Author's notes: Sorry this took so long! In spite of claiming I wasn't going to, I wrote another story in the interim. Don't read that other story if you have any respect for me at all.
There is a serenity in death. Nonexistence is without sorrow.
Sweetie Belle lay in her room, crying. Truly, honestly crying, for the first time in months. She couldn’t understand what was different, why this wrenched at her gut when nothing else had, why she’d felt no remorse for what she’d done until her best friend was falsely blamed.
She had killed. She had watched ponies die by her actions. She’d reveled in their torment and found joy in their cessation. The death of a pony can, of course, draw that foulest of emotions, sorrow, from her friends, but is that not poor sympathy? Why mourn for those who can never know, can never reciprocate? Why cry for those who can never cry for you? Why must one endure the worst of life in recognition of those who cannot?
No, losing a friend to death could be no tragedy, for that friend was freed from the tragedy of life.
What sadness she’d simulated in the past to panickingly hide her actions was a trick and a trifle; its theatrics were shallow compared to this heartfelt performance. This was altogether different. The tumultuous world spinning around her refused to abate as she tried to push this pained new feeling out through her tears.
There is no sorrow in death. There can only be sorrow in life. There must be sorrow in life.
It’s not that she hadn’t considered the consequences of her actions. She knew full well what she was doing. She tried to convince herself that she was upset over losing a valuable resource, and not over losing a friend. But that wasn’t the truth.
Sorrow, like life, should be fleeting. For all the suffering she’d caused, none of her former victims were still in pain. All but one were abiding the serenity of death. But her latest, a victim of circumstance, was locked away somewhere, alone, confused and terrified.
Her best friend. And it was her fault.
Alone in her room, Sweetie Belle cried. So dreadfully alone.
“Twilight?”
Weeks of pent up emotions were pouring out of the unicorn, who was finally allowing herself the luxury of dropping her stoic image. It was a heavy burden to be rid of, yet she could still feel it in the room with her. It didn’t protect her anymore. It just frightened her. She sobbed into her pillow, as much begging that force to leave as mourning for her friends.
“Come on, Twilight, at least look at me.”
She contemplated this demon’s control over her. She’d been so cold, so detached, so heartless. And to her friends, to ponies she loved. Why was it so easy to take her friends for granted, to trample on their emotions while she tried, and failed, to do right for them? Had she ever even told Fluttershy how proud she was, or how awed she was every time she was so lucky as to witness the pegasus’ incredible oneness with nature? Had she ever told Rainbow Dash how inspired she was just to see the bravery, loyalty and even bravado in that daredevil– nae, hero’s eyes? Had she ever told Zecora how much she’d learned just by seeing such a new and unique perspective on life? By Tartarus, had she ever even told the Cakes that their carrot cake could always brighten her day?
Of course not.
“Please, Twilight. You need to eat.”
Had she ever told–
“Spike! Oh, Spike, I’m so sorry!” She grabbed his plush form into an unexpected and mostly unwanted hug. She was still crying, but had remorse in her voice. “Spike, have I ever told you that you’re the most helpful friend anypony could ever hope for? That I would never be able to get along without you, that I’m so sorry I could never teach you what it means to be a dragon but I’m so happy you can stay here with us? That you–”
“Whoa, whoa! Slow down!”
She stopped, and just held him, crying into his spines. He stood, dumbly, not knowing how to react to her sudden outburst, and not wanting to upset her further. She continued to mumble odd compliments until she calmed down.
“I’m sorry, Spike. I’m sorry for everything.”
“But–!”
She squeezed him tightly, cutting off his response, before letting him go. With a renewed vigor, she trotted towards the stairs leading out of her loft.
Rainbow’s funeral was to be the next day. The Wonderbolts had insisted on giving her a “proper farewell,” though Twilight had no idea what that was supposed to mean. How can a farewell be at all proper for a pony killed in her prime? Then again, she’d become dreadfully accustomed to these improper funerals.
Arriving unsteadily at the bottom of the stairs, she was surprised to see a familiar, light blue pegasus. His shock of pink hair was disheveled under a black beret which covered one ear, giving him an unbalanced look. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed over, floating above dark circles. For the first time since Twilight had known him, he was not wearing his armor. He looked surprisingly weak, almost frail, without it, though that was perhaps just a psychological trick of the armor itself. His cutie mark was a gavel, which seemed to Twilight appropriate enough.
