//------------------------------// // Chapter 28 - The Flesh // Story: The Stereotypical Necromancer // by JinxTJL //------------------------------// Celestial Year 999 AB One Day before the Summer Sun Celebration Light Flow's neck hurt, because what else was new? Sweet heavens, he was so tired of everything hurting. His mouth gaped open in a thankfully painless yawn, lasting longer than it probably should have. What did it matter, though? He liked yawning, so he was entitled to yawn for as long as he wanted. His jaw felt nice when he did it, and it made him feel a little less tired. Sometimes, he just wanted to yawn, and sometimes those yawns were long. It's not like there were laws against yawning for extended periods of time. What, were there specialized yawn police? Trained as a secret force dedicated to preventing the gross overuse of yawns? 'Hey you! Close your mouth right now, or I will be forced to force you to comply!' Yeah, right. Like that even made sense. His mouth drifted shut, and he turned his head down to stare blearily at the open pages in front of him. What was happening? Things had been so blurry and jumpy for what felt like so long now, whatever topic he left off on seemed to change sporadically. Ah, right. He was reading, as he had been for... some amount of time. The words had begun to stop making sense, and his notes were drifting into the category of unintelligible, so he had leaned back in his desk chair for a short nap. He could've made his way upstairs to his bed, but that would've unnecessarily distracted him from his reading. He had already taken enough time away as it was, and time was a hot commodity he was pretty sure he was running out of. He turned his head to the right, and winced in pain as the memory of his recent posture made him immediately regret the movement. Sleeping in a wooden chair for an unspecified amount of time was not advisable under any circumstances, though preparing for the apocalypse almost made the cut. The pain slowly faded to its usual ache, thankfully allowing him to focus on what he had braved his own mistakes for. A simple wooden clock hung on the wall slightly above his desk, unfortunately reading a time somewhere around the afternoon. He couldn't quite remember when he had gone out to buy the clock, but he was pretty sure it was sometime during the day. He could kind of remember taking the time to ask a wide-eyed pedestrian what the date was, and he had vague recollections of a shaky response followed by a hurried escape from the dirty, smelly, homeless pony. He understood the skittish behavior, since he probably smelled just as bad as he looked. He didn't know how he looked either, but it couldn't have been good. Despite his likely status as a public menace, he had succeeded in his mission to buy a cheap, shoddy clock. His success was met with much joy and celebration, and trumpets obviously heralded his arrival to his quiet, woodland-adjacent home due to his resounding ability to perform basic tasks. The much-anticipated clock, combined with his new knowledge of the date, allowed him to more effectively manage his time before The Summer Sun Celebration. Though, he still pretty much just slept whenever he got tired. It was just easier to retain information if he was fresh-faced and alert. Also, he was probably less likely to have an episode; but that wasn't as important as his ability to learn. Applejack would, as she might put it: 'tan his hide', if she knew about his current sleeping patterns and general disregard for his mental health; but that was okay. She would thank him if he somehow ended up saving the world, unlikely as that scenario sounded. His face twisted into an overused grimace as the thought made its way through his head again. 'Light Flow: the great hero who saved the world'. Talk about blech... Putting his self-doubt and conflicting mood aside, the clock told him that it was nearly noon, which left him a comfortable window of opportunity to begin preparations for the next day. If he hadn't fallen asleep for some absurd amount of time, tomorrow would be the dreaded 'final day' he had been anticipating. He would have to wrap his studies up. His neck made an unpleasant sound as his head turned back towards the desk, but he ignored it. He was used to his body falling apart, and it wasn't very concerning besides. If he could gain the requisite knowledge, his physical problems wouldn't be very problematic for long. His eyes roved over the surface in front of him as his mind reasserted itself on his current state. Every item haphazardly categorized and cross-referenced with what he could recall about his affairs before he had fallen asleep. There was an open box sitting precariously on the edge of the desk, which lined up with what he could remember doing with it. Unless more things had blanked out, the box would contain one book he had already read, one book he had skimmed through, and one letter that he had entertained thoughts of burning. His eyes turned slightly to the right, where a plain black notebook sat next to an equally plain black pencil. It wasn't really his aesthetic anymore, but it was the only empty book he could find in his house; and he didn't feel like risking being arrested for public indecency with another trip into town. His horn lit, and the notebook levitated towards him. His eyes flicked over the open page of scribbles, raving, and diagrams; before he flipped to another page of the same thing. His notes were... jumbled, to say the least. There were parts that were well-structured, and seemed almost as if they had come from a different pony altogether. Bright rays