again, the light dimmed, and with it the knowledge as well.
He found himself in a familiar environment. It was enormous in size, so much that the walls and ceilings could not be seen. The floor was decorated with stone tiles of varying size and shape, all depicting a different creature. His, in particular, had the pony race, with the earth pony, pegasus and unicorn chasing each other in a circle. In the center of them was an alicorn, which always filled Mort with a sense of unease. Dotting the room were torches, with green flames of the same color and hue as his own magic, distributed evenly across the floor.
In the center of the room was an enormous podium that stretched towards the gathering of data above. The surface of the podium was covered with tiny images that would constantly shift every moment, representing another “snapshot” of Equestria as it was. One moment it would show a pony being chased by timberwolves, then it would be replaced by a bird flying through the air, and then that would be replaced by a spider building its web. No event was ever too miniscule. A creature's life was a fragile thing, and every moment counts.
She stood on top top of the podium, a titan in this subconscious realm, the data swirling above Her like a miniature star. As bright as that was, however, she was still veiled in shadow. Every so often, though, he might catch a glimpse of her ashen coat, or see the outline of her great wings. Even if he were standing beside her, emitting the radiance of the sun from his horn, she would still be like this. She always kept her mind closely guarded, more impregnable than any prison, fortress or moon.
After what seemed to be an eternity, a pair of eyes came into view, shining like lanterns in the darkness. They focused on him, and Mort fidgeted uncomfortably. Unlike her, his mind was about as secure as a straw shack. It meant she just didn't just see him, she saw every thought, every emotion, and every memory that came to his mind.
Her voice had all the weight and warmness of a glacier, each syllable seeming to shake the room. “You are early, shade. I am still calibrating the next set of prophecies. Return later with the others.”
Mort remembered why he was there, and took a moment to collect himself. He bowed until his chin touched the floor. “U-Uh, Thanasia, Lady and Creator, Mistress of the Shade Legions, Weaver of the...uh...Death Prophecies, Master of...er...” He trailed off, struggling to remember the other titles he had made up.
“'Thanasia' is just fine, shade,” She said, her voice echoing in the chamber.
“R-right.” Mort was disappointed. He had been certain She'd like at least one of those. She did not seem to like titles very much, which always confounded Mort. All the important creatures had a title of some sort. He had a title, several in fact. It didn't seem fair that he would get one, and not her.
“Is there a reason you're still here?” she asked absently.
“O-oh, right! Uh, well...” He cleared his throat (which was even more pointless now, given this was communication between minds), and said, “I have a favor to ask of you. See, I'm about to collect Red Shrimp, but he's on a stage that's surrounded by hundreds of ponies. I was wondering if...well, if it wasn't too much trouble, could you give me a tiny, little prophecy about the crowd's movements?”
Thanasia blinked slowly. “Why?”
“Well, it's really crowded, and you know how they get when a shade passes through them,” he explained briskly. “Goosebumps, paranoia, that sort of thing. It's just kinda...rude. I was hoping I could...avoid that?”
She stared at him for a long time. Mort fidgeted nervously again, wondering if he had said something wrong. Maybe his word choice should've been more grandiose. Did she react better to that or not? He couldn't recall. Actually, he couldn't recall a time when she wasn't distant or stoic...
Just as he was about to ask again, there came a short burst of green light from the center of Thanasia's head. For a moment he glimpsed the fringe of her white mane, a spiral horn, and a long, stony face. He felt a jolt in his mind, and an instant later he had a vision of Hoovestock, watching as the ponies in front of the stage walked, jumped and fell in all sorts of directions, creating tight but maneagable paths for him to walk through, until he ended up at the edge of the stage.
“Oh, thanks a lot!” he said, as he began to recall himself back to the material plane. “I guess I'll be seeing you soon, huh?”
“Yes,” Thanasia said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Very soon.”
The chamber and Thanasia fell away. One moment he was flying through a void, and in the next he was back in Hoovestock, seeing the peanut finish its descent into the pony's mouth.
He reviewed the prophecy given to him, watching the crowd movements carefully. His window would be coming pretty soon, and all he had to do was—
“Daddy, I can't see anything!” The tiny yet shrill voice caught Mort's attention. The voice was of a foal, in a crowd that sparsely had any children to begin with, and one of the few that wasn't crying. It stuck out like a cracked hoof.
He turned to the source: the cry came from a young filly, who barely came up to the knees of her parents. There was a stallion, an earth pony with a cobalt coat and a drawing board for a cutie mark, and beside him was a sienna mare, sporting a hypodermic needle for her cutie mark. The two were watching the stage, where a bizarrely dressed band called the Galaxy Fillies were currently playing. The adults were doing well enough, but the foal (theirs, he presumed) was jumping up and down in a futile effort to get a better look
“I can't see anything!” she shouted again, sounding on the verge of tears.
The father gave the foal a gentle smile and got on his knees, using his head to motion towards his back. Seeing his intent, the foal quickly climbed on top of him, and the father got back on his hooves. Once stable, the filly stood up on her hindlegs, balancing herself on her father's thick neck. Now seeing a better view, the filly squealed in delight, and hopped up and down on the father's back. The stallion smiled, only grimacing slightly with each hop from his daughter.
The mother was barely able to contain her laughter. “Be careful, Bristle, or daddy's going home with a really sore back.”
“Nah, I'm fine, really,” he said, forcing a smile through the pain he no doubt felt. “Besides, Clover's bringing along his special brew later tonight once things settle down. A few swigs of that, and I definitely won't be feeling anything then!”
This comment seemed to draw an irked look from the mare. “Archie...”
“I'm kidding, I'm kidding!” he said hurriedly, eliciting a giggle from their daughter. “But really, it's not too often we get to go out and do something like this, Sweet Heart. And it's been a while since we've seen our old pals.”
The mare sighed wistfully. “You're right, but we really shouldn't keep Bristle up so late...”
“Aww, mom!” the filly whined from her makeshift mount. “I don't even have school tomorrow! Why can't I stay up?”
“Besides, they haven't seen Bristle for a couple years! They'd love to see her again.” He winked at the filly on his head. “The last time they saw you, you could barely stand up. Now you can't stand still. Can you, you little squirt?” He raised a hoof and began to tickle the little foal, eliciting a shriek of laughter from Bristle. The filly suddenly lost her balance and hastily bit down on Archie's mane, stopping her descent and causing the father to yowl.
The mare cocked an amused eyebrow. She chuckled, causing her mate to frown, though it soon turned into a small grin. Sweet Heart lowered her neck until she was under her daughter, then lifted it up, carrying the foal with her. The filly slid down her mother's slender neck, plopping down on her back.
“Well, it can't be all-night,” Sweet Heart said, rubbing her head against her daughter's, “but another hour or two shouldn't be too bad...”
“I knew you'd come around,” Archie said. “I can't wait to hear what they've been up to. They also...did I ever tell you about that time when I was in Trottingham, with Blitzer and Roundhouse? We were staying at this hotel—not a fancy one, of course, bit of a dump, really—but anyway, we were at this hotel, and there were these really loud griffons in the room over...”
Mort found himself listening intently to the story, a hundred yards away but hearing every word as if he were there. As the tale unfolded, Archie's words began to blend together into a dull murmur, as Mort paid more attention to the feelings emanating from the two.
