Celestial Year 1000 AB
The Summer Sun Celebration
The acrid taste of vomit in his mouth was the first thing that greeted him when he woke up. Bitter and burning, and not especially pleasant; though at least it was familiar.
His tongue sluggishly flicked around his mouth in a futile attempt to reduce the tangible feeling of sickness. It wasn’t quite working. Somewhat expected, but still upsetting.
When had he even barfed? It couldn’t have been an old taste, or it wouldn’t have been so strong; and It was obviously before he woke up, though he was having a hard time...
A hard time remembering when he woke up...
Did he even wake up? Was there even a point in his mind where he could distinctly recall the end of any sort of sleep?
He just suddenly.... had memories of consciousness. As if he had been floating in a sort of non-state, until he just... wasn't, anymore?
His eyes hadn't opened with trailing wisps of a fading dream or lingering nightmare. It wasn't a slow burn into full comprehension, or the quick shock of a rude awakening.
He wasn't even in any sort of situation that would imply having been asleep. He was sitting at a simple little round wooden table with his eyes wide open and staring ahead, and as far as he could tell: he had been that way for a while.
He was just conscious, with no in-between.
Did that even make sense? Would it have made sense otherwise?
The rush of sensations filling the gaps where he could swear void had recently made its residence was... jarring, to say the least. His head was trying desperately to fit a puzzle together as the pieces were supplied one by one.
Yeah... that was a good way to put it... A puzzle put together from scratch. The pieces were missing, and the picture was uncertain, but the outline was, at the very least, familiar. Well, that was what he hoped anyway.
He swallowed heavily. The burning traces of his own stomach acids filling his mouth certainly weren't helping the onslaught of information, and the prospect of acclimating wasn't something he was sure he could handle at the moment. It was nearly all he could do to not collapse over the surface in front of him, though he wasn't quite sure why he felt so feeble.
He wasn't quite sure of much, it seemed.
It was all... very hard. Nothing was feeling the way it was supposed to feel... and there was a sinking feeling in his heart that told him there wasn't much of a template to go on. The puzzle's outline wasn't that clear, and pieces kept getting put together wrong.
His head wasn't... quite the way he had left it; or, at least, the way he remembered leaving it.
Um... was... uh... How... how did he remember leaving it?
Was... was he... having memory problems?
Every time he tried to grasp at the thread of recollection in his head, it would barely slip away. No matter how he plead or cried, his wits would stubbornly stay just out of reach. A constant dance in his mind, as his body ran on total autopilot.
It was endlessly frustrating, yet tinged with unfamiliar feelings besides exasperation.
His chest felt tight, as if there was some invisible force squeezing him. His throat ran dry, and his lower jaw felt taut. It was almost like he was on edge, but without the feeling of danger permeating the air.
Why was he sad? Was... was he sad? Is that what that was?
A writhing blue, constricting and wrapping around his insides. Squeezing and crushing and tearing his mind apart while his eyes were free to watch, because tragedy needed an audience or it wouldn't be sad.
Sadness, or fear?
His focus was momentarily drawn from his unknown feelings by a bright light dancing across his vision. He squinted his eyes against the harsh glare of the sun's rays, and raised an unsteady hoof to shield him from some of the brunt.
That was another thing, he couldn't quite recall how he had made his way out of his cellar; which... was apparently the place he had been? And now he seemed to be sitting at an unfamiliar table somewhere?
That... that was good to know, if hugely startling that he was only just remembering that. A cold feeling was beginning to creep over his withers, and he almost felt compelled to shiver at the unwelcome sensation.
And his current location, with the merciless sun and all... Ponyville?
Yes, he seemed to be in Ponyville proper.
He craned his neck up to look at the building behind him. The white edge of fake frosting roofing greeted him, and he felt another tugging sensation in his heart that he couldn't identify.
Energy filled his body, and thoughts of fleeing filled his head. He wanted so badly to jump up and run away from the tacky decoration that was beginning to ring alarm bells in his head. He didn't... quite know why, but something told him that this was not a place he should linger. It wasn't quite danger, or the kind of tearing sensation that fear for his life would bring, but it compelled him nonetheless.
But why, though? Where was he, and why did it make him want to run and hide and never look back? With all that had its place in his head, why would something like this stick out so strongly despite the greater questions?
He swallowed heavily, and slowly turned his head around to see the building better. Anticipation and turmoil warred in his head, and he nearly found himself giving up multiple times as one side momentarily gained ground against the other; but he persisted, and he was rewarded with a greater view of the structure.
It... was a bakery, or at least it seemed to be on inspection. The walls of the building were a plain peach, much like the other houses in Ponyville. The fact that he could recall that without turning to see any of the other houses brought him some level of comfort. His head may have been jumbled, but at least it wasn't broken, not outwardly.