of intelligence shining through the encompassing circles of mediocrity. Though the large part of the text was dominated by swathes of uncomprehending, cyclical, asinine understandings and observations. He would often write multiple paragraphs constantly restating the same basic information, though in somewhat delightfully different ways. Most of that was useless, though there were some key phrases and pictures drawn and pieced together during quick flashes of inspiration. Tiny hints of some greater meaning sprinkled throughout the text with little regard for context or coherency. There was one particularly remarkable observation he couldn't remember making about the underlying themes within the book of the paradoxical idea of hope and freedom hidden within the very concept of magic made to manipulate something. Unfortunately, he had a tendency to meander, and the point of the observation seemed to have been lost as it bled into his never-ending thesis on why manipulation was a personal action. Neither of those things had much to do with the actual magic, but at least one of them was somewhat interesting. Disregarding his misused potential for literary genius, as well as his long winded tangent from the entire point of this endeavor, many pages of the book were unfortunately dedicated to a concentrated spiral of lunacy. He already knew his mind was on a steady decline to total insanity, but looking through some parts of his notebook honestly made him somewhat afraid for himself. It was a strange thought, that he was only just beginning to feel concern over his actions; but there was a large difference between having vague memories of insanity, and having to confront actual evidence of it. There was an entire page dedicated to a raving monologue about the stars that he couldn't ever remember writing. Little doodles of tiny pointy objects found their way into the margins of semi-helpful pages, while larger, more obtrusive drawings of a full moon obscured entire pages. He wasn't dumb, he could see the pattern. The less-helpful parts of his mind were hard at work constructing paranoid theories on what it could mean, but the larger part of him was fairly sure it was just stress-related. While the breakdowns themselves were anything but fine, the chosen focus was self explanatory. He had mental problems. He learned that the world was going to end due to the rise of some sort of moon god. He began to have psychotic episodes, wherein he doodled and wrote moon-themed propaganda. A begets B begets C. Simple. As he flipped through pages of nonsense, his eyes focused on a single dark word amidst one particular insane rant about how the shadows had begun attacking him. One, tiny, life saving word, separated from anything helpful by a sea of worthless garbage. It was circled multiple times in dark ink, despite his use of a pencil and complete lack of a pen or quill. It was a bright, guiding light out of the storm of insanity; as if Her Royal Majesty Herself had descended from the heavens to light his way. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -they crept along the walls and corners biding their time until my guard was down because they were hungry and drooling and hateful and hurtful and afraid and they saw their chance to strike as i turned my back to the room and they leapt from the recesses of the room to tear into me and feast on my flesh and mind and feelings and insides because it is ambrosia to them because we and them and i are the same Butts deep down inside because She looked down from her prison and saw me as a child and put Herself into me to make me into a star and a shadow and a monster and when I ascend to bring Her down to our plane the shadows will fear me because i will gain something that they could never- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Seriously, what was wrong with him? He snorted derisively as he let the notebook fall carelessly onto the desk. He eyed the discarded book with an air of disdain, before bringing a hoof up to rub at his eyes. The notebook was almost completely useless, and anything helpful he had managed to record was probably rendered similarly useless by his receding lucidity. He groaned loudly into the growing silence around him. Why did everything sabotage his efforts? Even his own mind actively worked against him. Though, not entirely. He let his hoof fall away as his eyes fluttered open. He took a moment to stare unblinkingly at the wall, before turning his attention to the last thing on the desk. It was the book he had left open while he took one of his painful naps. It was currently open to some random page in the middle, though he was sure he hadn't left it like that. It didn't matter though. Accepting that weird things happened in his sleep was just one of the many trials he had to go through to save the world, and if he had to be honest with himself: he was handing it pretty well. Maybe it wasn't healthy to let all of this nonsense just roll off his back, but he didn't have much of a choice. He could either drive himself even crazier with fear and worry, or he could learn more magic. One of those two things helped him save the world, and it wasn't the one that involved scratching his own skin off. Putting that aside, it really didn't matter how comfortable he was with his sleep activity, or his acceptance of his mental state, or what he did while he slept. The only thing that really mattered was what he had learned. He stifled a groan as he pushed his chair away from his desk. His breath caught in his throat as he gathered his hooves below him, and began to slowly pull himself out of his seat. He