The fire crackles in the hearth and I casually watch it as it twists and dances through the logs. Reality ripples as a tick approaches. I glance to my right and watch the fabric of the world ripple as the tsunami that is time flows through it like ripples on water. The wave of time approaches, flows through me and continues on its way. I feel it as it passes through me. Its the only thing that I really feel anymore. The tick, tock of My master clock. The living heartbeat of my world.
I walk to the mirror and look into the dead eyes of my reflection. My lips form a long thin line as I grimly look over the lie that is my reflection. I look over the bone-white foal reflected there. The gaunt skin pulled tightly over bone gives me the look of a colt who died in a famine. It could be the truth as honestly, I can't remember just how I died anymore. It was oh, so long ago.
My servants enter the room, if you can call an endless plane with a fireplace and a chair a room. I look over my only real companions. They are supernaturally beautiful stallions. Perfectly toned bodies in the shining reds and blacks that make up the colors of an Incubus. My supernaturally handsome servants robe me in the tools of my profession. My white cloak, my pocket watch, and the four soul blades that are all that remains of my predecessors. I run my hoof along the blade of each scythe. I take careful care of them with the full knowledge that I will be one of them someday. I will be a soul blade wielded by those who come after me.
My pocket-watch calls to me and I bring it into view. I open it and two lit matches catch my eye. Their flames are low and they will soon burn out. I look up and see the impossibly large pendulum that hovers above the very world. It has reached the apex of its swing and ever so slowly begins the descent that will send the ripple of time through reality again. I sometimes wonder if I am the only one that can hear the sound of my master clock.
I teleport.
I stand in the snow-swept street as the wind blows through my cloak. The sounds of grunting and pain fill the lonely Las Pegasus alleyway. My hooves crunch on the light layer of snow as I approach the sad little scene ahead of me. Two figures rolling in the cold slush, quick violent movements repeat themselves three distinct times. I watch a pool of crimson slowly forming beneath the smaller figure. The larger figure breathes heavily and lustily as it drives into the smaller figure until its slowing movements finally cease.
I stand right next to them. The victor stands. Its a mare, her green coat mottled with crimson. The sexual sounds she makes as she inhales the smell of the blood-soaked blade would disgust me if I still had the ability to feel that sort of thing.
I glance down to my bone-white hoof and watch as one of the only two matches in my grip sputters and goes out. The other match burns lower. I kneel and cradle the corpse that once housed a stallion. He could have been beautiful by the standards of the day, but I have lost interest in the living a long time ago. I tilt his head back and as his lips part, I lean in and bring him peace the only way I can, I kiss him. I transfer the tiny soul to my pocket watch and return it to my pocket.
I glance back down to my hoof, the lone match burns lower and I follow the mare as she steps out into the street. A comfort horse dies, face down in an alley and I look around. The street is full of the living, moving in their little clockwork tracks, living their tiny clockwork lives, running in the same clockwork circles, and seldom noticing. Once long ago I used to ponder things. Things like why violence and cruelty are woven into the very fabric of the world itself. I asked my mistress once. The thought makes me smile, The living are so surprised that even I have one. My mistress caressed my face and simply said “Death feeds life.” I pondered that for a long time.
I follow the murderess down the wintery streets of Las Pegasus. She weaves through streets and alleyways. I would think that she was in fear, but I know that she is not. For you see I've followed many times before. Followed her for many nights, seen many prostitutes, many pools of crimson dropped many burned matches. I look at the match in my hoof. Its flame is even lower now.
She walks faster and turns up the collar of her coat. I look ahead to what she has spotted. Its a tour group. One of Las Pegasus’s ghost tours. They cluster around one of the cities more famous ghosts. The little hoof shine colt. A harbinger spirit. I can hear the tour guide drone on as he relates the sad tale of that spirit. The little dead colt stares blankly around the street, he can not see the tourists, he can not see the passers-by as they go about their day. His head perks as he watches my murderess approach. The tour group goes deathly still as the colt stands and reaches out to my little murderess. Begging her for a hoof-shine as she passes.
“Would you like a shine Miss? Hoof-shine me lady? Oh please Mis?”
She ignores him. She has passed this way before. Pity, she forgot about the little ghosts' special talent. I watch the horrified faces of the tour group as they watch my little murderess leaving.
Two more side streets and a back alley. I watch as she slows down. She feels safe now. Ponies really should pay more attention to harbinger ghosts. Not that it would matter of course.
She stops and a look of surprise crosses her face. I follow her eyes and see a lone comfort horse sauntering toward us. He is beautiful. A deep rust-colored coat and dark mane. I see a collar with the symbol of his profession. I snap open my pocket-watch and reach for his match. It isn't there. I'm surprised for the first time in years. Then he passes under a streetlamp and recognition dawns on me. I step cautiously backward and watch my murderess engage him.
She propositions the streetwalker. He plays with his hair as they talk. He strokes her face and she gropes him. I see the gleam of coin, he smiles, and then she smiles and they disappear into the shadow of the alleyway. The match goes out and a moment later the rust-colored streetwalker appears. He daintily wipes his lips and continues on his way. I walk to the cooling corpse and kneel. The area is free of crimson. There is no blood, the corpse has none. Not anymore. I tilt her head back and as her lips part, I lean in and kiss her. I transfer another soul to my pocket watch and return it to my pocket.
There are no more matches for tonight and I head down the street for some Griffen coffee. I smile as I pass the little dead colt and toss a coin into his translucent can.
“Thanks, Mister, do you want a shine?”
“No thank you Tosher. Not this time.”
“Pardon my asking your honor, that nobby Mis you was following. I seen her didn't I. So she is for it, ain't she.?”
“What do you mean young one?”
“I see those what r going to die, right? It ain't me is it, me lord? Me wot does it? I ain't putting the eye on folk, am I?
No Tosher, It isn't anything that you do.
So why does it happen?
I smile and tell him what I know.
“I asked my boss that once.”
“You have a master, You?”
I smile.
“Mistress actually, and do you know what she told me?”
The ghostly colt shook his head.
“She said that there was no reason at all.”
The little ghosts brow furrows in thought.
“Do you think that's true?”
I consider the constant struggle that life truly is and after some thought, I answer.
“Yes.”