Shade's didn't “feel” like most creatures. They knew when it was warm or cold, could surmise when something was wet or dry, hard or soft, but the actual, physical sensation was lost to them. It wasn't a necessary components for shades. What they could feel were the flow of life in living beings, all the way down to the smallest blades of grass. Walking through a tall, grassy field was one of Mort's simple pleasures.
What they could also feel, or at least, what Mort and the other, intelligent shades could feel, were emotions. Whatever feelings that were being felt by the ponies were fed from their brains into their very spirits, which existed on a level near (or at least, nearer) to shades. Mort could get a sense of a ponies emotions when he observed them, like looking at Horsechach inkblots. And when there was any sort of contact, even when intangible, those thoughts and feelings were as clear to him as the color of their coat, or the shape of their cutie mark.
What Mort felt from the lovers were some very, familiar emotions. There were feelings of nostalgia from the stallion as he recalled the memory, and feelings of mirth from the mare as she processed the details. There were temporary feelings of mortification from both when it was found out what the griffons were up to, amused shock at what Roundhouse had apparently said about the mother of one of them, and many others, reacting to each detail.
What really caught Mort's attention, however, were the underlying emotions, that seemed to always be there, no matter what was said. Feelings of devotion. Feelings of connection. Feelings of wholeness.
The three ponies were absolutely content. And, disturbingly, he was jealous.
It was all cut short by a thunderous applause from the audience. Mort snapped back to his senses, and looked towards the stage, where he saw that the Galaxy Fillies had gotten in a line to do a collective bow. Mort was confused for several moments, until it all came rushing back to him:
Hoovestock. Bands. Poorly thought-out stage props. Appointment.
The Galaxy Filles filed off the stage on roller skates, their lead guitarist sticking her tongue out at the fans in an exaggerated manner as her band mates dragged her off. From the opposite side, a surprisingly well dressed stallion with a mahogany coat and a microphone for a cutie mark trotted to the front. He swept back his already slick, blond mane, smiling pearly whites at the audience.
“Wow! What a performance! There aren't nearly enough all-filly bands out there, folks. And did you get a look at Pluto? The black mane, the black stockings, the black boots and spike bracelets...wasn't she just adorable?” The stallion nonchalantly ducked as a guitar soar from off stage, clearing it completely and hitting a hapless stage hoof on the other side. “Okay, okay, my bad. They're ebony.” This ignited a chorus of laughter, and off stage Mort could make out some inventive cursing. “But seriously folks, definitely one of best bands I've seen these past few days. And given all the talent up here, that's saying something. But...can they stand up to our last band tonight?”
No sooner had the last word left his mouth, than had the stage gone completely dark, catching a number of ponies off guard. All across the field, there were murmurs of “just an act,” “technical problems,” and of course, “whose hoof is that?”
It was around this time that Mort felt a small jolt in his mind, and he realized that his request had just been answered. In an instant he knew the motions of the entire crowd, from the stage to the outskirts. Thinking it over, there would be one path to the stage, though it would be a tight squeeze.
He dove into the crowd, twisting around the ponies as he struggled to avoid them. Their movements matched Thanasia's prophecy perfectly, but he was technically a few seconds later and had to make up for lost time. He wasn't as careful as he would've like, grazing a pony here and there. There was a stallion that was struggling to stay on his hooves. A mare that was beginning to feel claustrophobic. Another mare formulating a review for the festival. A stallion wondering if he should be more frisky with his fillyfriend. A foal wanting to go home. A mare...
A new sound cut through the murmurs of the crowd. It was the hissing of machines, soon followed by a thick smoke that billowed from offstage, enveloping everything in front of the crowd, including the metal rafters. There was so much that it floated down and into the front rows of ponies, causing them to go into hacking fits.
The stage lights suddenly shot back on, and this time were pointed into the air. Their came a chorus of awed gasps as they focused on something large and white. A giant stallion skull had appeared in the night sky, slowing descending towards the stage below. At least, that's what Mort thought it was supposed to be: the nose was too long, the eyes too small, and the front incisors far too large. Anatomy was clearly not the band's strong suit.
The tacky prop, made of heavy plastic and weaved with iron bars, was almost able to hide the magical glow surrounding it within the smoke on stage. But as soon as it came to a stop, resting upon iron support beams secretly erected as it made its appearance, there came a sudden explosion of noise (some would argue music) that sent the smoke fleeing through the crowds. As it cleared, it revealed that half-a-dozen speakers had somehow been moved onto stage, three on each side, and each one three times as tall as the average pony. All of them had knobs turned to crudely drawn 11s.
It was the center of the stage, however, that got the crowd's attention, as standing beneath the skull was a group of ponies. The most prominent of them, standing in front, wearing a white shirt and brown vest combo, with an unruly, blond mane, was the lead unicorn singer, Saint Hug 'Ems (who to this day still had trouble living down his name). To his left, wearing a leopard-spotted vest and sporting a long, dark mane, was his long time, earth pony friend and lead guitarist, Tough Nail. To Hug 'Ems left, wearing a black vest decorated with gold rings, and wearing a rather dashing mustache, was the lead bassists, a pegasus named Smalls.
And in the back, seeming far less concerned about being under a ludicrously large, heavy skull than most ponies should, was the band drummer, Red Shrimp, wearing a black vest and packer hat. The earth pony crossed his drumsticks in the air, silently exhibiting an aura of confidence. How he held them was anyone's guess. Some said he practiced a secret magic known only to some ponies that allowed him to pick objects up as if he had opposable thumbs. More practical ponies figured he used Velcro.
The announcer's voice boomed over crowd. “Fillies and gentlecolts, the moment you've all been waiting for. This! Is! SPINAL CLOP!”
There came a thunderous applause as jets of flame shot across the stage, illuminating the rock band and flinging sparks across the wooden structure, which had to be quickly extinguished by frantic stage hooves. Stamping out a little fire that had grown on his mane, St. Hug 'Ems took to the center of the stage, grasping the microphone with his inarticulate hoof.
“HOOVESTOCK!” he bellowed, with a Trottingham accent that even casual listeners could discern as fake. “Are you ready to rock?!”
The response was a cacophony of noise, enough to make the cloak pony wince. He stared up into the stage, focusing on one of the rods that held up the gigantic stage prop, seeing it rattle in tune with the cheering ponies. It was not long for this world, and neither was somepony else.
“I didn't quite catch that,” Hug 'Ems said, cupping his ears. “I asked, are you ready TO ROCK?!”
“YES!” the crowds screamed.
“What was that?!”
“YES!” Mort looked around him, seeing that there was now a straight path to the stage. He took a calming breath (a habit he had picked up from watching other ponies doing it), and proceeded forward.
“ALRIGHT THEN!” St. Hug 'Ems stood back, his band mates prepping their instruments as they prepared to play their first song. “Let's hit them with everything we got, boys! ONE, TWO, THREE—”
What would've normally ended with an exclamation point, instead ended with an explosion of sound as the guitarists came down on their instruments, inflicting temporary deafness on those closest to the mammoth speakers. The ground itself seemed to tremble from the force of it, and all at once hundreds of ponies shared the same, slick-backed mane.
It was even enough to give Mort pause, though not because of the force, since it passed through him completely. What really stopped him was the tune itself, which seemed oddly familiar to him. He couldn't pinpoint from where, or even when, but he was sure had heard it. The music was set so loud he almost had trouble distinguishing the words, which seemed to be talking about living in a “hay hole,” which struck him as an unusual inspiration for a song.
