//------------------------------//
// Chapter 41: Bloodlines’ Ends 
// Story: Daring Do and the Hand of Doom 
// by Unwhole Hole 
//------------------------------//

A chill was in the air. Caballeron barely noticed, even though the bed had little more than a thin sheet to cover him. Instead of cold, he only felt dirty and ashamed.
He shivered as an icy metal hoof moved up his naked back. Whatever battle or accident had claimed Carillion’s eye, it seemed, had also grotesquely removed her front legs as well. Gold-colored mechanical substitutes had been grafted to her shoulders instead. Even though she was nude, as he was, the effect of her mechanical limbs was that she was still wearing armor- -and always would be, as long as she lived. 
The thought of such limbs disgusted Caballeron, but he paradoxically held her closer. His head lay on her teal belly, just above her naval. Higher up, with his head in her chest, was the head of the white Pegasus with the red mechanical eye. He was asleep, and held his mother lovingly. Caballeron held her likewise, but not out of love. He did so because he had to.
The hoof moved up to his neck, stroking it gently. 
“You’re awake,” she said, softly.
“So are you,” he said, feeling his voice shaking. Any anger he had toward her had dug itself deep, hiding itself away for later. Now there was only shame.
“I rarely sleep,” she said. “An interesting side effect of old age. I suppose I’ve spent many times your lifespan asleep already. I don’t want to waste any more.” 
“But you’re still here.”
“Because I’m enjoying myself.” Her single orange eye looked down at Caballeron. He found himself hating that eye. Even more than the eye, though, he hated the sarcastic smile that was slowly crossing her face. “Aren’t you?”
“Of course,” liked Caballeron.
“You’re a terrible liar. You’d no doubt rather be feeding your changeling. Preparing to counterattack against me, or hatch some doomed and desperate plan.” She lifted her head slightly and stroked Caballeron’s body. “But you can’t. Because I own you. Do you think I enjoy the touch of an earth-pony? I don’t. It disgusts me. But I can force you to do it. So I have.” Caballeron held her closer, if only out of spite. Rather than push him away, she held him tighter as well. “Or perhaps this is your way of negotiating your payment back?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” he admitted, changing his tone to be as charming as possible. 
Carillon ran her free hoof through her son’s long hair. He smiled in his sleep and nuzzled her chest-fluff. 
“I suppose that’s what interests me,” she said. “Your horrible and unbecoming interest in monetary gain.”
“I have my reasons.” 
“Really.” She was beginning to sound bored. “Motivations that involve rebuilding the crumbling manor that you bother calling an estate?”
Caballeron instinctively squeezed. Carillon did not seem to mind.
“No.”
“Don’t bother lying. I was briefed on you. Thoroughly. Hence why I know how much I’m torturing you at the moment. Although, to be honest…” Her tone changed, although only slightly. “There is a certain aspect to you. It is badly diluted. By outbreeding, by a coarse life style, and by your fundamentally flawed personality, but it is still there. A tiny remnant that demonstrates that your ancestors, like mine, were knights.”
“We were nobility,” admitted Caballaron. “Proud…old…powerful. And wealthy beyond measure.” 	
“Hmm.” Carillon twisted somewhat. “There is a certain allure to the idea of earth-pony nobility. It all sounds very…pastoral. Bucolic, even. But I’m not a romantic.” She looked down at Caballeron- -in more way than one. “Your pursuit of profit by plundering artifacts is a disgrace to your ancestors.”
“No,” he snapped. The albino Pegasus stallion stirred slightly. “I am no disgrace. My ancestors, you say? You mean my grandfather, who squandered my fortune, or my father, who squandered my birthright? The dishonor lies on them! I have spent my life working to rebuild what they took- -”
“And now you’re deluding yourself,” sighed Carillon. 
Caballeron paused. “Excuse me?”
“What would you do? Use this money to rebuild a crumbling manor house? Hire peasant farmers? How pastoral. And bucolic. And when the time comes, you would transfer your title and your wealth to a son of your own?”
Caballeron sputtered quietly. That was of course not what he dreamed of- -in his dreams, he could lay on the beach of his own island, staring out at the waves, surrounded by zebras- -or perhaps an entire harem of Argiopés with enough professionalism to never reveal the fact that they were enormous insects. Yet her words were piercing, and he felt the desire for what she had described more strongly than the things he had promised himself in life. 
“Earth-pony,” sighed Carillon, “another similarity that you and I share is that there is no hope of our bloodline continuing. You are the last Caballeron, as I am the last Heartstrings.” Her orange eye stared at him, and she stroked him gently. “And that may be the only position where I feel some empathy for you.” 
Caballeron defiantly returned her stare, his green eyes meeting her orange. “You never produced a son.”
“Our bloodline is matriarchal.”
“Then a daughter?” 
Carillon paused for a long moment. “I never produced an adequate daughter to assume the role of matriarch, no,” she said at last. 
“Then these?” Caballeron pointed at her son. “I suppose they are adopted, then?”
“Oh no,” said Carillon, smiling and running her metal hoof through her son’s long mane. “I assure you, these children were born of my own flesh. After all, producing them required certain…raw materials.”
She held up one of her mechanical hooves for Caballeron to see. It glinted in the dim light of the room, and Caballeron gasped in horror as he understood what she meant, if only vaguely. The limbs had not been lost in an accident or by combat. They had been removed for a much more morbid purpose. 
“…unfortunately,” she continued, “they are not capable of carrying my bloodline. And at the moment, I am far too old to give birth on my own.”
“You seem rather young. I would hate to be cuddling an old lady.”
“Your hate brings me pleasure. Would you believe that I’m over seven hundred years old?”
“Impossible,” said Caballeron, harshly. 
“Not for me. Believe me when I say that I have seen things that you cannot even imagine, let alone comprehend. And done things that would turn your coarse, idiotic mane white. Things I would gladly too again.”
“Like you did to Argiopé.”
Carillon nodded. “And I was being kind. Because I pity her.”
“Because you wanted to prolong her suffering.”
Carillon smiled. “How perceptive. Yes. She will be the first to know that you spent your night snuggling me.”
“Please. Please don’t.” 
“Don’t beg. It doesn’t suit you.” 
Carillon flicked his hear, but then lay back, putting her hooves behind her head. The fact that they were hard and metal did not seem to bother her. 
“What do you want from me?” asked Caballeron at last. “Why go through all this trouble.”
“You know the answer to that. We require the Hand of Doom.”
“For what?”
Carillon was silent for a long time. “What answer would you like? One with platitudes about saving Equestria or restoring the natural balance of leadership ? Or something trite, like vengeance? Or perhaps an outright lie?”
“I want the truth.”
“The truth is that we actually have no idea what the Hand does. Only that it was once a weapon of unimaginable power. One said to be powerful enough to grant its holder anything they desire.”
“It grants wishes?”
“No,” said Carillon. “Of course not. That would be pointless.”
“Then what does it do?”
Carillon smiled. It was the first genuine smile Caballeron had ever seen crossing her face. “It annihilates fate itself.”