The walls may have been comparatively plain with their fanciful wooden highlights, contrasting well with the tiny shocks of pink flowers growing at random places along their base; but the roof was a far different fiasco.
He may have been lacking a lot of key emotions, and... memories; but some large enough part of him remained to scream in his own ear that fiasco was a great word to use.
It... was.... well... It... looked like frosted gingerbread...
His nose scrunched slightly as he took the sight in. The clashing browns and whites and pinks and purples of faux candy and frosting and...
He turned back around in his chair to sit normally. He didn't even want to think about the large cupcake observatory on top of all the other things. Just... why?
Two hooves came up to rub at his face while his mind played a desperate game of keep-up. It was a bakery, sure; but did they have to embrace that theme so heavily? Weren't there building codes around here? This could not have possibly been within the town's guidelines, whatever they were. He was really going to have to talk to Mayor Mare about-
Oh... Mayor Mare...? That... that was a name...
His hooves came away from his suddenly tired eyes, and he let them both rest on the smooth surface in front of him. He had been trying, for a while now, to remember any sort of actual detail on the town as a whole; and it hadn't been the most fruitful endeavor thus far. He could remember the town's name, and the basic facts about it, but when he tried to reach for details...
His eyes screwed themselves shut on instinct as a throbbing sensation pervaded his mind. When he tried to specifically reach for any detail... any detail at all... he just...
Static. Loud and harsh and screaming at him to stop.
His eyes flew open as the throbbing faded, and he realized he had been breathing heavily. His lungs felt tired and overused, and his mouth felt hot from the burning air rushing through it. He brought a hoof up to hold his chest while his fractured mind did its best to evaluate the situation.
Maybe he should just let the memories flow on their own. His psyche, or whatever in Tartarus was in his head, clearly didn't want him to poke about. He didn't really appreciate the red tape, especially since it was his head, but whatever. He was cool.
Hey, there was something else! He was very accepting of things, even to a fault! That was... maybe not a great personality trait to remember about himself.
Maybe, if he could choose what he was remembering, he could remember his name next? That was something he was especially missing right now, though he was sure it would come back in time.
That's what he needed, just a bit of time. Soon, everything would make sense again, and everything would be alright.
As various platitudes and other things flew through his head, his awareness gradually returned to him. He had been ignoring nearly everything besides his own mental state, but now that he looked, there seemed to be a bit of commotion. Large groups of ponies made their way past him, barely bothering to give him a second glance as their voices and laughter and chatter grew to encompass his hearing.
The crowds grew and ebbed, like waves and wakes in the ocean; as he sat there and simply watched. He didn't know much about himself at the moment, but other ponies seemed fairly easy to pick apart. The group of fillies running by, cheering and hollering about a celebration; they had just come out of school. It was about that time of day, and they hadn't quite worn themselves out yet if their energy was any indication; so they hadn't had time to calm down at home.
He felt an ear perk as the retreating voice of the little white filly babbled something about a princess. Princesses... that was something his mind knew...
The throbbing returned in response to his idle poke into his memories, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth as his head lowered. He let the matter rest, and the fury in his head quickly quelled itself.
He blew a quiet sigh through his nose as he gathered his thoughts together, as if he had been holding a stack of papers that had suddenly gone flying in every direction. Important documents and sordid literature alike, though he was lucky nopony had been around to see.
Wow, his metaphors were getting esoteric. He really hadn't read enough lately, or did that mean he read too much?
His expression changed from quiet contemplation to sudden surprise. There was something else, he liked reading! Or, to be more specific, reading liked him. A memory or two of a life spent dedicated to books flitted into his mind, and he grabbed greedily at them. The idea of hoarding was appealing to his subconscious, and a small smile grew on his face at the idea of gathering his memories into a safe location. Somewhere safe, where they were all his; forever and ever, and nopony else would ever touch them again.
The smile slipped off his face at the addendum to his thought. What did that mean, again? Were his problems the work of somepony else? Had somepony tampered with his mind?
The word choice lit fireworks in his brain, and a sudden fire found itself in his chest as nameless memories flew across his eyes too quickly to register. His veins burned as his teeth ground against themselves, and his breath grew hot for the second time since he had woken.
Tampering... tampering... tampering tampering tampering tampering- why did that word make him so mad?!
And why did it also make him so... sad?
He could feel his eyes darken as his thoughts strayed to aimless violence and meaningless tantrums. He wanted so badly to hurt somepony, but he also really wanted to be happy again. Or at least whatever he had been feeling before. That plain existence, where nothing was incredibly good or bad but things were easily wonderful and whimsical. He couldn't quite quantify that particular state of being, but it was better than rage.
He... he didn't like being angry. There was something else about himself he didn't quite expect. So many of his mannerisms and processes seemed to be based around judgement or scorn, but he didn't like being angry? How did that make any sense?