Even stranger, it was quite catchy, and he found himself tapping to the beat as the song played out. Music was, in his opinion, one of the greatest things to be invented by ponies. He just wished there was a way to listen to it on the go. There were phonographs, but they were big, heavy things with large discs. If only they could make those things smaller, and maybe fit more music...
Creak.
Mort's musings ended as soon as he heard it. Pivoting his head towards the stage, he saw the support bar for the skull prop bending further, finally drawing the attention of the drummer, who by then had noticed it too late.
With a metallic snap, the iron rod broke in two at the center. Without it, the other two quickly followed, and the giant skull came crashing on top of a dumbfounded Red Shrimp. The impact sent a quake across the stage, sending St. Hug 'Ems and Smalls to the wooden floor, and causing one floor board to catapult Tough Nail off the stage and into the crowd, where he was caught by ecstatic fans.
The effect on the crowd was immediate. While half stood by, wondering if this was part of the act, the other half rushed towards the stage to get a better look. Among them was Mort, who was trying to get on the stage. But there were hundreds of ponies now packed like sardines in front, with quite a few trying to jump over some barriers to get on the actual stage. Frustratingly, he realized he had missed his opportunity when he had stopped to listen.
Just as Mort was getting ready to squeeze between the tightly packed crowd, his eyes caught a pegasus that was diving towards the stage from a cloud. In particular, his eyes focused on the pegasus' wings. He watched them dumbly for a moment, before facehoofing with a groan.
With a thought, a pair of skeletal wings erupted from his back. He flapped once, and he went sailing over the crowd, and landed soundlessly on the stage, just in time to see St. Hug 'Ems recover.
The singer unstrapped the shattered guitar that had broken his fall, and looked behind him to see their giant, plastic skull where their drummer used to be.
“Oh horse apples,” he said, his real, southern accent slipping in.
Mort went around the despondent singer and towards where the hapless Red Shrimp had been. Security and stagehooves were already there, struggling to move the mammoth prop. Mort got between two of them, focusing on the pony (rather, what was left of him) underneath.
Once again, he raised his horn. Powerful, ancient magic flared from it, its green aura extending out one horn-length before it began to mold itself into a shape. When it was done, an ethereal scythe floated above Mort, tethered to his horn and thin enough to comfortably fit between atoms. With the barest twist of his head, Mort swung the magical blade through where Spinal Clop's now former drummer was.
A moment later, the shimmering, translucent spirit of Red Shrimp crawled out (or rather, through) the wreckage, shaking his head. He took a quick look around, noting the giant skull with some leeriness. The nearby ponies were, of course, none-the-wiser.
“Wow, that was close,” he said, relieved. “For a minute there I thought I was a goner!” He finally took notice of the cloaked pony, who stood motionless in front of him. “Oh, uh, hey. How's it goin'? You know only staff's allowed up here, right?”
“Uh...” Mort cleared his throat (more accurately, imitated the sound of it), because that's what they all seemed to do when breaking bad news. “I'm not exactly staff—”
“Oh, so you were from one of the other acts? I don't really remember you. Um, no offense. I'm sure you were cool, dude.” The ex-drummer tilted his head sideways, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Is that a...skull?”
“Um, yes,” Mort said. “I know it looks a little—”
“Cheap?”
Mort stopped himself, feeling himself bristle a bit. “Excuse me?”
“Uh, I mean...” Red Shrimp scratched the back of his head, looking apologetic. “It's not bad or anythin', but it just kinda looks like it came out of a bit-store. We're actually selling some ourselves. You should pick one up on the way out.”
Mort remained silent, briefly recalling a souvenir stand on the way, selling cheap masks that bore a strong resemblance to the skull on stage. Funnily enough, the price tags had given them a value far above what they were actually worth. It seemed math was also not their strong suit.
“Oh, hey, Hug 'Ems!” Red Shrimp turned his attention away from the cloaked pony, looking towards the blond stallion, who was speaking to some security guards. “I'm fine, dude! All's cool! Let's just get this cleaned up and get on with the show, okay?”
Red Shrimp waited for St. Hug 'Ems to say something, but the bereft singer simply kept his head down as he continued speaking to the guards. More stagehooves made their way towards them, and right behind them were some ponies who apparently got past the guards, decorated with Spinal Clop merchandise.
“Hey, why's he ignoring me?” Red Shrimp bit his lip, looking hurt. “I mean, it's not like it's my fault the whole thing fell down. And I was the one that almost got squashed, anyway.”
Mort braced himself for his least favorite part of the job. “He's not ignoring you.”
Red Shrimp shot him a confused look. “Huh? What are you talking about? He's not even looking at me!”
“Because he can't see or hear you now,” Mort stated. “As for 'almost' being squashed...”
He pointed a bony hoof towards where the giant prop had landed. Red Shrimp followed it and saw, sticking out between the white plastic and splintered floor boards, a leg that looked remarkably like his own.
Red Shrimp looked at the leg, then back at the cloaked pony, then back at the leg, then once again at the cloaked pony. He looked at the skull 'mask' underneath the hood. Really looked.
“W-wait,” he said, slowly, his eyes widening in panic. “Y-you're saying I'm...you...that, is...?”
Mort only nodded, waiting. Accidental deaths were often accompanied by heavy denial. It was very short, but also very messy.
“N-no, no,” Red Shrimp said, a nervous giggle coming from his throat, “there's no way you're...pfft, ha ha ha! O-okay, dude, I'll give it an 'A' for effort, but...I mean, can you believe this guy?”
The question was directed at a young stagehoof, who was still struggling to move the skull. What was also directed at him was a playful punch on the shoulder. One that simply passed through.
Red Shrimp stared, and tried again, watching in horrid fascination as his limbs phased through the stagehoof with no difficulty. He turned a pair of terrified eyes towards Mort, who simply shrugged.
“Oh, n-no...no way! No way! T-that's...I c-can't be...” He looked at the dozen or so ponies still struggling to move the skull, which now included the rest of his band. Their veins bulged and sweat dripped down their faces as they tried to move the prop.
“C-come on guys, hurry up!” the drummer shouted, trying not to look at the leg that could only be his. “It's not healthy having a ton of plastic laying on you, you know!”
“Look,” Mort started, “I know this hard to accept, especially when it happens so suddenly, but I'm pretty sure—”
“Hey, you shut up!” Red Shrimp demanded, pointing an accusing hoof at the pony shade. “It's not over yet, you hear? You wouldn't believe the things we can survive! Especially earth ponies!”
“Actually, I would,” Mort said, evenly. “I've seen more than a few ponies 'cheat' death in ways you wouldn't believe, but, um, this really isn't one of those times.”
“The hay it ain't!” Red Shrimp poked Mort roughly in the ribs. “Just you wait! They're going to get that off me, do a little CPR, and then I'll be right as—”
The ex-drummer was cut off by the sound of the fake skull rolling onto its side, landing with a enormous thump. The rescuers, fans and Red Shrimp rushed towards the crater of the stage. They got a good look at his body.
The fans screamed at the sight, covering their eyes. Others turned shades of green and had to quickly turn away, lest they defiled the body even further. The rest of Spinal Clop looked on in silence, looking saddened but unsurprised.
The announcer from before grimaced slightly, then perked up. “Well, I always did thought he sounded a little flat.” This earned him a venomous look from others nearby.
