//------------------------------// // 7 - The Kindness of Strangers // Story: Urban Wilds // by Rambling Writer //------------------------------// Bitterroot guessed that the founder of Traverse Tea was from Trottingham. The non-rhotic accent would make the seemingly-obligatory pun slightly less awful, reducing it to merely eye-rolling rather than, “Do you know how pronunciation works?” Fortunately, the place wasn’t as twee as the name made it sound; oh, it had all the light teas and dainty little cakes and delicate flowers you’d expect from a pun-titled teahouse, but if you wanted strong black coffee and big nutty muffins and full thistles, it had those, too, along just about everything in between, plus a number of things that weren’t directly in between but off to the side a bit. Traverse Tea was on street level in Canterlot and the place the mystery pegasus had selected to lead her to. It was crowded enough that anypony would think twice before trying something, yet also empty enough that, with only slightly lowered voices, you could talk about something without being overheard. And the pegasus was paying. Oh, happy day. Bitterroot sipped at her tea and nibbled at a donut as the pegasus slurped down a smoothie. “So,” Bitterroot said. “We’re settled in. I’m Bitterroot. What’s your story?” “Name’s Cocoon, and I practice the fine art of informancy,” the pegasus said. “I hang around in the Roost, hardy har, and tell the Guard anything I hear or learn. They stay on top of what’s going on down there, fnah fnah, and I get paid for it.” Shrug. “Simple.” Was it? People would notice the same pony hanging around down there all day and not actually doing anything, right? Maybe; the Roost wasn’t huge, maybe the size of a small city block. But maybe it was easier for somepony who knew what she was doing. Still, she hadn’t seen this pegasus anywhere near the Hangnail. “So how did you know I was asking Swizzle about the robbery? I didn’t see you anywhere near the Hangnail.” Cocoon grinned. “Oh, you saw me,” she said. “You just didn’t recognize me.” And she winked at Bitterroot. Briefly flashing the monochrome gloss of a changeling eye. Bitterroot reflexively sucked in a breath, clamped her wings close, and pushed her chair away from the table. Nope. Nuh-uh. Nope. She wasn’t going to work with one of those- She bit her tongue and took a deep breath to derail her train of thought. Changelings were not bad, no matter what memories she had. Chrysalis was gone. Their king was a happy-go-lucky dork, if she was hearing things correctly. The magnitude of changeling-related incidents in Equestria had dropped precipitously, both in quantity and severity. And this one was apparently working with the Guard. They could be okay. Besides, why should she let a necromancer crash on her couch and not be fine with changelings? Cocoon noticed Bitterroot’s reaction — how could she not? — but looked superbly unconcerned. She took a long slurp from her drink and said in a casual, nonaccusatory voice, “You don’t like changelings?” Bitterroot swallowed and forced herself to look Cocoon in the eye. She wasn’t sure whether Cocoon’s eye being a plain pegasus one again made it better or worse. “Not really,” she admitted, ruffling her wings. “Bad memories of the Pink Wedding.” Celestia, the paranoia she’d felt. “But I’ve worked with a lot of people I didn’t like, and Princess Twilight’s welcoming you, so I better get with the program, right?” She took a deep breath and said, “Look, I- If I say something out of line, just- call me out on it, okay?” Cocoon snorted. “See, this is why I like the Roost,” she muttered, half to herself. “No one’s this frigging concerned about stepping on each others’ hooves.” A sigh. “Look, I’m not a nymph and my chitin is thick. As long as you can work with me, I don’t give a hoot what you say. Honestly, you’re not even the worst pony about this I’ve seen.” “Outside of the Roost, post-coup?” Bitterroot asked tentatively. “Outside of the Roost, post-Abdication.” “…Whoof.” “Eh. Still not as bad as plain old existing pre-coup.” Cocoon shrugged. “Look, I’ve bowed out of the Equestriangst Games, can we stop feeling sorry for me and get to the robberies?” Get it together, Bitterroot. She took a bracing sip of tea. “Right. Robberies. So…?” “Bet it