wasn't sure why he always made such a big deal out of standing up, but it sort of made him feel better. In a strange, inverse way. He heaved a relieved sigh as his hooves made eventual contact with the floor, creaking and cracking with the exertion as his unused body began to wake up. He rolled his shoulders, and listened to the unpleasant noises as he felt his muscles rub against themselves uncomfortably. It was all fine. He could fix himself. He turned away from the repetitive sight of his desk, and set his eyes upon the slightly less repetitive sight of the room as a whole. It was the same as ever. Dark, dank, and unusually foreboding. Things he had become adjusted to. He huffed softly, and slowly made his way to the center of the room. Each step made his hooves scream in protest, but he did his best to muffle the hot ache as his body warmed up. He could have tried this at his desk, but what was the point of doing cool things if they weren't as grand as possible? He had to go to the center of the room, it was the only logical place. While they protested the entire way, his hooves did eventually carry him to his destination. A long journey, filled with difficulties and strife, but one made in earnest; for this journey would result in spoils and rewards beyond imagining for those who he had worked so hard. 'Rejoice', he would say. 'Rejoice, for I will bring life to you humble workers, anew and anon!' Was it even possible to have this much fun alone? He knew the answer could only be a resounding yes. He allowed a small smile to grace his face while the larger part of his mind gathered the needed knowledge for the task ahead of him. A week was a startlingly short amount of time, but it allowed him a decent start on learning Flesh Manipulation. There had been two books on the basic theory of magic, though one of them had unfortunately focused on Mind magic. He supposed that was the 'Fear' part of the title. Mind magic sounded really cool, and he would have loved to study it in a more leisurely timeframe, but he simply didn't have such a luxury. Its very concept made for a tough subject, which meant it would take a longer time to learn. With the added negative of less practical uses when compared to Flesh magic, he had simply decided to skip learning it for now. Later, he had reassured himself. If the world doesn't end, it will come later. So he had wholeheartedly thrown himself into learning Flesh magic. While he still enjoyed the reading whenever he was lucid, he had mostly focused on absorbing as much practical information as possible. Luckily, the writer of this particular set of tomes wasn't a lunatic like whoever wrote Necromancy for Foals. Everything was far simpler, more concise, and just generally easier to pick through. The book would state information, have some sort of diagram explaining that information, and then it would move on. There were no riddles hidden in its very writing style, which made for a far faster learning process. It made him a little sad, though. Figuring out how to read Necromancy for Foals was, at the very least, fun; and at its higher levels, an enjoyable challenge. Whatever. He wasn't in this for the fun. He was doing this because he didn't want the world to end. A Necromancer needed the living. That was just a fact. Flesh Manipulation, while not directly related to the field of Necromancy, was surprisingly fascinating. It basically involved two different techniques. Changing flesh, and restoring it. He kind of doubted that Flesh magic was really just as simple as two easy little topics, but that was the way the book had described it. Beginners had to start somewhere, though; so he didn't really blame the book for generalizing. At its most base level, as it had been described by the book, Flesh Manipulation involved direct change and rearrangement of the cells within a pony's body. It... sounded really complex when it was put like that. Beginner's magic wasn't anything as crazy as maneuvering each and every cell individually, methodically, and intelligently into their required places. Masters of the art may be able to do things like that, but it was far easier at the lower levels. It was described as a sort of template put forth by a unicorn's magic, which would then be put into action through various processes that he would have to study as singular topics. Because he didn't understand them. At all. He did have a tenuous grasp on the myriad effects, though. Flesh Manipulation could be used for many very helpful things. Regeneration, restoration, longevity, even total manipulation and reconstruction. As an obvious ploy to arouse interest in readers, the author had taken a page to detail the feats of some obscure master of the now-forbidden school of magic. He had to say, it was quite arousing. In a scientific way. And an excitement way. As in, regular excitement, for regular exciting things. Awe! That's the word he was looking for, it was awe! He was in awe of the described feats, that was what he had meant to think! His eyes flew to the corner of the room to stare accusingly at the empty space there. He could swear he had heard some sort of noise from that direction, almost like a laugh or a chuckle. He squinted into the darkened crook of the cellar, only barely lit by the warm red of his dying lantern. He was almost expecting some sort of shade to burst from the shadowy, albeit completely ordinary, wall and cackle in his face. But he was obviously just as alone as ever. He had gone over it in his head countless times, there was nothing in the room with him. It was just his deteriorating mind again, leaking thoughts and delusions