//------------------------------//
// Spit 
// Story: Order of the Black Sun 
// by daOtterGuy 
//------------------------------//

Melpomene stood before the stone where Starswirl, and, more importantly, Apollo had been sealed. She was the only one of the so-called Corrupt Pillars  not locked in Limbo. Turmoil gripped her mind as she tried to come to terms with her newly found freedom away from the God of the Sun.

“Good thing we switched my hairpin with a fake,” Mistmane remarked as she trotted up next to Melpomene. She adjusted the blood-stained knife in her mane, light glinting off the metal of the blade. “Otherwise we would have become stuck with the rest of them in there.”


“... Yes. I am glad for our forethought,” Melpomene answered.


A look of concern crossed Mistmane’s face. “Are you alright, Mel?”


“... I don’t know.”


“Do you want to talk about it?”

Silence. The wind blowed gently through the grove. It was chilly. A forewarning of the cold months to come. Melpomene allowed the chill to settle in her bones, numbing herself enough to be ready for the conversation to follow.


“Have you seen a pony hang?” Melpomene asked.


“A morbid start to this, but yes. I have.” Mistmane tilted her head to one side. “Why?”


“When a pony hangs, they can feel their life slip away. The noose tightens, their breath begins to run its course. Darkness encroaches on the edges of their vision as the inevitable approaches. There is no after. They will die. Their story will end.”



“Then, suddenly, the noose loosens. They drop to the ground, shocked by this turn of events. Their savior is nowhere to be found and they are left to their own devices. No one tells them what to do. No one helps them in the aftermath. They are just alive and now have a future they never knew they would have.”


Melpomene touched the mask over her face. She could almost feel the tender, sun-charred skin underneath. It throbbed from within its confinement. A reminder of the noose that had and may once more be pulled around her neck.


“I have been freed from the gallows,” Melpomene stated. “What do I do now?”


Another bout of silence followed. Heavier than the last. Implications and undertones darkened the grove making the sun seem a bit colder, the world crueler.

Mistmane laid her head on Melpomene’s shoulder. “If you want. We can find out together,” she said.

Melpomene mulled over the suggestion. She found it agreeable. More than she would have expected. She placed a hoof on Mistmane’s head, reciprocating the gesture.


“That sounds wonderful,” Melpomene said.


Mistmane smiled. “Do you want some time alone?”


“Yes.”


With one last nuzzle into the crook of Melpomene’s neck, Mistmane departed.

Once more by herself, Melpomene regarded the sealing stone of Apollo once more. She already knew the spell wouldn’t hold forever. Though it would take many centuries, Stygian had only brought forth a long, but temporary peace.

Wholly unwilling, thoughts of her sisters filtered into her mind. A long period of happiness interrupted by the descent of the sun who looked “gladly” upon them. “Blessed” by his company for providing him the most entertainment at the time.

She thought of her misplaced anger toward the favoured sister, Calliope. How she blamed her for the pain that followed the arrival of the bastard God when she failed to provide his needed amusement. To whom, in a flurry of love and rage, she had confessed of deeds most terrible done to her and found a sister of not only blood, but suffering.

Melpomene moved on to reflect on her feelings toward Apollo. The toxic cesspool of conflicting emotions that bogged down her thoughts nearly every waking moment. Should she wax poetic? Perhaps recite some epic to eulogize his legacy? Maybe monologue about their shared history?

But, in the moment, she felt that the peasantry had the best idea when dealing with a right royal bastard like Apollo.

She spat on his grave.