wouldn’t surprise you that Swizzle wasn’t totally honest with you about what was stolen.” Bitterroot nodded. Whenever you were new in a place, nopony was forthcoming unless they were paid to be, and even that was patchy unless it was official. “But-” Did Cocoon’s grin make her look more like a changeling or was that Bitterroot’s imagination? “-you’re wrong about how she wasn’t totally honest. Rye bread, grape juice, and tokens weren’t the only things that were stolen. They’re the only things that were stolen from the Hangnail. But Swizzle only cares about the Hangnail, so whatever else was stolen, she doesn’t care. I don’t think she still remembers, and that’s if she ever bothered to know to begin with.” Cocoon leaned back in her chair, her words flowing easily, and made vague gestures in the air. “Because, see, funny thing about the Roost: land is precious when there’s no land. It’s technically one of the densest urban areas in Equestria. They could expand, but building buildings would require work, and who in the Roost wants to work? So they squeeze everything out of every square inch they can. And with no silly rules and regulations to, say, remind them to not let sodium get wet, things get weird, especially in…” Her eyes glinted as she paused for dramatic effect. “…storehouses. Storehouses that, because of the lack of space, rent out to multiple customers.” Already Bitterroot could see where this was going. “So we’ve got two different ponies in the same warehouse,” she thought aloud, “with two different stocks right next to each other. Diapers and baby powder right next to dog food and cat litter.” “Try crossbows and halberds,” cackled Cocoon. (Did it really sound like a cicada’s buzz?) “But yeah, you’re getting it. Oh, and ‘right next to’ means right next to, like literally inches away.” “So the stuff from the Hangnail was stolen by accident? It just happened to be next to what the robber was actually looking for?” “Might not be. Bet it is,” said Cocoon. “It was all just a bunch of boxes sitting right next to each other, and if you went one box too far, you get the tokens and bread.” She took another sip of her smoothie and licked her lips. Bitterroot surprised herself by not flinching at the suddenly-forked tongue. “Anyway, here’s the full story, not that there’s much to it. Two nights ago, a certain warehouse got broken into, I think around 11:30. The thief made off with a bunch of ritual paraphernaliac stuff, don’t ask me what ’cause I don’t know, and some good old bread. Those two things were close enough to practically be making out in storage, so I think our burglar buddy was going for not-quite-illegal substances and accidentally snagged the Hangnail’s food along the way. Maybe they were in a hurry, maybe they went a bit farther along the aisle than they should’ve, maybe they were blind, I dunno. But I’d bet money that’s what happened.” Cocoon punctuated her words with a jab in Bitterroot’s direction. “Yeah,” Bitterroot said. “Yeah,” she added to herself. It made sense. Tightly-packed inventory like that was always at risk of collateral selection. Hay, sometimes she picked up the wrong food at the grocery store just because it was right next to what she did want. Cocoon hadn’t even listed all the possibilities, like the thief getting spooked and grabbing the wrong thing in a panic. Yeah. She was going to share Cocoon’s bet. It didn’t explain everything, though. “So what about the guards? I heard-” “Thief bribed ’em,” Cocoon said immediately. “Simple, quick, clean.” “But Swizzle said none of them saw anything.” “It’s the Roost,” Cocoon said with a shrug. “Money’s the only thing that gets loyalty down there, and that’s only as long as there isn’t other, more money. Give a guard a hundred bits to look the other way for ten minutes? That’s like a full day’s pay right there. Plus, you really think she told you what happened to them?” Bitterroot thought about it and shivered. Probably best she didn’t know. But there was still the matter of- “So the guards were bribed. Nopony’s looked into taking a robber down? It’s not like the police know.” “It’s the Roost. At least half the ponies down there are robbers.” Stupid criminal underworld. “Robbers that are going after them?” “It’s the Roost. Down there, you can count the number of