Red Shrimp stared at where is body was, his eyes and mouth wider than what would have been mortally possible. Mort stepped forward, standing beside Red Shrimp as he took a peek at what was left of his mortal coil. He laid a foreleg across Red Shrimp's shoulders, and tried to let him down easy.
“I don't think CPR's going to fix that.”
******
And so Hoovestock came to its climatic, tragic, and most of all, memorable, end. The attendees began to leave in herds, heading towards their homes or to spend more time with one another under the stars. The recent events had made them all more sober than when they had arrived, though a number of them were planning on remedying that fact in the next hour or so.
Mort sat in silence, waiting patiently. Around him were crushed soda cans, empty bags, wooden steaks half-way out of the ground, and the occasional torn rope. Things were now much quieter than they were when he first got here. Technically his job was “done,” but there were a couple things to tend to.
For starters, Red Shrimp. The recently departed and now ex-drummer of Spinal Clop had followed the medics as they moved his body (or rather what was left of it) from the stage to the carriage, blanching as they stopped once to pick up a piece that had fallen off. That they expressed doubts about getting every piece of him did not help matters. In the end, all Red Shrimp could do was watch forlornly as they rode off with his body in an ambulance, disappearing into the night.
Now the pony sat where he was, completely despondent, and Mort could hardly blame him. Accidental deaths were one of the worst ways to go, if only because of how sudden and unexpected they always are. Those who passed on by way of old age or disease were, by and large, able to prepare themselves for it. The only ones properly prepared for accidents were the utterly paranoid, and that hardly seemed a way to live.
The sound of a can being kicked caught Mort's attention, and he looked to see the source. The three remaining members of Spinal Clop were making their way towards Red Shrimp. Or more accurately, to where the ambulance last was. Four beer bottles were levitating beside St. Hug 'Ems, who passed two of them off to his fellows. The other two he kept for himself.
The three of them stood where the ambulance was in thoughtful silence, popping the caps off their respective bottles.
“Well, I suppose it was bound to happen,” St. Hug 'Ems said dourly, swishing the bottle around. He was back in-character with his voice. “Tradition and all that.”
“Gotta admit, I didn't expect it at all,” Smalls said. “I mean, kinda mundane when you think about it.”
Tough Nail stared at him incredulously. “Mundane? He got crushed by a giant stage prop!”
“Well, yeah,” Smalls replied lamely. “But, y'know, that's a thing that actually happens. Remember the first guy and the gardening equipment?”
The other two nodded sagely, an uncomfortable look crossing both their faces. Red Shrimp kept his head down, staring only at his front hooves.
Tough Nail sighed. “It's all my fault,” he said morosely. “The speakers must've shook the thing apart. I should have never made them go to eleven.”
St. Hug 'Ems groaned. “Aw geeze, don't say that...”
“I should've listened,” the pegasus continued, seemingly in his own world. “They all told me eleven was too far, that it was crazy. But I didn't listen, did I? And Red paid for it.”
Smalls waved his hoof dismissively. “Hey now, we all signed off on the idea, okay? All of us thought it was pretty cool. Even Red thought it was cool.”
“Yeah, come on, don't blame yourself.” St. Hug 'Ems rested a reassuring hoof on Tough Nail's shoulder. “Listen, what'd Red think if he saw you right now? Saw us right now?”
The three of them reflected silently. Tough Nail kicked at pebbles near his hoof, St. Hug 'Ems took another swig of his drink, and Small scratched his mustache.
“That is an interesting question,” Mort said suddenly, deciding now was a good time as any to speak up. “What are you thinking?”
Red Shrimp lifted his head, giving the shade a dazed look. “I...I don't...” He trailed off, looking at his band mates.
“All I'm saying,” Mort continued, “is that this might be the last time you see these guys. If you want to get anything off your chest, now's probably the best time.”
Red Shrimp looked between Mort and his band mates uncertainly. “C-can they hear me?” he asked, his tone a strange mixture of apprehension and hope.
“Um...well, it's not impossible,” the shade replied, not completely certain about the specifics himself. “They might at least feel something. Maybe.” When he was greeted with a discouraged look, Mort could only shrug helplessly. “I'm sorry, it's not an exact science. It's different for everypony. But it wouldn't hurt to try.”
Red Shrimp looked at his band mates thoughtfully. With a wistful sigh, he got back on his hooves, turning his attention to St. Hug 'Ems.
“Uh, okay. First up, Hug 'Ems. Well, uh, what can I say other then, well, thank you? I-I mean, I was just kinda drifting from one place to another, not really knowing where to go or what to do. Then you came into my life and gave me this...honest-to-Celestia crazy proposition to be your drummer, in light of every, other drummer you had kicking the bucket. I...guess I should feel upset about that now, but, well, like they say: better to burn out than to fade away, right? Keep up the good work.”
He then turned to Tough Nail. “Now, Nail. The two of them are right, you shouldn't blame yourself over this. We had no way of knowing your stereos were going to do what they did, alright?” (Mort resisted an urge to comment on that.) “Honestly, I thought the whole idea of going above ten to be absolutely brilliant. Don't you ever consider removing it. And, uh...” Red Shrimp coughed awkwardly, shooting a sidelong glance at St. Hug 'Ems. “It's pretty obvious you...what I'm trying to say, is it ain't healthy to keep those feelings all locked up and everything, right? He might not know how you feel, but it's been pretty obvious to the rest of us, and...well, you never know. Hug 'Ems always struck me as a more open-minded pony than most. What ever he says, he'll never hate you or anything.”
Red Shrimp paused a moment, as if hoping Tough Nail would say or do something. When nothing came of it, Red Shrimp seemed to struggle to keep a straight face as he finally focused his attention on the last pony. Mort continued to watch, a part of him nagging that he shouldn't.
“Smalls, Smalls, Smalls...” Red Shrimp said, shaking his head each time. He approached the earth pony with a small grin. “You were like the brother I never had. Always there to help, always ready to cool an argument between us, always prepared to fix any of our screw ups. The other two probably would have split a long time ago if it hadn't been for you. You're the glue that's held this rickety train together all these years.” He continued to look warmly at his band mate, as the latter took another swig from his bottle. “But seriously, you can be such a bucking idiot sometimes!”
Mort was shaken from his melancholy and stared at Red Shrimp in shock. “What?”
Red Shrimp ignored him. “Mundane? Seriously?! I get myself crushed flat by a giant, freakin' skull and all you can say is that it was mundane? Can you name me another guy who went out like that?! I don't care if ponies get squished every day, it's a far sight better than being caught dead on a toilet, like some other rock stars!”
Red Shrimp started to say something else, but stopped himself. He turned to look at Mort and asked, “That guy is dead, right?”
The outburst had surprised Mort so much, he wasn't in a state to give a coherent answer. “Uh...”
“Right, like I was saying!” Red Shrimp continued, staring heatedly at the oblivious Smalls. “I don't care if it wasn't as weird as the gardening incident, you can't ask for a more, metal death than getting pasted by a giant skull!” He paused, his eyes looking up thoughtfully. “Well, except spontaneous combustion. That would have actually been kinda cool. Or maybe getting electrocuted by your own instrument. Or having a heart attack while in bed with two fillies.” He smirked knowingly. “You'll probably go out that way, you lucky stud.”
Red Shrimp's eyes became misty. The earth pony almost seemed to be looking right back at him, if not for how distant his own eyes were. Red Shrimp lifted his forelegs, hesitated, than slowly enclosed Smalls within them, stopping just short of actually touching him.
