Panting from the exertion, the once proud vampire dragged herself along the dirt road, her alabaster coat marred with cuts and wounds, her rear legs bent at odd angles.
Within her mind, she screamed, the mixture of panic and fear consuming her thoughts.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She was a vampire, a predator; ponies lived so that she could feast. And she had been thirsty.
So, the one the ponies feared as the Bloody Queen had gone hunting.
Subtlety had been ignored as she had galloped into the village and announced her presence. She was a vampire, and her kills numbered in the hundreds; she had nothing to fear from mere mortals. The Queen would spend the night reveling as she drained every last drop of life from its inhabitants, as she had so many times before.
But the bastards had been waiting for her. In her hubris, she had underestimated their cleverness; before the break of dawn she had been caught in their trap, had her horn broken, been shackled to an iron frame, and been placed on display in the middle of the town.
Even then, she had not worried; she had taunted them, threatened them, described in graphic detail exactly what would happen to them once she had escaped.
And so they had forced her mouth open and carved out her tongue, cauterizing the wound with hot coals forced down her throat; it would not grow back, no matter how much blood she drank.
And, for the first time since her turning, the one known as the Bloody Queen had felt fear.
What had followed was a week of starvation, torture, and humiliation. Weakened by her hunger, she could do nothing as the passers-by had insulted and spit on her, as the children had pelted her with stones, as the blacksmith had broken her legs with his tools. As time went on, the wounds had stopped healing.
Then, on the seventh day, her luck had changed. The idiotic drunkard had made a poor meal, but it had been just enough for the Queen to break her limbs free. In the dark hours of the early morning, she had fled that place, her still useless legs dragging limply behind her as she dragged herself away.
But the sun had risen hours ago; they would be searching for her. And she was at the very end of her strength. Her legs ached; her chest burned, and the hunger ate at her from within.
Finally, her body could take the abuse no longer; she pitched forward, her vision filling with black as her consciousness faded away, taking the pain with it.
-----
She awoke to the feeling of a warm liquid flowing into her mouth. A coppery smell filled her nostrils. Instincts taking over, she drank greedily, gulping down the blood until no more followed.
Invigorated by the meal, the Queen opened her eyes. She appeared to be in a small hut, or a cottage; it was modestly furnished, mostly populated with simple furniture, but filled with flowers, vines, and other plants.
And before her, holding a red-stained bowl, stood a pale-brown pegasus pony.
The Queen attempted to stand, only for the pony to intervene. “No, no,” she said in a soft voice. “You need to rest those legs if you want them to heal right.” Looking down, she saw that her rear legs had been tied to splints and bandaged. Now curious, she checked over the rest of herself. The many cuts and wounds she had endured had been treated, some with simple wrappings, others with a green, organic-looking paste.
Her tongue, however, remained gone.
She turned her attention back to the pony, who was setting the bowl down on a nearby table. “You’re lucky I found you,” she said. “You looked like you were about to die!” She turned back to the Queen, smiling at her, as if relieved that she had saved the life of one who would have gladly destroyed her.
It was then that the Queen noticed the bandage, tinged slightly crimson, wrapped around the pony’s foreleg.
She tried to speak, but with no tongue and parts of her vocal cords burned away, all that came out was a garbled mess of half-sounds and wheezes.
“I’m sorry,” the pony spoke up again, sounding genuinely sad; her face was pained. “There was nothing I could do.”
The Queen thought for a moment. With a burst of inspiration, she mimed the act of writing. The pony seemed to get the idea, leaving for a few seconds before returning with a writing slate and a piece of chalk. The Queen attempted to pick up the chalk with her magic, but found that her horn was still non-functioning; undeterred, she took it in her mouth and frantically scribbled down a single word:
Why?
“Whatever do you mean?”
She gestured to herself, then to her bared fangs, then to the bandage on the pony’s leg, and finally back to the word on the slate.
Why?
“Why did I save you?” The Queen nodded in affirmation. “Why shouldn’t I have?”
The vampire bared her fangs again.
“Why should that make a difference?” the pony queried. “You needed my help.”
The Queen didn’t understand, she couldn’t. How could a pony treat someone like her with compassion? Especially when, had their roles been reversed, she would have had none?
Picking up the slate once more, she erased her previous question and replaced it with a new one:
Name?
“Flutterholly,” the pegasus replied. “And what is yours, if you don’t mind me asking?”
She began to write.
Bloody Q-
She stopped, frowning. For a few moments, she sat there, staring at the slate.
Then, she erased the board once more, and began to write a different name.
Virtuosa Scratch.
Vinyl.