people any given pony really trusts on one hoof. So-called ‘colleagues’ still screw each other over all the time. If their rivals get undermined without them doing a thing, they’re happy and think it’s worth it.” “What, no empathy?” “It’s. The Roost,” Cocoon said emphatically. “Empathy’s related to friendship and Twilight’s the Princess of Friendship. If they really cared, they’d be up here and merely shady rather than down there and shaded. Great Queen Below, the emotions down there taste awful.” Which fit in with Bitterroot’s experiences with the Roost, she had to admit. No one got too attached to anything they couldn’t leave in thirty seconds if they felt the heat around the corner. You didn’t have friends, you had vague acquaintances. Even the “emotions tasting awful” thing fit, sort of; she got bad vibes whenever she went down there. Another entry on the list of reasons she didn’t like the place. “So I heard you talking about the Mearhwolf and the token,” continued Cocoon. “I told the Guard about the ritual ingredients getting stolen yesterday, but I didn’t know they were maybe connected to the Mearhwolf until you came along. Now, just to refresh your brain, I don’t know what, exactly, was stolen. But with your help, maybe I can figure that out.” “How?” “…Dunno yet, to be honest.” (Bitterroot didn’t quite groan.) “Sneak into the warehouse and take a look at the inventory list? Find the ponies on guard duty that night and get them to spill the beans?” Cocoon’s shrug managed to look nonchalant. “I’m open to suggestions.” On another day, it probably would’ve taken a while for Bitterroot to come to a decision as she mulled it over: she looked for ponies and not evidence, she wasn’t used to this sort of thing, and so on. After weeks of fruitless work, however, it was easy: “As long as whatever we do isn’t too dangerous.” She was still riding the happiness of discovering something in the bar token, which might’ve played a role. “No promises, but I’ll do my best,” said Cocoon. Then she grinned, puffed her chest out, and flared her wings. “And my best is pretty dang good.” Pause; her wings twitched inward slightly. “Usually.” On a whim, Bitterroot jumped on another thread. “Also, I know being an informant’s your job, but is there any way I could turn in what evidence we find? I’m a bounty hunter, and there’s a bounty out for the Mearhwolf and information on her, and it’s the principle of the thing, you know? But if that won’t work, that’s fine. Catching the Mearhwolf’s more important.” Unfortunately. They were the Elements of Harmony, not the Elements of Financial Liquidity. But Cocoon grinned. “Heh. The nice thing about working for somebody else? A steady paycheck. I’m salaried, baby!” She slapped her chest. “The quality of my reports doesn’t matter, just that I keep an eye out. You get first dibs on whatever we find. I come in later and corroborate, and your info seems even more solid.” “Nice.” “As Princess Twilight reminds us, friendship is magic. As a corollary, cooperation is physics.” “Eh…” Bitterroot grimaced and wiggled a hoof. “Not really that catchy.” “Nope!” Cocoon chuckled and rustled her wings in amusement. “Not at all.” Bitterroot downed a large gulp of tea and took an impressive bite of donut. Right back in it. “So what do you think we should-?” “Whoa, hey, not just yet. We are here on my bit, and I am not brainstorming until I’ve finished this minty goodness.” Cocoon held up the last little bit of her smoothie and took a long, satisfied slurp. “Too much thought interferes with the taste.” “Hmm.” Her tea sitting deeply in her stomach, Bitterroot glanced at the smoothie again. It was an ordinary smoothie, but… “You know, I thought changelings ate love.” “Oh, we do.” Slurp. “Pony food can give us some energy, but it’s all so physical, it’s crazy inefficient. Tastes good, though.” Slurp, and the last dregs of the smoothie went up the straw. Cocoon licked her lips and pushed the glass aside. “Alright. You got any ideas?” “Not yet. Still thinking.” Infiltrating and getting secret looks at cargo manifests wasn’t really part of a bounty hunter’s job description. First time for everything, though. “Alright, lemme know if inspiration strikes. I was thinking we could…” She had a badge. She was a necromancer and she had a badge. It