“I love ya, Smalls,” he choked. “I'll miss you.” He retracted his legs, and gave a longing look at his band...no, friends. “I'm going to miss all of you.”
As if it were a signal, St. Hug 'Ems lifted his beer bottle into the sky, and declared, “Here's to Red Shrimp. Gone, but never forgotten.” The three of them then turned their beer bottles over in tandem, spilling the rest of their contents to the ground. All except St. Hug 'Ems, who watched in puzzlement as nothing came out of his. He twisted the bottle around to look inside it. “Whoops.”
“Just pour one out when you get home,” Smalls said, dropping his bottle into a nearby trash can. He proceeded to walk off, looking back once to say, “I'll get in touch with a funeral home tomorrow. Lots of paper work, I expect.”
Tough Nail nodded affirmatively, going his own way as well, haphazardly throwing his bottle into the field. “I'll pack his things.”
“And I'll get a lawyer,” St. Hug 'Ems finished, still looking deep into his bottle for any hidden liquid. He threw it behind him and popped the cap on the last bottle. He brought it up to his lips, but stopped short. He searched around himself, swirling the bottle around in the air. Finally, he sat the bottle on the ground. Right in front of Red Shrimp. “One for the road,” he whispered.
And like that, they were gone into the night, preparing themselves for tomorrow and all it entailed. This left only Mort and Red Shrimp. Red Shrimp looked at the bottle a long time, failing to hold back tears. He wiped what moisture there was from his eyes, and turned to see the shade waiting just behind him. He jumped.
“Oh! Uh, right...” Red Shrimp looked nervously at Mort, rubbing one foreleg. “S-sorry, I didn't mean to take up your time or anything...”
Mort shook his head. “You're fine. I still got a little time before my next stop, anyway. Don't worry about it!”
Red Shrimp relaxed, relief washing over him. “Well, I guess that's good to hear...uh, Pale Pony, sir.”
“Please,” the shade replied, “call me Mort.” He motioned for Red Shrimp to start following him, and it wasn't long before the two of them were walking away from the remnants of Hoovestock, across the very field Mort had passed through to get there. “So, are you feeling any better?” Mort asked him.
“A little bit, actually...” Red Shrimp peered down at his legs, watching the blades of grass pass through the ends of his hooves. “You know, this isn't as bad as I thought it'd be.”
“Dying's the hardest part,” Mort said. “It gets easier after that. Kinda like after getting a giant needle jabbed into you. Or so I'm told.” Mort concentrated, and the lower portion of his cloak dissipated to reveal skeletal legs. “Can't really speak from experience, obviously.”
The earth pony chuckled. “I suppose not.”
Mort released his concentration, the cloak wrapping around his legs again. “So, is there anypony else you want to see?” Mort asked. “Family? A wife? Kids?”
“Definitely no wife,” Red Shrimp said, sounding relieved. “And no kids, either...erm, none that I'm aware of, anyway.” He gave a nervous, little cough. “Uh, as for family...eh, me and my folks have pretty much said everything we could say. I think they'll be fine.”
“You sure?” Mort asked, uncertain.
“Well...to be honest, my mom always did say that being a rock star would be the death of me. I just know she's going to be saying 'I told you so' right up to the funeral, and a little later, too.” Red Shrimp seemed to think of something, then winced. “Oh, Celestia, I don't envy the sap who's supposed to make me look presentable.”
“Could be closed casket,” Mort suggested.
Red Shrimp shrugged. “Why even bother? They could probably fit all of me in a jar, the way I am now.” He sighed. “And now I just remembered I signed myself up as an organ donor. Fat lot that'll do somepony now, unless they're looking for paper-thin kidneys.”
It was a slightly dark turn in their conversation, but in Mort's experience it had always been something of a coping mechanism. Making light of death helped in taking the sting out of it, especially if it were your own. And especially if it was your job to tend to every, single one.
“Well, it could be worse,” Red Shrimp mused, as the two of them crested a hill. “Smalls was right about one thing, the first guy did not go out very pleasantly. It did not sound quick or painless.”
“It wasn't,” Mort commented, shivering. “I've been at this for centuries, and that one still gives me the heebie jeebies.”
“Must've been pretty bad if you remember, then.” Red Shrimp stopped himself, and Mort followed suit. The two of them stood at the top of the hill, where fireflies danced around them and through them. It gave them a good view of what was now left of Hoovestock, consisting of only some trash and a stage that needed to be torn down.
“Oh, I remember all the ponies I've reaped,” Mort said, taking some pride in the fact. “You ask me who, I'll tell you where, when and how.”
Red Shrimp smiled sardonically. “Dang, I should've read up on some more conspiracies, then.”
“Please none of those,” Mort moaned, rubbing his head. “I've learned that if a pony believes in something enough, it doesn't matter who tells them how it happened.”
“They don't believe you?”
“They think I'm in on it, too.”
The two of them had a good laugh at that. It felt good to laugh, it felt even better to see Red Shrimp laughing. Watching the departed being able to find joy in something always perked him up, especially nowadays.
Red Shrimp wiped a spectral tear from his eye, calming himself. “So, heh, what's next then?”
Mort got himself back in control as well, and asked, “What do you mean?”
Red Shrimp looked at him expectantly. “Well, unless I'm supposed to be a ghost for the rest of my—existence, I guess?—isn't there another part to all this?”
Mort felt confused for a moment, before he finally grasped his meaning. “Oh, right! Of course! Well...it really depends. Do you have any 'unfinished business' or the like?”
“Not really,” Red Shrimp said, shrugging absently.
“Hmm...” Mort scratched his chin, pondering. “Do you feel content, then?”
“Ah...I don't know,” Red Shrimp said uncertainly. “How will I know if I am?”
“You'll know,” Mort assured him. “It might take a few minutes, a few hours, maybe even a few days, but you'll know.”
“So what do I do until then?” the ex-drummer asked. “Haunt the grounds or something?”
“Well, it's up to you,” Mort said. “You could visit your home, walk around town, explore places that were too dangerous before, or...”
“Or?”
Mort scratched at the ground nervously, feeling his insides knot up. “Or you could...I don't know, stick with me?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper by the end.
Red Shrimp stared at him, his mouth hanging slightly open. “Wait, you mean hang out? With you?” He sounded incredulous.
Mort turned away from Red Shrimp and sighed, disappointed and embarrassed. “You're right, it's a really stupid—”
“Count me in!”
“—idea, I'm sorry for—wait, what?” Mort spun back around, looking at him in shock. He felt his hopes rising. “Really?”
“Of course!” Red Shrimp playfully punched him in the shoulder. “Come on, I'm a rock star and you're the Pale Pony! Hanging out with you has got to be, like, a rule or something!”
“Well, not really, but okay!” Mort stifled a giggle of excitement. “Let's get going! We'll cut through the woods!”
“Alright!” Red Shrimp clopped his hooves together once, and the pair began their descent down the hill. Mort was struggling to contain himself. It had been a while since somepony could accompany him, much less been so eager about it. “So, where are we headed?” Red Shrimp asked.
“Well, there's this mare named Tuft Love in Trottingham,” he started. “She's been getting on in years, see, and her heart's...um...” He shot a concerned look at Red Shrimp. “Are you really going to be okay? I mean, we are talking about a dying pony here...”