and whatnot into the real world. No matter how many times he looked, how many times he saw something at the corner of his eye, how many times his called name brushed against the very edge of his hearing... Nothing. Nothing there. He had gone horribly off track somewhere. Here he was, wasting time just like always while the clock ticked down to his nearing doom. It was time to reassert himself. His eyes returned to their static, forward facing position as his mind picked up where it had left off from his boner. His mistake. ... ...Anyway. Many great feats were described in the book, not the least of which being the ability to completely change the composition of the caster's flesh. There were actual, documented cases of ponies completely made out of things like diamond and quartz walking around and just... living. Obviously, he had no idea how on Equus that would be possible, but it sounded so cool. His knowledge was shallow, but he could take an uneducated guess or two, just for the sake of enjoyment. His mind may rebel at every opportunity, but it seemed as if his insanity conceded the realm of scientific thinking. Even in his notes, the larger part of his observations on the actual application and study of magic were largely untouched. Basically clean, unlike the scrawls and ravings covering his insights on the theory and deeper thought behind the topic. It was pretty rude, really. It was like some part of him didn't care about the knowledge part of the learning. Whatever. So he had some sort of identity disorder, big whoop. It could get in line with all the other problems. It was time to get back to theorizing, as least just to spite that wisdom-hating part of his head. If the easier levels of flesh manipulation involved merely moving groups of cells around to harden parts of the body, or forcing cells to quickly divide and multiply to restore tissue; then more complicated processes could be possible. Perhaps, if such a thing were even possible, a sufficiently learned and skilled practitioner could go deeper into their cells, and change their very atomic structure. Lines of genetic code switched en masse, while intelligently leaving certain parts of the body unaffected or changed accordingly so as to not interrupt various vital processes. It was just a theory, one based on no evidence whatsoever at that; but that was his guess. Maybe he was biased. The way he had described it was pretty similar to the spellwork behind necromancy, just on a physical level rather than on a spiritual one. If magic relating to the manipulation of souls could even be called spiritual. Actually, maybe he wasn't too far off base there. He didn't want to commit a lot of time to thinking about it at the moment, but if his mind would allow him, then he would look into that in depth sometime later. A coincidence on the surface, but a possible connection at a deeper level? If any of his guesses were correct, then he had a lot of studying in his future. Higher levels of Flesh Manipulation would undoubtedly require advanced knowledge of the inner workings of a pony's body, as well as a hearty grasp on biology and chemistry. He had some background in anatomy thanks to his passing interest as a child, but his general sciences could use some work. He didn't want to insult Ponyville or its educational facilities, but... It was just a very small town, that was it. Nothing wrong with that. He would probably have to pursue that kind of education elsewhere, as sad as it made him. Maybe Canterlot, or Manehattan? Or... no.. not Manehattan. Why would that thought even come to his head? He licked the back of his teeth as his thoughts strayed to uncomfortable places. The subtle taste of vomit lingering there was confusing, but not unexpected; and it helped distract him from where his head was going. Where was he? General knowledge, application, greater application, what was next? Ah, of course! Casting was next, what else? It was only the most critical part, nothing special. As well as having obvious knowledge pertaining to Flesh manipulation, the book had also contained some very interesting asides focused on what was known as 'Black magic' in general. Not even just Black magic. There was quite a bit to be gleaned about magic as a greater topic as well. While those sections were brief, and had many assumptions on the knowledge of the reader as a whole, they were still incredibly enlightening. So many of his questions had been answered through passing remarks and inferences, and he considered himself very lucky that the writer also seemed to have a penchant for momentarily losing their point. While there were still many gaps, the breadth of his information had been expanded far beyond the measly scraps of comprehension he had previously boasted. He had known so little before, though it was easy to say that in retrospect. But really, what had he known before? Some stuff about founts, magical pathways, and the obvious differences between theoretical conscious and innate magic? Anypony could learn those basics in everyday life, especially since they affected every race of pony. But this was more specific to unicorn magic, and it was so much more than what he had known. For instance, there was an entire kind of magic he hadn't even known about. Natural mana: the mana that suffused the world around him. The kind of latent energy that was just there, waiting to be used by an enterprising unicorn that knew what to do. That particular revelation wasn't actually that shocking. He hadn't known about the topic directly, but he had always subconsciously figured that there was mana in the world around him. It was kind