wasn’t much of a badge. Just a tiny metal shield marking the wearer as a very-much-temporary member of the Royal Guard. Tomorrow, it might not mean anything. But Amanita still felt that slight amount of weight on her chest and kept coming back to the fact that she was a necromancer and she had a badge. She could raise and control the dead at will and the Guard trusted her. Huh. Amanita was walking through one of the lesser of the nicer neighborhoods of Canterlot with Cobalt and a pegasus guard, a staff sergeant named Iron Phalanx. Apparently, he’d volunteered. (“Do we really need a staff sergeant?” Amanita had asked. “No, but he’s bored and I owe him a favor,” Code had said.) Phalanx had proven to be almost as unflappable as Code, never batting an eye at the fact that he was escorting a necromancer and that necromancer’s most recent… masterpiece. Or maybe he was just happy to be out and about; from the way he sometimes interjected and asked Cobalt questions, he seemed eager to be doing something. “And when they got you,” he asked again, “they took you to somewhere else where they killed you?” “I think so, yeah,” Cobalt said again. Amanita knew the story by heart by now; Cobalt had been through a round of questioning about her own death before they set out, Phalanx had been unlucky enough to not be around during that, and now he kept asking her about every part of it, over and over and over. Cobalt, normally so chipper, was starting to slide into irritation. Amanita was surprised it’d taken her so long to be irritated in the first place. It was pretty simple. Cobalt had left from her metalworking forge just after 9 PM, having worked late to finish up an order. That was still two hours before the curfew started, but she wasn’t an idiot; she wanted to get home ASAP. About halfway home, on an empty street lined with closed stores, she was jumped from behind by two or three ponies, had a bag stuffed over her head, and got thrown beneath a blanket in a wagon. Unfortunately, she hadn’t gotten a good look at her attackers and wasn’t even sure how many there were. When she’d tried to struggle free, a blow to the head had knocked her out. She couldn’t remember much after that, only waking up to the agony from getting stabbed over and over. “I could actually feel it hitting my heart,” she’d quietly said. And yet, she’d remained surprisingly chipper as they walked. A side-effect of resurrection, or had she always been that happy? Might as well ask her. Phalanx was mulling something over, so Amanita coughed. “Um. Cobalt. How are… How are you doing? Really.” “You’re like the fifth pony to ask that,” Cobalt said casually. “But… fine. Really. Yeah, I’m weirded out by it all, but…” She looked down at her legs and flexed them a little more than usual as she walked. “I’m… I’m here. I’m alive and I’m planning on staying that way for a while. It’s not like Elysium’s going anywhere.” She shook her head. “It’s like… I woke up one morning and found I was bankrupt, then got it all back the next day. Except I can’t really remember being bankrupt at all, and… It’s confusing, but I think it’s working out to ‘fine’.” “And your death?” Amanita asked. “You were stabbed. Like, a lot. And you’re just…” She waved a hoof around. “…okay with that?” “Eh.” Cobalt shrugged. “It’s a bad memory, nothing more. Dying doesn’t seem so bad once you’ve done it.” Amanita glanced at Phalanx, who just shrugged. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I just stab things.” If only she were so lucky. All he had to do was stand around and look imposing. She’d be front and center, since this was the first time Amanita would be introduced as a necromancer to somepony who wasn’t being paid to tolerate her — and considering the actions of some ponies who were being paid to tolerate her, she wasn’t looking forward to it. Bringing that pony’s wife seemed like it’d be a good start… unless, of course, it was assumed that the dastardly necromancer was Up to Something and it was all a lie. Although, with the backing of the Royal Guard, maybe her motives wouldn’t be questioned. If she were lucky. Her constant thoughts diverted her attention, and before she knew it, they were standing before the front door of a house like any other. Cobalt eyed the door, took a deep breath, raised