He had entered the library without invitation, but Twilight wasn’t capable of being angry with him for it. She had tucked away the bit of her psyche that harbored ill will towards him when it had become apparent that he was right all along. For all his bluster and pomp, he just wanted what was best for everypony.
That’s what she wanted, too. But he had succeeded where she had failed.
Worse still, she had held him back. Because of her, Rainbow Dash…
He was hoofing through Twilight’s now dog-eared copy of The Criminal Mind: An Historical Study of Antisocial Behavior and Violent Psychoses, completely unaware that Twilight and Spike had appeared beside him. He had a tired and dour expression, like a pony who had studied all night only to realize that they no longer had any cognizance of what they were studying. The tap of a claw on his shoulder roused him with a start, but he didn’t turn around, only adjusting his chapeau in some motion which may have served as a salutation had he been facing the right direction.
Eschewing all niceties, he spoke in a voice that was oddly as deep as it was weak. “You’ve made a lot of notes here, Twilight Sparkle.”
The crying had stopped, so Rarity gently opened the door to her sister’s bedroom and peeked inside. Her attempts to be consolatory before then had been unhelpful, but this seemed like the appropriate time to broach the very touchy subject of her sister’s friend’s imprisonment.
It was not, in fact, the appropriate opportunity. The crying had stopped because Sweetie Belle wasn’t there.
Having snuck out the window and scampered precariously down a tree, she was now galloping through the back alleys of Ponyville, being drawn somewhere by memories. She was quite good at staying out of sight, even with her heavy saddlebags slowing her down, and could weave through the meandering rows of brightly lit and colorful houses without a second glance from anypony.
The run itself was relaxing. For all her sudden remorse, the deathly silence in the small town was still a testament to her accomplishments, and made her feel good about herself. For an instant she was almost jealous of Scootaloo.
That dissipated quickly, however.
She reached a wooden platform, near the edge of town, where the carriages to rural areas stopped.
She had only stopped crying because she’d run dry, and now she gasped and panted as much from withering sobs as from the exertion of her unplanned run. This scene was so familiar to her, so welcoming. And yet on this day it did little to calm her frayed nerves.
“Cutie Mark Crusaders… something,” she sputtered weakly.
“Yay.”
“You can stop worrying, though.”
This room had never become comfortable to Pinkie Pie, yet she was drawn to it repeatedly. She was quite certain that Mrs. Cake needed her company, and was dedicated to providing that company for as long as she could. Her life now was split between taking care of Pound Cake and crying, so taking Pound to see his mother was the only comfort she had left.
It’s difficult raising a child under any circumstances, but some circumstances are more difficult than others. Pound Cake was precocious, and though his foster mother had almost boundless energy to keep up with him, it was now countered by a deepening depression. He had taken to flying whenever a bottle was presented to him, then crying when he wasn’t fed, and Pinkie had taken to looking constantly frazzled, so weary she was almost sick.
“They caught her. They caught Scootaloo. So you can stop worrying and just get some rest.”
Mrs. Cake was quite restful whether she wished to be or not, so Pinkie’s recommendation was mostly unnecessary. At this point, the increasingly-unbalanced mare had forgotten, or perhaps merely lost track of, the fact that her comatose friend was incapable of response, and regularly had conversations as if they were a true dialog. The thin cord that normally kept her from falling over the precipice of insanity was fraying, and she gnawed at its last loop bound tightly around her hoof. Remaining affixed wasn’t any fun, anyway.
“No, no, no,” she replied to some imagined question, “it was all Twilight and that weird guard. I guess maybe I helped a little.”
She smiled and blushed slightly at the compliment, before going back to tending to the foal. He was constantly trying to fly away, but each time a swift pink hoof brought him back into place. His presence causing her psyche to once again settle back to sanity, she was momentarily aware of her conversational partner’s state.
“I guess everything must seem pretty bad the way I put it. But now we’ve finally got something to smile about. I think… I think I can help get everypony back to normal.”
She nodded with false confidence, once more dragging Pound back from his brief foray with the sky.
There was a loud crash, startling Sweetie Belle back to alertness. After a moment of glaring in the wrong direction to determine where the sound had come from, a muffled “whoops” drifted through the air behind her, and she spun on one hoof.