If anypony should know, it was him, and that was just making him angrier.
His jaw set itself into place as his anger followed suit. It simmered and boiled in his heart, and he could feel stray beads of emotion occasionally run down the sides; but he didn't quite care and the metaphor was obtuse anyway. He would ignore it for the most part, and just keep watching the neverending supply of ponies until something got better; or at least changed.
His predictably stony eyes found themselves on a pair of tacky tourists. He knew they were tourists, because stars above: who wore things like that otherwise? Shirts with bright colors like yellow and green, mixed with cooler colors that did nothing to compliment anything; along with a matching set of cameras. Picture perfect walking stereotypes, and they chattered like it too.
He couldn't... quite make himself care enough to focus in on anything specific, because their voices honestly hurt his ears as much as their shirts hurt his eyes; but he caught one or two things. Something about a big celebration, and the sun?
Bells, bells bells bells in his head but- augh -he wasn't allowed to know what they were ringing about?!
He huffed heavily through the corner of his mouth as his mood only worsened, but what was he expecting? Nothing good about watching ponies, no matter how long he did it. They would just yammer on about themselves or their lives or their experiences and it was all just so sickening.
Narcissism. Of course that was there, why wouldn't it be? He was a walking stereotype himself, apparently. What protagonist problems didn't he have?
Deep knowledge of literary tropes, there was something else. It made him want to groan and bash his face into the table, but there it was. Actually, on second thought, that sounded like a great idea. Just the kind of thing he needed, really.
A long groan made its way out of his mouth, and he took a moment to stare at the surface in front of him. Only a moment though, and if he had thought any harder he would have told himself not to do it, so he went right ahead and allowed his face its joyous meeting with a new friend.
His nose hurt, and so did the rest of his face, but his head felt a little better. That didn't really make sense, but he was quickly learning that life didn't make sense either.
He groaned again as a different pain made itself known in his ever-expanding catalogue of misfortune. The throbbing in his head had only been reactionary so far, but now it was beginning to creep into his head unbidden. Pounding and thumping and banging and-
"Hey! Uh, Equus to Light Flow, do you read me? You aren't ignoring me, are you? Because I have ways of making ponies pay attention to me, and it usually starts fun, but then it starts to get less fun as time goes on; and suddenly no one's having fun anymore, and then I feel bad, but sometimes a girl's gotta be strict! Hey, how long have you been out here? If I had known you were waiting I would have come out to serve you right away, even if you're not exactly a regular or really ever even come around at all even though I know you like sweets and-"
The voice, the voice the voice the voice why was it so familiar but also so annoying but also so... scary?
It was loud, and high-pitched, and never-ending and the banging hadn't been from his head, it had been from the voice, and it just kept going on and on and he hadn't even really been listening to anything it said at all, so he didn't really know why it kept going even though a feeling in his chest told him the voice definitely had better things to do and...
And he was rambling, just like the voice; as if it was infectious or something.
He ground his forehead into the table a little harder as the horribly familiar-yet-unfamiliar voice somehow switched topics into talking about somepony named 'Mrs. Cake', because she had been talking about sweets, and then she was talking about cakes, and the leap was pretty evident from there.
The voice didn't sound like it was losing traction anytime soon, which meant he had time to mull. He was finding an increasing amount of evidence in his head that he enjoyed mulling, and other various things that had to do with thinking.
Now, onto the pondering. His name was Light Flow, apparently. That: or the voice had somehow confused him for somepony else, but that didn't seem incredibly likely. Even if he only judged by his own feelings about the voice, the evidence was fairly compelling.
Light Flow... Yeah, that definitely sounded like his name. Of course, it was just as likely that somepony could tell him his name was 'Book Binder', and he would feel the exact same way; but he wasn't going to think too hard about that depressing thought.
Light Flow. That was him, and he was going to stick to it.
He didn't like the voice so far, and his heart was saying in its very loudest words that this voice was trouble. He didn't have much reason to doubt his heart, so distrust and thinly-veiled disgust it was. She may have delivered his name to him, but Light Flow was nothing if not absolute in his dislike of anypony outgoing.
Probably. Okay, maybe that was something he had made up on the spot, but it sounded like something he would think. Nearly everything in his head told him that he was a bit of a douche, and he didn't want to upset the image he had probably worked hard to cultivate.
If he was a jerk, then he was a jerk. No reason to change that now, since he was just going to keep acting that way when he got his memories back. If he ever got them back, he should say...