a hoof. She paused for a moment, like her mind was just as busy as Amanita’s, then knocked. A few moments later, Cobalt’s wife (Pinwheel, Amanita had heard) pushed open the door, her eyes puffy. She took a deep breath and raised her head. “Yeah?” she asked. “How can I he…” Her voice trailed off as she noticed who, exactly, was on her doorstep. Her eyes became the size of dinner plates and her jaw plummeted. “C-Cobalt?” she whispered. “Hi, honey,” said Cobalt. The silence was oppressive for an eternal moment. Then, cringing backward like she’d seen a corpse, Pinwheel screamed, “The Guard told me you were DEAD!” Cobalt tried grinning, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Those reports were greatly exa-” “No, no, nonono, it’s been days. It was not an exaggeration. The Mearhwolf- It was in the papers! I’m preparing for your funeral! Stars above, I’M WRITING YOUR OBITUARY RIGHT NOW! It- You- I-” Pinwheel paced back and forth, her head twitching in the quick, jerky manner of somepony looking for something to hit. Her wings refused to hold still. Nopony said anything. Finally, she whirled on Cobalt, but when she spoke, her voice was tired. “What happened? Really.” Cobalt’s tail twitched. It was a long moment before she took a deep breath and whispered, “I was killed by the Mearhwolf.” “Honey, I’m not in the mood for jokes.” “This isn’t a joke. I died. And a ne- A- I was- And I was brought back. By- By necromancy.” Pinwheel twitched like she’d been stuck by a pin. She raised a hoof like she was going to start walking, but didn’t move forward or back. “N-necromancy?” she whispered. “But… that’s…” Her wings were moving restlessly. “Are… You can’t be-” She pointed a shaking hoof at Cobalt, her eyes watering. “Y-you’re not… You-” Phalanx stepped forward. “Ma’am,” he said, “your wife’s resurrection was completely overseen by the High Ritualist. This is her. She isn’t being controlled in any way. You have the Crown’s word on that.” Pinwheel’s haunted gaze jumped back and forth between Phalanx and Cobalt, her mouth working soundlessly. Her legs twitched like she wasn’t sure to run away or embrace Cobalt. Slowly, she put her hoof down. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “T-tell me something only m-my wife would know,” she whispered. Cobalt opened her mouth, glanced at Amanita and the guard, and took a step forward. Pinwheel spasmed, but didn’t run. Another few steps forward; the two ponies were almost muzzle-to-muzzle. Cobalt leaned in and whispered something in Pinwheel’s ear. Pinwheel said nothing, but her eyes went wide. Breathing heavily, she stepped away, a hoof at her mouth in shock. She and Cobalt stared at each other. Then she lunged forward and wrapped her legs around Cobalt, sobbing. “Oh, C-Celestia,” she whimpered. “I… I thought…” “Shh, shh,” whispered Cobalt. She ran her hooves through Pinwheel’s mane. “It’s okay. I’m here now. It’s okay.” “I- I was p-planning your f-funeral, and- Oh, Celestia.” The two ponies held each other, taking deep breaths of raw emotion. Amanita felt like she needed to give them space, but where would she go on an open street? She settled for turning around and looking at nothing. At least she wouldn’t be looking at them. She glanced at Phalanx; he seemed to be investigating the front door’s trim. When she heard a sound like they were breaking apart, Amanita risked turning around. Cobalt and Pinwheel were on their own feet again. Cobalt had laid a hoof on Pinwheel’s shoulder and was whispering in her ear. Pinwheel wiped her face down as she shuddered and gasped. In what looked like a supreme act of will, she raised her head and managed to ask, “Who, who, who can I… thank? For this.” “I’m just a guard, ma’am,” Phalanx said, taking a step back. Pinwheel’s eyes flicked to Amanita, like she was seeing her for the first time. Amanita breathed deeply. Well. Here goes nothing. “I’m Amanita. I’m the necromancer who resurrected your wife.” Why did that sound so natural? “You are?” Pinwheel looked her up and down. Her eyes lingered on the badge for a long moment. “You are.” It was only by a miracle that Amanita’s expression looked more like a nervous smile than a grimace. “Yeah…” “Huh. I…” Pinwheel shook her head. When she spoke again, it was like she was forcing the words out to say