Derpy Hooves, upside-down and fluttering her wings uselessly, was half buried in the rubble of one corner of the carriage stand. It was miraculous that she could so routinely crash and yet never break anything beyond her already damaged brain, but here she was again, ever bubbling over with incomprehensible enthusiasm. Sweetie Belle walked pensively to her, asking, “uh, are you OK?”
Derpy was not the smartest of ponies, nor was she the most coordinated of ponies, but she had an intuitive nature that others often and easily forgot about. So instead of replying to the question at hoof, she asked, “are you?”
It was a surprising question, and gave Sweetie Belle some pause. She had momentarily stopped crying to stare listlessly at a tree with familiar hack marks in it, but the redness around her eyes bore witness to her true feelings. She wasn’t OK. She wasn’t OK at all. She was reflecting on her past few weeks, lamenting that she could not once more gain the simple euphoria she’d felt before. She had lost her enthusiasm.
“No.”
Derpy nodded with what was probably an attempt at solemnity, but resulted in her losing her hoofing and nearly falling over. Embarrassed by her display, she lowered her head, staring at her hooves with one eye while the other wandered aimlessly in Sweetie Belle’s direction. She was difficult to take seriously, no matter how serious she wanted to be.
“You miss Scootaloo, huh?”
Although it was a miracle when Ponyville’s mailpony managed to actually deliver mail, she nonetheless had a way of understanding ponies that most others lacked. This skill is what kept her functioning in society in spite of all her deficiencies. Nopony could hold a grudge against her without her knowing it, understanding it, and in her own baffling way, rectifying it. And nopony could be sad for long with her ridiculous antics.
Sweetie Belle nodded at the question. Although it wasn’t precisely why she was sad, she did miss Scootaloo.
“Y’know, I don’t think it’s very nice.”
She furrowed her brows, as much to hold in the tears that were once more threatening escape as to display her confusion.
“Killing ponies.”
There it was again. Guilt. Her friend had been blamed for her actions. But there was nothing she could do.
Derpy looked up again, lips pursed and eyes oddly focused. She breathed slowly through her nose, deep in thought and uncharacteristic concentration. Neither spoke while she examined Sweetie Belle curiously.
“When I was a filly,” she uttered with careful enunciation which did little to hide her impediment, “there was a big fire at my house.”
She paused again, tilting her head as if to rattle thoughts out of her mind. “I was really scared, but mommy found me and pulled me out by the tail. When we got to the lawn I was really scared and tired so I just laid down.”
Her head bobbed to the opposite tilt, catching in the process a tear that had threatened to work its way out of her right eye. Her eyes were unfocused again, now crossed slightly and looking nowhere in particular. “Mommy went back though. She went back to find daddy.
“I never saw her again.”
Sweetie Belle did her best to affect her well practiced act of shock and dismay, but didn’t have the heart for it. She looked on, bored, wondering what the point of this conversation was to be.
“At the hospital they told me that breathing the smoke hurt my brain and they told me that mommy and daddy didn’t make it. I didn’t know what they meant then.
“But I don’t think it’s very nice to kill ponies. I really miss mommy and daddy, and everypony misses Apple Bloom and Fluttershy and Rainbow Dash and… um.” She paused, collecting her thoughts. “But ponies are always yelling at me and it makes me sad.”
Once again her head bobbed to the opposite angle, but one of her eyes now focused on Sweetie Belle. “So I’m not gonna yell at you.”
Reality descended slowly on Sweetie Belle, as was frequently the case, and there was a moment of bitter silence as she considered the situation. She had always assumed that somepony would figure it out eventually, but of all the ponies, why did it have to be Derpy? Still, this new problem seemed exemplary for an old solution.
“Good morning, um…” Twilight suddenly realized that she had never so much as learned the guard’s name.
He acknowledged the greeting with a small nod, but continued to stare at the pages in front of him, occasionally flipping back and forth. He seemed to keep coming back to a particular page, though, as if it was of some great importance.
Twilight remembered the mission she’d developed before rousing herself minutes earlier, and decided that this enigma deserved her praise perhaps more than most ponies.
“Look, uh, sir, I’m sorry for how I treated you. You were right all along, and I should have trusted you. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you came to help us.”
He responded with a lackadaisical shrug. This noncommittal mannerism hurt Twilight more than she expected, but she pressed forward with her mission nonetheless.
“Thank you.”