“Hey, it's no prob!” the ex-drummer replied easily. “I mean, I saw what happened to me. It can't get much worse than that. And I bet seeing a celebrity will help them feel a little better and everything, you know?”
That was true. What was also true was that not all of them recovered as quickly as Red Shrimp had. And that he somehow doubted that an old mare would have even heard of Red Shrimp, much less Spinal Clop. But these were points he could not bring himself to say right away.
They reached the forest in good time. Mort phased through the rocks, branches and bushes, making a beeline for their destination. Behind him, Red Shrimp was still getting accustomed to the fact he was immaterial. He instinctively moved around trees and rocks, and winced when his legs moved through thorn bushes.
He only stopped once to stick his head inside a particularly wide tree. A few seconds later Mort heard him say, “Wow, older than my grandma,” and then he was back on the move again.
“This is all kinda neat,” Red Shrimp said, clearly impressed. “Do you, like, go straight through mountains and the like, too?”
“When I'm short on time,” Mort said, watching in amusement as Red Shrimp ducked under a branch out of habit. “I like to take the scenic route, though. Much more interesting then a mile of solid rock. Speaking of scenic...”
The forest came to an abrupt end, and the two of them entered a lush clearing. Batches of flowers seemed to glow under the moonlight, swaying in the gentle breeze. All manner of insects danced above and marched below. Red Shrimp's smile widened considerably as he took it in.
“Nice,” he breathed.
“Very nice,” Mort agreed. “You chose a really great night to play. Now we just...”
Mort trailed off as something caught his eye. Near the center of the clearing there was a still form. Mort didn't need to scan it to know that it was a rabbit. Several puncture wounds went from its neck to its thigh, leaking dark blood.
Red Shrimp also noticed, and frowned sympathetically. “Aw, poor guy. What happened?”
“Something tried to eat him,” Mort explained. “He got away, but either the blood loss or trauma got to him.”
“Dang,” his companion replied. “So, is this the part where you...?”
“Huh?” Mort looked over to him, cocking his head.
Red Shrimp seemed just as confused. “Well, he's dead, so...” He held the last syllable, looking at Mort expectantly.
“Oh, rabbits aren't my department,” Mort said.
“'Not your department?'” the pony repeated. “You're the Pale Pony!”
“Right, and I collect ponies. Rabbits are its job,” Mort said, pointing to the other side of the clearing.
Red Shrimp followed, and gave a startled gasp at what came out.
The rabbit shade was not like Mort. It was a black, amorphous shape that made its way out of the foliage, hovering just above the ground. In spite of that, Mort saw it hop from one spot to another, its body stretching like a slinky as it did so. It had a pair of yellow dots that Mort assumed were to be eyes, and nubs on its “head” that wiggled occasionally.
Red Shrimp had taken a couple steps back, staring at it with a bit of anxiety. “Um, what's that?”
“That's the rabbit shade,” Mort told him. “Kinda like me, only for, you know, rabbits.”
Red Shrimp swallowed. “Oh. Uh, I notice he doesn't look an awful lot like you...”
Mort shrugged. “Well, it can't really help it. Rabbits aren't exactly the most mentally stimulating creatures in the world. It almost has the ears and eyes down, though, and that's not a bad start. Maybe in a century it'll grow a tooth or two.”
It wasn't long before the rabbit shade had reached its quarry. It floated beside the rabbit, now looking more like a ball of churning ink. Green magic began to extend from its body like smoke, gathering above the shade before wisping its way into the corpse.
A few seconds later, the magical line was pulled out of the rabbit, bringing with it the rabbit's soul. Hanging in the air, it looked healthier than it may have ever before, if more confused. The shade gently deposited the rabbit on the ground, then withdrew its magic completely, extinguishing the green glow.
“Good job as always!” Mort called out, cupping his mouth. “Shade of rabbits, meet Red Shrimp! Red Shrimp, shade of rabbits! Red Shrimp's just with me until...um...”
Mort trailed off as it became abundantly clear the shade was ignoring him. It regarded the rabbit's soul for a brief moment, then began to hop away again, further into the dark woods. Mort's eyes followed the shade as it left, sagging a little.
“So, I take it they're not much for conversation?” Red Shrimp queried.
“Not really,” the pony shade sighed. “Maybe in a millennium or two...”
The rabbit had poked around his former body, not seeming the least bit disturbed by his own corpse. After a few moments of this, he simply sat down, twitching his nose as he waited. For what, he probably didn't know, though Mort did.
“Doesn't look too bad, does he?” Red Shrimp commented, watching it.
“They rarely do,” Mort said. “Your soul's forged by your memories, thoughts and experiences. So its appearance is largely based on how you see yourself. I've seen ponies who kept their eyepatches or peg legs simply because those things became an integral part of their identity.”
“Huh, so I guess that's why I don't look...um...” Red Shrimp gulped. “Worse, right?”
“And also why you were crying, even when you don't have tear ducts,” Mort pointed out.
“Hey, I wasn't crying!” the ex-drummer protested immediately. “I just...something got in my eye!”
“You mean the same one that's intangible?”
The earth pony snorted, and turned away from the pony shade, sulking. As he did, he noticed that the rabbit from before was approaching him slowly, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
“Oh, uh, hey there, little guy,” he whispered gently. The rabbit came to a stop directly in front of him, its ears flopping up and down. “Guess we're kinda stuck in the same boat, huh?”
He reached out, scratching the rabbit behind the ears. The rabbit didn't object, simply staring at the pony in front of him, as if contemplating something. Soon, parts of its fur began to glow, and it drifted off the ground, looking about itself curiously.
A moment later, beams of light seemed to explode from the rabbit, and in a blinding flash, it was gone, leaving only a few sparkles in its wake.
“W-what happened?!” Red Shrimp stared at where the rabbit was, and back at his own hoof, horrified. “What did I do?!”
“Nothing! You're fine! Don't worry.” Mort hurried over to the pony, patting him on the back. “The rabbit just moved on. Perfectly normal.”
“Moved on?” Red Shrimp took another look at the space previously held by the rabbit, and gulped nervously. “W-wait, so that's...that'll happen to me?”
Mort hesitated. “Um...pretty much, yeah.”
“It's kinda...explodey, isn't it?” Red Shrimp rubbed himself, looking increasingly anxious. “I-it doesn't hurt, does it?”
“Never,” Mort replied quickly.
“Well, that's one thing, I guess...” Red Shrimp said, not sounding any less anxious. “Then what happens?”
Mort flinched. He really should've seen this coming. Most ponies were absolutely certain of what would happen next. Occasionally, though, they had to ask. No matter how many times the question came up, Mort always hated answering it.
“I don't know,” he admitted.
Red Shrimp stared at him, puzzled. “You...don't know?”
“No.”
“But...you have to have some idea,” Red Shrimp said, undeterred. “Like, maybe you heard or saw something? Singing? Instruments? Golden gates or sunny fields...?”
“No,” Mort repeated, a little more solemnly. “It doesn't matter what they were, who they were, or what they've done, they all pass on the same way as that rabbit did.” He shrugged helplessly. “I'm sorry, but...that's all there is to it.”
“Oh...” Red Shrimp's voice had shrunk to a whisper. He sat down, looking sullenly at the ground. “Well...what's the worst case scenario, then?”
Mort considered his words carefully, having an idea of what Red Shrimp was getting at. It was definitely not Mort's favorite idea either, but still quite possible. “Worst case,” he said delicately, “if you can call it that, is that if nothing else, you've had a life.”