something. “I was just putting tea on. Do, do you want some?” Suddenly, Amanita felt hungry. What time was it? Was it past noon already? Why hadn’t she eaten anything besides three pieces of candy since breakfast? “Um. Sure.” Pinwheel nodded, but her eyes remained fixed on Amanita. After an awkward moment, Cobalt nudged her in the ribs and said, a bit loudly, “You can have some too, Mr. Guard!” “Sir Guard,” said Phalanx, also a bit loudly. “And, thank you, that sounds nice.” “Come on in, then!” said Cobalt loudly. She vanished into the house after giving Pinwheel’s tail a light tug. Pinwheel slowly walked backwards into the house, watching Amanita all the while. Phalanx gave Amanita a light shove and Amanita stumbled into the house. “Living room’s over there!” said Cobalt, pointing. “Go, go sit!” At Phalanx’s insistent prodding, Amanita toppled into an armchair in front of a coffee table. Phalanx took a seat on another, less-comfortable-looking chair. Amanita turned her ears to the kitchen; she picked up some quick, hushed words, but nothing comprehensible beyond a boiling tea kettle. Then the kettle stopped. Not long after, Cobalt marched into the room, levitating a tray of four teacups before her. Pinwheel followed behind, looking at Amanita with distant eyes. Cobalt passed out the saucers and cups. Without any conversation, the clinks of the china seemed unusually loud. Once the hosts took a seat, Amanita waited for Pinwheel to say something; nothing came. Was she supposed to say something? She was the one who’d been invited in. She didn’t know what to say. She’d had a job — a job that reminded her of all the wrong things, but a job nonetheless — and had done it. That was it. After a long moment, she remembered she had tea in front of her. The urge to end the silence made her hurriedly take up her cup and sip. “Good tea,” she said. It really was, steeped just right and at exactly the perfect temperature. “Yes, thank you,” said Phalanx. “Of course it is,” said Cobalt. “Her tea is always great.” Silence. “So…” Pinwheel took a sip of tea. “Ama- Ammy-” “Amanita,” Amanita said. Pinwheel turned bright red. “Amanita, yes.” She swallowed. “You’re, you’re a necromancer?” “Yeah. The High Ritualist looked at the spells I was using and had them approved.” “And I feel fine,” Cobalt said quickly. “One hundred percent.” Pinwheel barely glanced at Cobalt. “Hmm. Most necromancers…” She put her teacup down on her saucer and nudged it, trying to look like she was doing something so she wouldn’t have to look at Amanita. “I heard they were monsters.” “Most are. I wasn’t one yet, but I sat by and watched as one did her work. I’m… doing my best to avoid anything like that now.” It was a weak justification, but it was true; what more was there to say? “Oh.” The china-on-china grinding was quiet. Pinwheel still didn’t look up. “What changed?” She’d opened her eyes, mostly. At first, Amanita had simply doven into her studies to avoid Circe’s ire. If she fixed herself, if she did good, then she wouldn’t make the master angry. But as she got better and truly realized what she could do, she hunted for one thing: Zinnia. Circe still used Zinnia like a carrot. Do well, and you could talk with your love. Don’t, and… As Amanita worked, she realized that, once she got good enough, she wouldn’t need Circe anymore. So she worked. She studied. She practiced. She pulled ponies apart to see what made them tick, physically and metaphysically. She found the right ways to bind spirits to this earth and prevent them from leaving. All this and worse. The deeper she dove, the stronger the ethical pangs at what she was doing became. When it became too much, she tore out her feelings and replaced them with facts. Facts were true, and the truth was good. If it weren’t, Honesty wouldn’t be an Element of Harmony. That these truths happened to revolve around killing ponies and exploiting their deaths was irrelevant. Her feelings were a distraction from this goodness of fact, and so they were for Zinnia only. As she worked and tinkered with the summoning spell, Amanita found something suspicious. A little part of the binding that bent Zinnia’s will to hers. She took it out, examined the remaining ritual. Did it still work? Yes, it did. It was easier, in fact. Amanita rewrote the