He hefted his head off the table, and hesitantly met two baby-blue-
the color the color the color don't you remember the color the color of the eyes it burned into your head and you never forgot the look of those eyes and even when you both had moved past it you never forgot and you could never look her in the eyes because it was too much like childhood and too much like home and too much like all of the feelings you tried so hard to stay in control of and when she looks at you with sunshine in her eyes and an apology on her lips and forgiveness in her heart you feel nothing but the same hate and the same fear that you felt when you nearly convinced yourself to kill her do it kill her it would be so easy to just reach out and take it for yourself just do it just take it just take it just TAKE IT!
-eyes.
Two baby-blue eyes staring back into his own narrowed brown ones. They weren't the nicest eyes he had ever seen, and even though he literally could not remember ever seeing any other eyes, they weren't the worst either. Her mouth was still hammering on despite the absolute destruction on any sort of point to her rambling, and he was content to let her for the moment. At least so he could take stock of the mare who apparently never ran out of breath.
He didn't need to break eye contact with her to take in her features, his mind was helpful enough to do it for him. While his eyes stared glassily into the all consuming void of happiness and words, his head was busy deciphering the bits and pieces of the mare's appearance that were delivered along with the questionable fear nesting in his heart.
Fluffy pink hair, soft pink fur, poofy pink tail, jabbering in disgustingly pink words; was there anything about this mare that wasn't pink?!
His teeth ground against each other just painfully enough to keep him focused, and he moved on from the thought of pink speech bubbles with a pink font against a pink background.
Not everything about her was pink, though he could remember her name now and wow, he was not touching that. Her cutie mark was a trio of blue and yellow balloons, which made for a refreshing change from pink on pink on pinker pink.
There really wasn't much to her appearance, just a lot of bright bouncy pink that refused to ever sit down or stay still for one moment to read or to learn or just to talk- would you calm down?!
He blinked rapidly against the torrent of things coming out of Pinkie Pie's mouth. Where had that thought come from? It was so quick and strong and emotional that it had shocked him for a moment, and he had nearly gone under in the river of pink.
More personal memories seemed to be coming through, he would guess. That was a good thing, even if that meant he was likely to get more ornery soon.
Something told him he would like being upset all the time. Just a little sparkle in his heart that said that whatever pony he was before, he enjoyed himself immensely. That lined up with the whole narcissism thing he had worked out, and he was decently happy to hear it.
Whatever problems he may have, at least he was-
crying crying crying always alone always crying on the inside because there was never anypony to really understand how you felt about anything because you pushed them all away except for one but she was the wrong kind of friend she was the friend that pushed you to be better not the friend that would understand you so you spent all your time alone in isolation in your sad little cabin on the edge of the cursed woods because you couldn't handle anypony getting close because you had a terrible secret don't you remember yet don't you remember what you did what we did because when you do you will see that you were always destined to be
-happy.
He blinked sluggishly as the pink pony in front of his bounced gently on her hooves. Oh, she had finished talking. When did that happen? More importantly, how did that happen?
If he could roll his eyes without looking like more of a jerk than was necessary, he would; because he could swear that Pinkie Pie could probably talk forever. That wasn't even hyperbole, there was that part of himself in his ear whispering that she probably had enough words to fill her existence until everything everywhere died.
The world would turn to ash around her, and she would still be standing there using one topic to switch to another and another and another ad nauseum until her words were the only only thing left.
He agreed with the voice in his head.
She was still there, and her excitement only seemed to be getting worse as her tiny bounces propelled her off the ground higher and higher with each bounce. If he just sat there watching her long enough, she could probably clear the building within half an hour.
An extremely hilarious thought, but he would probably have to be the one to catch her. Less hilarious now, he should probably say something. It would have to be on brand for him though, which meant something snarky and sarcastic. Something suitably scornful, while still conversational enough to play it off as a joke.
Incorporate a nickname? There was another factoid, he liked nicknames. Real names showed too much respect for normal conversations with normal ponies, so he usually used nicknames. He was liking himself better and better with each new memory.
A grin grew on his face to match Pinkie's, though he would probably describe his as something approaching mischievous. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that, Pinks. Could you say it again?"
Hah! Score one for him and passive-aggressive wait why was his head screaming at him? Danger? What danger? Why were there alarm bells going off? Why was Pinkie still smiling?!
"Sure thing! Hey! Uh, Equus to Light Flow, do you read me? You aren't ignoring me, are you? Because I have ways of making ponies pay attention to me, and it usually starts-"
His cocky grin melted away into a look of quiet horror as the pink menace perfectly started her entire tirade over. He couldn't believe it, she even mimicked her tone and movements down to banging on the table to get his attention.
Was she insane? Or was he the crazy one for talking to a pony that never ran out of words?
As Pinkie Pie once again bled into talking about Mrs. Cake and something about wedding anniversaries, Light Flow slowly rested his head back onto the table. Flesh met wood in a soft impact, and he relished the feeling of something solid as the deluge of nonsense rushed around him.
Somepony help him, please.