Red Shrimp's lips quivered, and he took a shuddered breath, hugging himself. Mort looked pitiably at him, feeling sorry. He understood it, of course. Death was frightening largely because no one knew what came next. And when one did die, they found that their “guide” was just as clueless as they were. It was not very comforting.
“Listen,” Mort said, sitting down next to his companion, “like I said, I don't know. Anything could happen! Maybe even things we could never imagine. But...I do know that all souls gravitate towards moving on. So it can't be all bad, right? I'm sure on some level they know it's for the best.”
Red Shrimp swallowed hard. “You think so?”
“Absolutely,” Mort assured him. “I mean, if you think about it logically, nothing is ever 'gone.' It only changes. Souls...I don't know if they move somewhere, or transform into something else, but I believe they never disappear completely. I know this is scary, because you don't know what will happen next, but...” He struggled for a moment, trying to find the words. “Well, it's not all that different from life, is it? You never know for sure what's around the corner, but it's no reason not to face it head on. You're only other option would be to do nothing, and...well...”
“Fade away.” Red Shrimp sniffed, wiping a stray tear from his eye. He glanced at Mort, then wrapped a foreleg around him. A few moments passed where the two said nothing to each other.
“You kinda have a point,” he said. “About having a life, I mean. It might not have been as long as I liked, but it was certainly a great party while it lasted. I got to play with an awesome band, had some great times with them, and everypony's definitely going to remember how I went out.”
“And you held the title the longest,” Mort added. “I would know.”
Red Shrimp grinned “Heh, yeah! Hey, now that I”m dead, my stuff's going to be worth a fortune, isn't it! Ha! There's my spare drum set, my vests, my hairbands, and I think I still got a half-eaten doughnut in our trailer!”
If Mort had a face, it would have slightly twisted in disgust. “I really don't know if that'll be worth anything...”
“Of course it will! You wouldn't believe what crazy crud those fans collect. Ooh! Maybe they'll write a book! Or, or, maybe the guys will write a song about it! Wouldn't that be something? Maybe 'Death by Skull' or 'Pasted on Stage.'” He sighed, and as he did, patches of his body started to glow. Particles of light began to drift from him, floating upward. “Yeah, those guys will definitely be okay. They'll keep on going so long as they can lift those instruments. And I'm sure Hug 'Ems will give my folks some of the royalties, help out with their retirement. He's nice like that...”
As the drummer continued, he didn't notice that he was beginning to float higher and higher away from the ground, his body taking on a shimmering luminescence as he ascended. Mort watched silently, feeling a confusing mixture of elation and dismay.
Red Shrimp stopped in the middle of his rambling, and gave a shout when he saw what was happening. “H-hey, what's going on?!”
“You're content,” the cloaked pony called. “There's only one thing left to do now.”
“I-it's happening? Now?” The pony looked about himself uncertainly, twisting in the air. “W-wait! Let me stay a little longer! I'm not ready! This is...this is...” He trailed off, his panic slowly fading as a realization struck him. “This...this isn't too bad, actually. K-kinda...almost like a relief, or something.”
“Told you so, didn't it?” Mort took a moment to collect himself and not feel so gloomy. This was a good thing, after all. “I hope everything works out for you.”
“Thanks,” Red Shrimp said, smiling at him. “And...thanks for letting me come along. It was fun while it lasted.”
“Glad to hear it,” Mort said sincerely. “If you do get to see the other drummers, though, tell them I said hi, okay?”
Red Shrimp grinned at him. “Not a problem, buddy! When you get around to seeing my old crew, you tell them we'll be saving them a few seats.”
“Sure thing.” Mort continued to watch Red Shrimp ascend, just as he suddenly remembered something. “Wait!”
Red Shrimp stopped in the air, his body practically a shining beacon, and gave the cloaked shade a bewildered look. Mort's horn glowed, and from the depths of his cloak came an inked quill and a piece of parchment, both of which floated up to the ascended drummer.
“What's this for?” Red Shrimp asked.
“An autograph,” Mort said, scratching the back of his hood. “Y-you know, as a memento. It's, uh, just something I do.”
“Oh, sure. Everypony needs a hobby.” The drummer quickly wrote something on the parchment, and once done, the quill and paper were pulled back towards the shade.
“Thank you,” Mort said. “It was...” He took a moment to collect himself. “It was really nice meeting you, Red Shrimp.”
“Likewise, Mort!” Red Shrimp did a little salute, and winked at the shade. Not a moment later, light burst forth from the ex-drummer's being, until he looked like a small, blazing star. Then in an instant, the light dimmed before vanishing completely, leaving nothing behind. Not even a twinkle.
Mort stared at the spot where Red Shrimp had been, for the moment feeling glad that he had sent him on with a smile. He took a look at the parchment, and opened it up. Red Shrimp had signed across the entire page, trying to cover as much paper as he could: To my best and last fan. Red Shrimp. Next to his name, he had drawn a crude picture of two drumsticks, crisscrossed with each other; his cutie mark.
Mort stared at it a moment longer, the joy he felt earlier beginning to flee him the longer he looked at it. He tried to hold on to it, but the emotion was even more intangible than he was. It wrestled itself away from him, leaving behind an emptiness that could have filled a cavern. The shade sighed, and rolled the parchment up, sticking it back inside his cloak along with the ink.
He shot one more look at the spot from where Red Shrimp had moved on, and made his way to the center of the clearing, his head held low. The life around him tickled his body, from the grass beneath his hooves, to the fireflies that unknowingly flew through him. It helped, but just barely.
Once there, he lay down, resting his heads in his hooves, his thoughts turned towards himself. It wasn't just the gnawing emptiness inside that bothered him. For as long as he could remember, he had traveled from appointment to appointment with mechanical efficiency, never delaying, and with every step perfectly calculated. Now, though, there was the slightest struggle to get himself moving, like his body had become heavier. And he felt himself dreading what lay ahead the next day, but not because of who died or how, as it sometimes was, but because the thought of working itself had seemed...exhausting.
Exhaustion was a product of muscles overexerting themselves, of creatures suffering sleep deprivation. Shades were magical in composition: exhaustion was impossible. Yet every day he felt a little less lively, like his energy was leaving him. That's what exhaustion was, wasn't it? The only other thing like that...
He squashed that thought very, very quickly, though not before shuddering hard enough that his bones rattled.
He looked up, watching the fireflies weave in the air as if they were putting on a light show. The night was cloudless, revealing all that the sky had to offer. Every star and constellation was present and accounted for, accompanying the waning moon. He looked longingly at it.
Yes, he was disappointed. He had hoped and wanted Red Shrimp to stick around, at the very least until he had gone to Tuft Love. It was the same thing over and over again: reap the pony, know the pony, say goodbye to the pony. At some point it had started to take a toll on him, watching them leave just as he was starting to know them, desperately trying to form something with them.
But it almost wasn't an option anymore. The pony population was growing at an exuberant rate. Ages ago it was kept at a relatively consistent size thanks to famine, disease and the occasional war. But the species had found ways to store their food for months on end, had established treatments for even the worst of illnesses, and had almost entirely done away with violent confrontation. The last “war” was fought with apple pies and ended with zero fatalities.