spell without it and nearly forgot about it. She didn’t need it; Zinnia would love her anyway. One day, when Circe left for a while, Amanita was ready. She had the ingredients. She knew the actions. She had a chance to do it all without Circe knowing about it. She performed the ritual perfectly. She summoned Zinnia’s spirit with no adulteration. And so it was that the first proper words of the love of her life were to scream in terror, “YOU STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!” Amanita couldn’t remember the exact words of the next few minutes anymore, just the implications behind them. Amanita pleaded, but still Zinnia shied away in fear, sobbing, calling her a monster. Slowly, firmly, bit by bit and word by word, pieces fell into place. Whenever Circe had called Zinnia up, she’d hijacked her free will, leaving her snared in her own mind. All to make Amanita more pliable. Zinnia continued in Elysium, what should’ve been her eternal rest, in a state of constant fear that it would happen again, at any time. How many times had Circe summoned Zinnia, again, idly raping her mind for Amanita’s clueless amusement? Countless. When even one would’ve been far too many. Amanita stammered out weak, ineffectual apologies — she didn’t know, she wasn’t the one that had done it, she’d NEVER… They wouldn’t have convinced the world’s most empathetic pony. They weren’t supposed to; they were all she could say. Her mind was racing, looking back on everything she’d done. With every body she saw, her bile rose again. There were a lot of bodies, yet numbness never graced her to soothe her pain. At some point, Amanita realized the only reason Zinnia was still there at all was because her own spells were keeping her there. Before she released Zinnia, those final words came out: “I promise I’ll never call on you again!” “Please don’t,” Zinnia whimpered. That was the last time they saw each other. And as Amanita sat there, numb from the cold and disbelief alike, thinking about the depravities she’d done to see her teenage marefriend one more time, one single possible avenue of hope illuminated itself. One last way to weasel out of responsibility. One final self-delusion. Surely, SURELY, Circe didn’t know the spell worked like that, right? That night, at dinner, Amanita cleared her throat. “Um, Master? I… looked a bit at the spell you were using for Zinnia-” It was astonishing how Circe’s smile, so treasured mere hours ago, held so little warmth. “Good for you! Figgerin’ out how it works, are ye? ’Bout time y’really pushed yerself.” “And it… sorta… binds her will to mine. Makes her subservient to me.” “So?” “It’s… It’s not supposed to work like that, is it?” “Well, ’course it is. It’s what y’wanted, ain’t it?” And Amanita’s self-image collapsed. “Love,” said Amanita. It was kind of one of the two defining factors of her life, now, and arguably the more important one. She’d become a necromancer because of love, she’d left necromancy because of love. Funny how that all worked out. Hopefully it wouldn’t stay that way. Pinwheel took a long sip of her tea. “You know,” she sighed, “part of me says that that’s hokey, childish, and could never happen… then I look at how a dark god was healed with magical friendship lasers four years ago, and…” “It’s more complicated than, ‘I found love so I left necromancy’,” Amanita said, surprising herself. The words had slipped out like they’d been waiting to be said. She hadn’t even planned on saying anything, but to just let Pinwheel keep talking. That part of her was private. But… the phrase was ambiguous and didn’t let any actual information out, right? Or would it just start sucking in questions she’d have to deflect? She quickly lowered her gaze and took a long, distracting drink. Pinwheel finally raised her head and gave Amanita a good, long look. Suddenly, her ears twitched upward and her pupils dilated at the same time she took in a small, quick gasp. Her hoof was steady as she put her teacup back down on the saucer, although her wings were tense. “If you went through what I think you went through,” she said, “then… I’m sorry. I know how you feel.” Amanita’s throat curled into a knot. Pinwheel knew — maybe not much, but enough. The surrounding circumstances might be different, but the grief itself? That