This time he didn’t respond at all. He simply furrowed his brow and stared at the same page that he’d come back to dozens of times by now.
Curiosity finally overtook guilt, and Twilight asked, “what are you looking at?”
He pointed a hoof at the page, and she looked over his shoulder. She was familiar with this book, and knew the section instantly, as it was scribbled with various notes in every margin. But he pointed at a single passage.
A victim suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder will frequently exhibit symptoms of denial, sometimes culminating in delusions.
The word “victim” was underlined in Twilight’s handwriting, indicating some long lost stray thought she’d had. Whatever musings had put quill to page were now gone from her addled mind, so she didn’t know what this new reader was now trying to indicate with frustrating wordlessness.
“Yes… what is it?” she inquired with more volume than she’d intended.
He finally spoke again, in the same strained murmur he had before. “Something. I’m not sure. Something seems wrong.”
Thwack.
Derpy shrieked in unexpected pain and instinctively took off, flapping her wings too fast to control her flight with any precision. She almost immediately flipped head-over-hooves, crashing back into the carriage stand with a pained twist, as the axe embedded in her left thigh was wrenched out once again, falling to the ground under a sanguine shower.
Sweetie Belle smiled softly, watching from the grass as her pearly coat was stained a crimson pink. The blade landed by her forehooves, handle conveniently towards her. It beckoned her once more.
It felt freeing. It felt right. She was once again unfettered by guilt and malaise, and free to enjoy the niceties of life.
Reeling from shock, Derpy stared at her attacker in a rare moment of lucidity. Her eyes were perfectly focused, in spite of her inverted and concussed state, and she wore a pensive frown. She didn’t look scared or hurt, angry or even surprised. Her forehooves splayed beside her while one hind leg hung in the air and the other dangled unnaturally by her face, slowly dripping onto her snout. After a few seconds of staring, she sneezed, spreading a light vapor of bloody mucus on the formerly clean wood below her.
As entertaining as this image was, Sweetie Belle was not a patient filly, and was invigorated by this refound passion as well. Rather than eschewing bliss any longer, she lifted the axe once more, somewhat unsteadily as it was slick with familiar fluid, and aimed it again.
Derpy frowned.
Thwack.
The blade embedded in her belly put her precarious balance off kilter, and she began to sway. With each motion, steel slid further into her vital organs, one edge missing her heart by only trifling inches as it dug into her lung while the other pierced her intestines. Finally losing her balance, she fell prone, landing on the handle and in the process pushing the blade entirely through her. The handle found purchase in a knot in the wood while the blade hooked onto the base of her right wing and tugged it with inescapable intent. Her entire weight was suspended by the tendons and bone that kept it attached.
“Ouchie,” she muttered.
This simplistic utterance gave Sweetie Belle such a delight that she laughed openly, rolling on her back and allowing her saddlebags to fall to the ground. Her victim slumped further while she did this, leading her to recognize that there wasn’t much time left for jollity. She grabbed another axe from her bag between her teeth, hopped onto the stand, and trotted merrily around and in front of Derpy and gave a crooked grin through teeth clenched around ash.
One amber eye looked up at her through a stray lock of hair while the other drifted elsewhere. There was no prostration in it, nor surprise or fear. Only curiosity.
Derpy coughed uncontrollably, until blood and phlegm coating her muzzle. She shook slightly to loosen it, but in the process tore at the base of her wing. In pain, she convulsed and tore it further, also dislodging the opening to her stomach wound and causing an outpouring of lumpy red viscera. With another cough, her wing tore free, and she fell to the ground, a splatter of innards below her, an axe still standing proudly over her like a red and silver flag. Atop this flag, in lieu of its truck was a grey and red wing. This action, finally, led to a pained whimper, her first natural display of misery in the entire experience.
Nonetheless, through all of this, she spoke. “Will they let Scootaloo go?”
Sweetie Belle turned her head to the side, considering. A grin split her now blood-stained lips as she realized that this had been the solution all along. Surely they wouldn’t keep Scootaloo incarcerated if they found another body. “Of course!”
Derpy smiled. “I’m glad.”
She was still smiling when the axeblade split her shoulder blades and spine, digging through to her heart and killing her almost instantly.
Mourning is a tiring experience. Pinkie slept so deeply that even her foreboding twitches and paroxysms weren’t enough to wake her.