//------------------------------// // Interlude: Numb // Story: Rekindled Embers // by applezombi //------------------------------// Interlude: Numb               The Tale manor looked empty and dark, towering over the foregrounds like a tombstone.  Grace expected to feel relief as she walked through the open gate, but she felt nothing.  With a sigh, she stepped past the topiaries.  They were no longer immaculately kept, instead becoming vague and overgrown, losing their cohesion and figure.             Of course the gardeners had quit.  And the cooks.  She’d fired the guards herself.  What use were guards who ran at the first sign of danger?  Even if they had seen whatever creature Lofty had brought into her home.  She’d seen the creature, too, and she hadn’t run.             Her breath caught painfully in her throat and she stopped, almost falling to her knees in front of the front doors.  Choosing not to run hadn’t helped her.  It hadn’t changed anything.   It hadn’t saved True.             A sharp sob cut through her body, and she ran to the bushes next to the door to retch.  Nothing came out.  She hadn’t eaten in days.  She didn’t feel hungry.  She wiped her mouth with one hoof and slumped back to the front door.             The manor’s entry hall was clean, if darkened.  She found the light switch and flipped it.  There was no evidence of the fight that had taken place here just a few days ago.  Or the subsequent investigation.  No hint that her own brother had violated her home, brought foul creatures here, and had stolen True off to whatever filthy heretic hole the bastard had slunk off to.  Him and his crystal slut.             Her hoofsteps echoed loudly on the hard marble floor tiles.  Each sound bounced around the empty room.  It was probably soon to be emptier; she’d have to start selling off family assets and treasures soon.  The Mystics had already told her that most of the Tale family business contracts were drying up.  Banks were closing their accounts.  Allies were heading for warmer pastures, or for noble patrons less tainted by the stain of disgrace, failure, and heresy.             The Tales were done.  Probably forever.  It would be a slow decline, if they were lucky.             Over the echoing sounds of her hoofsteps, she heard sounds from the kitchen.  Surprised, she wandered over.  She was sure all the manor staff had abandoned them. Maybe it was an intruder.             As she pushed the door to the kitchen open, she wasn’t worried about anypony who would be breaking into the Tale manor.  It wasn’t like she had anything left worth protecting.  As she opened the door wider, she was surprised, however, to see her husband at the counter, chopping vegetables.             “Grace!  You’re back!”  Jackpot cried with naked joy, dropping the knife he was working with onto a pile of unevenly diced carrots.  He rushed over and wrapped her in a tight embrace.  “I thought you’d be gone forever.  The Mystics finally tired of asking you questions?”             “Jackpot…” She stood there, frozen, unable to hug him back.  “I thought… why are you still here?  Didn’t they tell you?”             “Tell me what?  About the accounts being frozen?  Or the forfeiture of the summer manor?”             “Not that,” she whispered, her eyes clenching shut as she leaned into him, inhaling the scent of her husband.  He smelled like vegetables and spices.  When had he learned to cook?             “Ah.”  He squeezed her more tightly.  “Yes.  Sir Tarpit did inform me.  I told him I wasn’t interested.”             “But with an a-annulment, you could start over.  Your family could find you a new match.  Somepony who isn’t useless.”             “Grace…”             “So you’re cooking?” She pushed away from him, a little too hard.  “I’ve never known you to cook.”             “Well, with the help all gone, I figured it was time to learn.”  He rested a hoof on her shoulder, looking deep into her eyes.  “I found an easy cook book.  I hope you like stew.”             “I’m not sure I’m hungry.”             “Grace.  You’ve been stuck in interview rooms with the Mystics for days now.  You need to relax and eat something.”  He looked askance at the piles of vegetables, the uneven, jagged cuts, and sighed.  “Even if it is of dubious worth.”             “Maybe you could try chef’s good knives.  He keeps them in the high cupboard.”  She walked over and opened the cupboard in question, pulling out a knife block and setting it on the counter.  “You might have a better time.”             “Nicer knives make a difference?”             “He kept his sharper.  So probably.”             Jackpot pulled out one of the knives, carefully slicing through the half-chopped carrot on the cutting board.  “Woah.  You’re right.  This will work a lot better.  Thanks!”             For a few minutes, the only sound was the click of the knife against the cutting board.  Grace pulled out one of the knives, idly turning it over in her hooves as she tried not to think about what was happening.             “So they decided to let you go?”             Jackpot’s voice made her jump, dropping the knife on the counter with a clatter.  She looked over at her husband,  who hadn’t paused.  Now he was chopping potatoes.  The carrots were in a large stock pot on the range, boiling.             “There was no reason to keep me.  I think they were satisfied I had nothing to do with what my brother did.  Besides, now I can be an example to the masses; this is what happens when you fail.”             “But it’s not over, right?  We have to have faith that everything will be okay.  The Saints know you tried.  They’ll keep True safe, and bring him home.”  He put his knife down, moving over to wrap a hoof around her shoulders.  “Keep your hopes up, Grace.  Everything will turn out right.”             It was the same thing he’d said after her first diagnosis.  And second.  It was what he’d said when they’d gotten the news about Lofty’s indiscretions.  He was a hopeless optimist.  Probably why he was still  here, rather than back with his family, arranging an annulment of their marriage and severing his ties with the Tale family.             “How can it?” she whispered.             “The Mystics aren’t going to give up.  They’ll chase down that slime, and get True back safe and sound.  You’ll see.”             “Sure.”             Jackpot stopped chopping and looked over.  “Grace.  You need to relax for a bit.  Go take a bath, or a nap.  I’ll come get you when dinner is done, okay?”  He leaned close, kissing her gently.  “Wind down for a bit.”             “Okay.”  She sighed and pulled away.  “I’ll go take a bath.”             He never noticed the second knife was gone.             She plodded slowly up the stairs, towards the master suite.  But once she reached the doors, she…             …kept going.             She knew she shouldn’t.  There was no point.  But as her hoof reached the smaller door just past the master suite doors, she didn’t hesitate to push it open.             The nursery was dark; nopony had bothered to turn on the lights.  She stepped inside, leaving the door open to allow a crack of light inside.             Somepony had cleaned and organized, but the toys still cast long shadows across the room.  Grace looked through the growing haze of tears at the stuffed animals, the carved wooden Knights.  Even the chess set she’d had brought over from the family’s small manor; True’s nanny had said he liked playing with the pieces, even though he didn’t know the game yet.  She looked at the bed, sharply made.  He’d only spent a few nights there.  She looked at the dresser that she’d stocked with foal’s clothing as soon as she’d been told he’d be living with her from now on.             A few days.  That’s all she’d had.  A few days to imagine.  To dream.   To pretend.             She left the door ajar as she fled the room, her stomach clenching in dry heaves.             Grace knew she’d probably been too loud when she’d slammed the master bedroom door shut.  She didn’t want to see Jackpot right now.  She didn’t want to see anypony but her nephew.  She sprinted into the bathroom, rushing over to the toilet.  It was a waste of effort; there was nothing left in her to spit up.             Time floated away as she waited before the porcelain, sobbing and retching and catching her breath.  She didn’t know how long she crouched there, but when Grace finally managed the strength to rise to her hooves, her fur was matted with sweat.  She probably stank, she realized.  It had been a while since she’d had a proper bath.  She moved over to the bathtub, a thick, off-white monster with traditional brass feet at the bottom.  With a twist of her hoof, she turned on the water to its hottest setting.  After a moment of thought, she backed off the heat just a little.             Grace stumbled back into the bedroom and towards her wardrobe.  Her dresses would probably be one of the first things to be sold; a shamed disgrace had no need for dozens of outfits.  But she could still save some of her favorites, at least?  She rifled through the silks and velvets, the linens and cottons.  Her hoof trailed past summer colors and winter colors, before she found a sleek black number.  One of Jackpot’s favorites to see her in.  She pulled it out and carried it into the bathroom.             The tub was full, so she twisted the faucet off.  The window and mirrors were fogged with the steam that floated from the scalding hot water.  Grace reached out to touch the water, hissing with pain.  She could barely stand it.  With a small nod, she undressed, setting the black dress neatly on a stool next to the tub while she dropped the soiled, dirty outfit she’d worn for the last several days into a heap on the floor.             She paused for a few brief moments, staring at the steaming water.  Then back at the heap of dirty clothes.  And what she’d wrapped inside.  Then, with a deep, calming breath, she stepped quickly into the uncomfortably hot water.              It burned.  The water wasn’t hot enough to do injury, but certainly hot enough to send waves of pain over her skin.  She hissed loudly, but didn't get out.  Water sloshed around the edges of the tub, and she forced herself to stay in, sinking down until the creeping, burning tingle covered her from her neck all the way down.  After a few minutes, she was used to the heat, even though it wasn’t exactly comfortable.             Pain was good.  Pain was life.  She let herself sink even further, until she was fully immersed, closing her eyes to let the water slip over her face and her mane.  She stayed in until the burn in her lungs, the need for air, became too much to bear and she had to surface.             Grace stayed in the water until it began to grow lukewarm.  Or maybe it was just in her head; the water had started out so hot, and now that it was a normal bathing temperature, it somehow felt…             …numbing.             Suddenly her hooves were shaking with the need for more.  To feel.  To hurt.  So much pain in so few days.  Maybe…             She reached down to the pile.  To what she knew was there.  To what she’d put there, trying not to let Jackpot notice it was missing.  Trying not to think too hard.  She leaned up and over the edge of the tub, pawing through the limp clothing to find what lay inside.             Grace sat back down in the tub, taking her prize with her.  The water sloshed about as she turned it over and over in her hooves, the light from the window causing the polished steel to flash in her eyes.  She ran the soft part of her hoof against the blade, feeling only the slightest of stings before red droplets splashed down into the tub.  Idly, she lifted her hoof in front of her face; she’d managed to cut deep enough that a steady stream of blood trickled down her hoof, towards the water.             The brilliant red dripped into the water, dissipating in swirling wisps.  Bright red blood.  Splashing into the water.  Then turning into nothing.  There was nothing.  Nothing left.  She lifted the knife, resting it against the white fur of her foreleg.             Chef had always kept his best knives razor sharp.             More.  More splashes.  More pain.  More red.  More.  More!  MORE!  Tears and blood and sweat and life.  The knife flashed, over and over.             There was sound at the door.  Pounding.  Jackpot.  It felt far away.  Unreal.  Not like the hurt.  Her forelegs hurt.  They felt weak.  She let them slip and fall, floating in the water.  Now it was red.  Splotches of red, dripping, dissolving into the water.  Disappearing.             There was a loud clatter.  Something metallic hitting tile.  She’d dropped something onto the floor.  The pounding got louder, but Grace couldn’t seem to care.  She couldn’t seem to focus.  Her head was fuzzy.             “Grace!  Open the door!”             Haze and fog.  Red-on-white.  Swirling and dancing like steam.  Like drops of paint in a bucket.  Like…             Grace slipped again under the surface of the water, closing her eyes.  Something broke.  The door burst open.