What this meant was that there were now thousands and thousands of ponies spread out all across the continent. It would mean that two ponies could die within minutes of each other, and be on opposite sides of the world. He's had to find inventive ways of reaching ponies quickly so that, at the very least, his absence would be minimized.
And the worst part was that it would only get worse. Unless some cataclysm struck Equestria (and Mort would not wish for one, even on his worst days), the pony population was only going grow and grow at a faster rate each year. Pretty soon even the scenic routes wouldn't be an option. Seeing them wouldn't be an option.
There was no doubt about it. After all this time, after trying to convince himself otherwise over and over again, he could no longer ignore an all too simple truth: he was completely and utterly miserable.
“That's plain to see.”
Mort shot to his hooves. For a moment he wondered if the words had simply appeared in his mind, but no. They were spoken to him. With agonizing slowness, he turned around.
While Thanasia was a giant in the collective subconscious, in the material realm she was “only” twice as tall as the average pony. This did not make her any less intimidating. The shadows were gone, revealing an alicorn with a mane as thick and white as wax, which flowed down her back. Her wings, often outstretched, were now folded tightly against her ash gray body. In the moonlight she looked like a monument, and her horn almost looked sinister.
For an instant his eyes were drawn to her flank, which was adorned with an image of a thick, white candle, sitting in an onyx pedestal, and lit by a green flame. The next instant his vision was drawn towards her eyes, yellow as candlelight, which seemed to stare deep inside his very being.
“My shade,” Thanasia commanded, “we need to talk.”
Stats
Page generated in 0.056 seconds
Total duration
941 users online
1,223,871 hits today, 2,004,447 yesterday
FIMFiction
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Fanfiction
Designed and coded by knighty & Xaquseg - © 2011-2024
Follow & Support Us
Support us
SubStar
Chat!
Discord
Follow us
Twitter
MLP: Friendship is Magic® - © 2024 Hasbro Inc.®
Fimfiction is in no way affiliated with or endorsed by Hasbro Inc.®
OH SHIT SON
I REMEMBER THIIIIIIS
Oh my, I remember reading this back in....
Before I picked up a pen, actually.
Can't remember if and how it ended.
EDIT:
Looked around, if only to confirm the author's name at if this was the real fic.
Might as well post the EqD link... I guess.
http://www.equestriadaily.com/2011/05/story-mort-takes-holiday.html
I just about "squee"ed when I saw this here.
I can't wait to see where this is going!
I read this a looooooooooooong time ago. But I sorta gave up on it after reading it over and over while waiting for an update.
.......
...it's still good
EDIT:
Oh wait, its the remake.
Go on.....
Is his mark a skull and cross bones, a tomb stone? Guess ill have to read this.
I think i saw this on deviant art. Well if your coming here that means updates are coming soon right?
My mind is ready!
Ya know, it's fun to imagine the grim reaper as a total bro like this.
Oh man, I remember this back from when I was just getting into the show. Hope there's some new stuff coming.
Edit: Well this is quite different indeed
A fantastic story that is truly a delight to my mind and brain to read. I will continue watching for more chapters and I can't wait til he meets Twilight and the others.
I was close to tears when Red Shrimp said goodbye to his friends.
Oh my god yes, it's here!
It may be different now from the story that got me into fanfics so long ago, but the rewrite is just as good as what was there before, if not better.
I can't wait for the next chapter!
Glad to see you back!
I'm
happy to see this fic here...but 
sad to see that it's the remake.
Today is going to be an awesome day. I know this because this has made it to fimfiction
Time to wait for more. Lookin good for now
This was awesome on so many levels
HELL YES!
Saw this on FAnfiction.net Now it's here! SQUEEEEEEE
It's this fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiic!
Thumbed up and tracking...
I love this fic...
Loved the new story, can wait for the next update
Instafaved for an old favorite.
You decided to mix Terry Pratchett and MLP!?!?!?! NO FRIKKEN WAY!!! The awesome is over 9000!! Love it, bro!!
I liked the original, and up to now this remake is looking even better. Keeping watch for more.
703960 I made your link clickable.
Click the image for EQD link.
3.bp.blogspot.com/-eHAold8PsRU/TdwbnyZaIBI/AAAAAAAAE7M/NaZqr_XFnNY/s1600/Capture.JPG
704559
Go sell your junk elsewhere, please? This is nor the place, nor the time. Really, this isn't even the target audiance for that refuse!
I MISSED THIS FIC!
EDIT: I admit, I'm liking the changes so far. Drawing out the interaction between Red and Mort made Mort's dilemma all the more sympathetic...
704559 silly human, ponys don't were clothes
Yeah, I loved this fic and then you ABANDONED ME
but seriously, nice to see this coming back, hope to get more frequent updates, but that's always the case
HYES! It is Back!!
I bet no one else caught the Galaxy Girls reference you snuck in there.
This is amazingly well-written. Really sounds like Pratchett, too. I checked Google and several of his ebooks just to see if some of the more striking Pratchettisms ("if ponykind simply stopped picking up for its slack, Equestria might rise up and move its own celestial objects, change its own seasons, make its own weather, and if they're lucky, do the dishes.", "they seemed to operate on a principle that equated more ponies to being more “fun.”", "Anatomy was clearly not the band's strong suit.", "thin enough to comfortably fit between atoms") were in them, but didn't find them.
Grammar-check:
ducked as a guitar soar from off stage
I know this hard to accept
the practically organic environment - an environment is organic, by definition
The whole time i read this, i had this song playing and it was perfect
Rewrite, not a new chapter, but screw it; I'll take what I can get. An update is an update either way.
Wow I need more.... NAOW
but you write at your own pace i wont rush you
Glad to see this fic again. I'm enjoying the changes I've seen so far and am looking forward to where it goes, and what will be different and what will be the same.
ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh!!! (only three exclamation marks, thus I'm not insane).
These will be the revised chapters, yes?
I'm getting a Discworld vibe here, and IT FEELS GOOD!
Well hello there Douglas Adams >w< Keep writing
Rincewind?
lol spinal clop. Thought it might be reference of spinal tap when i saw amps set to 11
“Wow, older than my grandma,”
-Nice touch. Surprised he thought of it.
It was a black, amorphous shape that made its way out of the foliage, hovering just above the ground.
-The Black Rabbit of Inle, from Watership Down?
It almost has the ears and eyes down, though, and that's not a bad start.
-Ah, so not the most direct of translations if inspired by that at all.
Very nicely done, and I love the Spinal Tap references, that was the best mockumentary ever.
Ohhhh, a re-write! That's why we're only 4 chapters; cool
OK, have to re-read it again all later, but liking changes so far (I DID also not origionally get that "Beaten Dam" joke). THe only thing I thought was better in the origional was the first chapter ending with Mort revealing his name then as the last thing Red Shrimp hears: That was hilarious.
704559
Boooo
989126 But these goes up to eleven!
encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSrV_hZuDD1_oiex3jfPosUcC1rGEJ4q9AGm0KtLvvsJ6gJWbo6Cg
Ah yes, the Guide to Reaping. A bit of an archaic text, but useful nonetheless. The data center is a little exaggerated, though.
When I die, I want someone to say that at my funeral.
Wow
This is awesome!
also 11
I'll admit, it seems so strange to see Death have emotions, and to see him...it? bother to get to know the shades that it reaps, I love it and I'm so glad he has a scythe otherwise I would be annoyed but to see Death or....Mort have emotions that just....strange. Will be awaitig for more though and I would love to see the other three horses