of like how he just knew there was air to breathe, or if there was ground beneath him. His instincts did the work for him. But the far more interesting topic was its use, and how it related to spellcasting as a whole. Before his guided epiphany, he had assumed that a spell was solely formed through the manipulation of mana across a pony's magical pathways. That was mostly correct, but not the entire picture. The possibilities for crafting spells were figuratively limitless in his head before, but now he couldn't imagine that there wasn't a way to make a spell for literally anything. A spell could be cast by using Arcane mana: the magic from within the fount; or it could be cast by using mana from an outside source: the Natural mana. The two types of magic differed enough that the effects of a spell could completely change depending on which source was used. That easily doubled the existing possibilities. Now that revelation was worth a dropped jaw. And it only got better. Every spell he knew of involved one type of mana. Things like levitation, light spells, and generally useless parlor tricks all involved mana drawn from the fount. As far as he could tell, Arcane mana was the easier type to manipulate, and it involved most of the widespread, public use spells. Meanwhile, Natural mana involved most of the more difficult spells. He didn't actually know any spells that used Natural mana, which took a fair amount of wind out from his theories, but he had enough circumstantial evidence to tread onward with his working hypothesis. Spells cast using Arcane mana were easier because they involved mana drawn from within. Spells cast using Natural mana were more difficult because they involved mana drawn from the outside. Simple enough, if it was even true. But there was something else he was wondering about, something that would naturally occur to any pony with a healthy curiosity. A question that would invariably pop up whenever the topic of two different things was introduced. What if they were combined? To be perfectly honest with himself: he didn't really know. Without the knowledge of any spells using Natural mana, it was impossible to draw any sort of conclusion. It was somewhat like creating a data set with no control group, it just wouldn't work without a lot of assumptions. He didn't really enjoy making assumptions. And it seemed like he might never know, or, at least, not for the next five minutes. As much as he wished Flesh Manipulation had miraculously included the first use of Natural mana he'd ever seen, it simply involved Arcane mana. It made a certain amount of sense, though. Given that he knew nothing about anything, he could still make guesses. Half-wrong or half-right, he could always make guesses. Arcane mana was probably influenced by the pony it coursed within: that was why it was different from Natural mana. Mana in the environment just floating around was probably... inert. 'Printless' might be apt, given the science behind mana residue. Arcane mana left behind unique residue, and thus the mana from the fount held something unique not found in Natural mana. A faint whisper of something tinged warm tickled his ear, and he slowly closed his eyes in response as a deep sigh left him. Usually, his head just screamed nonsense and terror at him; but sometimes, when he connected certain difficult dots, he would receive something almost approaching... praise. That kind of thing should have unnerved him more than it did, but he felt strangely calm about the phenomenon. It was probably just his intellectual side's joy at the scraps of wisdom he sometimes scrounged up. That made sense. Back to the point: Flesh Manipulation needed Arcane mana to work, but why was that again? He could faintly remember making some notes on the subject, but he didn't trust his own mind to not have ruined them. It was... something relating to the method of casting. He knew that much, but not much more. He remembered how to cast the spell in mind, but he'd also made some hypothesis based on that, and it was currently running right away from him. If only he had a net. A mind-net, for catching mind-thoughts. A nearly inaudible scratching sound crawled into his ear, and it instinctively flicked in response. The auditory pest unfortunately continued its crusade despite his most determined ear flicking, and he could feel irritation clouding his otherwise decent mood. He swung his head around to the source of the noise, with a vague hope in his heart that something would actually be there for once. A mouse, or a bug, or anything, really. Something to prove he wasn't completely gone. Nothing. It was just that stupid corner again, dank and dark and full of a critical lack of anything that could reasonably make any noise. And of course, the noise had stopped as soon as he had moved; because why the hell not. He was getting really fed up with his mind. Maybe he should have started getting indignant days ago, or even weeks ago; but he would guess there was only so much abuse he could take before he reached his limit. And apparently, that limit had been reached. "Well, I hope you're happy." His voice surprised himself, in just about every way it could have. For one thing, he hadn't really been planning on speaking. His mouth had just opened on its own and words had tumbled out, ragged and torn as they were. That was the other thing, he sounded awful. His voice had that kind of underlying rasp that he thought could only be achieved through a lifetime of smoking, but he had seemingly found some kind of shortcut. Had he had anything to drink recently? Had he eaten at all? Why was this only just