was the same. It was the same for everyone. “Thanks,” Amanita managed to choke out. “And… I…” Sniff. “I’m not s-sure I would’ve… if…” Pinwheel’s chest heaved and a tear rolled down her cheek when she blinked. “I-if-” Cobalt immediately wrapped a leg around Pinwheel’s shoulders and pulled her close. Pinwheel buried her face in Cobalt’s shoulder; she kept making small, gasping sounds, always teetering on the edge of crying without actually falling over. “Th-thank you,” Pinwheel whispered. “I…” She straightened up slightly and rubbed her head against Cobalt’s neck. “I… don’t know what to s-say. I thought- I was n-never going to-” Suddenly, she sat up, rubbing her eyes down. “Listen to me, babbling like that,” she muttered as she hung her head. “I- I’m doing my best, but I’m, I’m going through a lot right now and my head’s all…” She waved a hoof around vaguely. “…mixed up.” “Do you want us to leave?” Amanita asked. “I can, I can- take a letter. Later, I mean. You can get your thoughts in order and- tell me what you want to say when you know what you want to say and- yeah.” Swallow. Why was talking to ponies so much more difficult than necromancy? Phalanx spoke up, making Amanita jump; she’d practically forgotten he was there. “I assure you, ma’am,” he said, “the Guard will make sure Amanita gets any letter you write to her.” “Let’s do that,” Cobalt said quickly. “We… We need some time together.” Pinwheel sniffed and nodded shakily, her head wobbling like a bobblehead’s. Phalanx quickly scribbled out some contact information on a napkin for them and passed it over. Goodbyes were bid, but just as Amanita had her hooves on the front step, Cobalt tapped her on the shoulder. “She really does appreciate it,” Cobalt said in a low voice. “It’s just…” She gestured back to the living room. “Yeah,” said Amanita. “I get it.” She very much got it. Amanita let Phalanx lead the way back to Canterlot Castle. Besides not really knowing the streets, her head was swimming enough that she probably would’ve gotten lost anyway. She’d been confronted about being a necromancer and had come away squeaky-clean. Good, right? Or was it just because she’d given Pinwheel something? Or was that last thought just paranoia? Hadn’t she gotten over this in prison therapy? She’d felt so much better about herself then. Everything was simpler. Because it was dictated for her and feeding her guilt complex. It was easy to feel bad for yourself in a controlled environment. Feeling proud of yourself in spite of your past in the real world… That was something else. So was she proud of performing necromancy? In this context? Kinda. She was proud of being a necromancer. And that scared her. Less than she’d thought it would, though. Phalanx cleared his throat. “Hey. Are you feeling okay?” His voice was casual, but not mechanical. “I… I think so,” Amanita replied. Was she? Ish. Good enough, anyway. “I’m having a… very confusing week.” Phalanx chuckled. “I can imagine. Let me know if something’s bothering you and I’ll do my best to fix it. Even if that’s just giving you an excuse to leave.” “Right. Sure.” It was a small thing, but at least Amanita had something resembling a shoulder to cry on. Or a guiding hoof. Or both. “Thanks for. Um. Coming out here. You’re a… staff sergeant, right? So this is… probably below your pay grade.” “Don’t worry about it, it’s no big deal. In the last few years, life in Canterlot is either sitting around peacefully waiting for something to happen, or something happening violently, taking you out, and making you sit around in anxiety waiting for Twilight and her friends to fix it. She’s implementing reforms to minimize the latter, but still. Sheesh.” Phalanx snorted. “I’ve wanted to do something interesting for ages, and tagging along with a necromancer sounded like a good idea. It was this or hang around the barracks listening to old soldiers brag about their battle scars. Scars that I don’t have, so naturally they don’t stop ribbing me about it.” Amanita looked him up and down. His pristine coat was definitely a far cry from the stereotypical battle-hardened warrior. Well, that was Equestria for you. “I could cut your head off and resurrect you,” she said. “Nah,” Phalanx said faux-casually. “Too much work, and nopony’d believe me.” Amanita snorted.