occurring to him? Like that mattered, his mind was just trying to sidetrack him from his anger. "You know, I was fine with all of the other garbage; even if it was probably tearing me apart. I didn't care, and I don't care." Well, this was what was happening now. He really didn't have any say in what crawled out of his mouth at this point, it was all just kind of coming out. Somewhat strange, actually. He wasn't even sure how angry he was anymore, and he certainly didn't know why he was verbally abusing himself about it. "I know what you're doing. You're trying to get me back on track, back to actually casting the spell instead of standing around thinking about magic." He expected his throat to hurt more than it did, what with the apparent total lack of hydration; but it was almost as if the words were somewhat... disconnected? Like they weren't actually coming from his mouth, or even his own mind. He was both the speaker and the recipient of this rant, but he didn't feel as if he was apart of it at all. It was like he was a spectator watching a play set up just for him. That was scary, but why wasn't he scared? Why couldn't he feel anything? Why wasn't he panicking? What was happening? "Well you know what, mind; I happen to like thinking about magic. I enjoy theorizing, and thinking, and hypothesizing, and just about every intellectual pursuit that can be related to magic! I like magic, moon damn it! I want to think about it!" Something was wrong. These were all thoughts he could reasonably have. These were all arguments he would reasonably make. Given his insane obsessions with the moon, that was even a curse word he might use. But he wasn't thinking those thoughts. He wasn't making those arguments, and he definitely wasn't using 'moon' as any sort of curse. He wasn't speaking. His mouth moved independently of his internal struggle, as if reading off a script. Motions and tones mimicked with perfect authenticity, despite his total lack of input. "I was almost at the best part, too! I was going to have a whole run-down in my head about how I was going to use a specialized spell designed to cure aches and pains! But I guess that wasn't interesting enough for you, huh?" "Well, fine! My insane wish is my insane command! I'll just do the spell and get it over with..." He needed help, he needed somepony to save him. He couldn't move, he couldn't feel, he could barely even think. There was something in his body, and it had taken control of him, and it wasn't even allowing him to feel anything about it. The only way he knew he was even in trouble was his dwindling sense of sanity and logic. This wasn't correct, and he knew that. He had to hang onto that, he had to hug that thought as tightly as possible. If he forgot that he was in danger, what would be left of him? Would he just go along with the play? Like a doll, bound up in strings and forced to dance to the whims of another? Help. He needed help. He needed somepony to help him. "I'll do it, I'll cast the spell right now! I have it memorized perfectly, even without spending an hour thinking about it!" His head raised triumphantly as his horn lit by itself. His narrow view of the cellar walls darkened as his eyes closed in apparent focus. His tongue pressed itself against his teeth, like he normally did when he was nervous. What was going to happen to him when the spell was cast? Was his consciousness just going to pop back into his body, none the worse for wear? No, that wasn't what had happened every other time his memory had wiped itself. He could see that now. He could remember that his memory wasn't what he thought it was. He could remember what he had done, and what had been done to him in turn. How much had he forgotten? How many times had this happened to him? How many selves had been cast away, forced to watch as his body played out a script to the tune of his own deteriorating memories? Screaming and banging against the walls of his mind, as he unknowingly burned himself away. Why couldn't he see it normally? What was blocking his vision from himself? No, that was redundant. He could remember what happened then, and why that memory had been burned away. The zebra... Why had She done that to her? "From the air, to my horn, to my fount, to my brain, to my heart, to my liver..." No, what was he doing? That wasn't how the spell was cast, and he should have known that. He was going to hurt himself. She was going to make him hurt himself, but why? She needed him, and She needed his strength, so why was She doing this? Why him? Why had She chosen him? Could he find the answer in his memories? Was there time? "...and back through my horn! See, easy..!" No time. No time. Fire. Burning through his body and his mind and his mind and his mind and his mind and his mind and his mind and his mind and his mind and h- It hurt. It hurt so much, and he couldn't feel it. He could see his body convulse and writhe on the floor, but he couldn't feel any of the pain. He could see the pain, and the tears, and the pleas, and the vomit, and the neverending torture, but he couldn't feel any of it. Muscles tearing. Body failing. His consciousness was fading. Darkening and shortening and hurting and screaming and crying and laughing and spitting and gagging and growing and shrinking and hugging and pushing and- Somepony, help him, please. He needed help, he wanted to be saved. Please, somepony save him from the monster. She was coming, and he would suffer. Somepony needed to stop Her, please. He needed help, he needed somepony to help him. Help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help- He didn't want to die, not again.