Whole-heartedly hating somepony, Stygian found, was quite possibly the most difficult thing in the world to do.
Hate took practice, diligence, and concentration. Hate required every iota of your attention. Hate was self-mutilation, invisible lacerations on the psyche. Hate was poison, a slow deterioration of sanity. And true hate, he realised wasn’t possible to accomplish when the world was full of distractions.
A smile was a distraction. A wave was a distraction. A slap on the back was a distraction.
He couldn’t concentrate on hating when the world around him was brimming with distractions, the biggest of them all being ponies.
Filling yourself with loathing and odious emotion every breathing moment was difficult when other ponies were around. Being angry every second of every day was impossible when every other pony you knew smiled at you, naïve and ignorant and everything you wanted to be.
Hating one pony, truly hating one pony, he learned, required hating everypony else.
Stygian tried to early on and failed miserably.
He tried hating the grocer, he tried hating his neighbours, he tried hating his old schoolteacher, he tried hating the mailpony, and he tried hating the children who played near his house.
He couldn’t.
The grocer gave him homegrown tomatoes, the neighbours lent him potatoes when his ran out, the schoolteacher smiled too often, the mailpony told him terrible jokes to make him laugh, and the children gave him get well soon letters when he was unwell.
When he’d asked why, they simply said it was because he looked so sad.
Hate hurt, but remorse hurt even more. So Stygian gave up.
He took to distancing himself. If he couldn’t hate them, he simply wouldn’t see them. They were distractions, so to speak. They made his train of thought falter, made him contemplate his goals and wonder whether all the hate and effort to hate was all worth it.
Stygian couldn’t let them do that, so he kept himself apart, staying home on off days and occupying himself with chores and training.
If he couldn’t hate them, he’d resort to the next best thing.
Their comings and goings, their daily activities, he simply wouldn’t concern himself with them. If somepony needed help, he’d let another pony take care of it. If there was a fire, he’d let the firefighters put it out. If somepony in front of him needed comforting, he’d take the back door home. He would resort to apathy.
Simple as that, easier said than done.
Returning from training, Stygian paused outside the entrance to his house one afternoon, turning his head to look over at his neighbour’s house.
The very pregnant mare was struggling to carry her groceries up the stairs to her small house, one hoof clutching a bag of groceries and the other alternating between grabbing the railing and supporting her back.
Becoming apathetic, Stygian realised, had been easy enough. Staying apathetic, however, proved damn near impossible.
The Pillars’ betrayal had taken it all—had practically razed him of all that made him pony and left him to rot, save for one thing. As time eroded away his sanity, little by little, day by day, his morality remained. His sense of right and wrong, the basic knowledge that one shouldn’t laugh at those who fall down, the simple lessons taught by his mother of helping those in need, they lingered.
In the end, he was left with nothing but his integrity.
And in the end, he couldn’t help but care.
So Stygian left his key under the doormat and walked over to her, quietly mumbling for her to let him take her bags. He tried his hardest to avoid looking at the wide, grateful smile she gave him.
“Oh, Stygian. Thank you so much,” she said breathlessly, cracking her neck. “It’s getting harder and harder to move around these days.” She patted her bulging stomach, laughing lightly.
Stygian merely nodded, his horn glowing as he levitated her bags into the house, setting them on the table and pausing long enough to absorb the odd, warm scent lingering about her small kitchen, so unlike the sterile smell of his house.
“Would you like some tea, Stygian?”
Stygian turned to glance at the mare.
She was petite, with large blue eyes and a warm, round face. She kept her purple mane in a braid and had an infectious smile. It was hard to believe her husband had been killed in an accident only nine months prior, in her first week of pregnancy.
Stygian attributed her recovery to strength of character. She attributed it to the baby—a promise of new life, she called it.
“It’s alright,” Stygian politely declined, keeping his face impassive. “I’ll be going then.”
She smiled gently, almost sadly, and nodded.
“If you ever want to talk, Stygian… I’m here, okay? It’s just…” She said hastily, averting her eyes from his blank expression. “You’re so quiet. Not… Not that that’s a bad thing, of course.”
Stygian unconsciously reached up to scratch his head.
I’m quiet here… his hooves absentmindedly traced his temple. But it’s very noisy up here.
“Thank you,” he said, nodding. “Goodbye.”
The next time he saw her, her belly was much smaller, and she was carrying a bundle of blankets up the stairs to her house. She saw him watching from his porch and waved him over, smiling widely.
A few minutes later, he found himself sitting on the worn sofa in her living room, stoically holding on to his teacup to spare himself from having to hold the baby. Its face was bright pink and tiny, hidden within the folds of the blanket, and he listened to her prattle on about its resemblance to the father.
Stygian nodded periodically, politely declining when she asked him if he wanted to hold the baby. The utter terror that plagued him at that moment was not all visible in the calm way he shook his head and returned his attention to his tea.
He’d seen a new-born before, once, when he was a colt. A friend of the family’s had the new addition, and he could remember standing on the top of his hooves near his mother’s side as she held the baby, flawless in the way she handled the small bundle.
Stygian wanted terribly to be able to hold it too, and he asked repeatedly, only to be chided in return.
You’re too young. The baby’s very delicate. Wait until you’re a little older.
Then—
“Can’t let colts hold ‘em,” an uncle remarked with a grin, his smile vivid and wide in Stygian’s memory. “There was this one time a couple had a baby, and the father wanted to hold it even though he didn’t know how. You have to support the head—always support the head. But he didn’t, and you know what happened?”
A young Stygian had shaken his head dumbly.
The stallion’s grin disappeared.
“The baby’s head fell off.”
Within a second following that announcement, Stygian had developed a debilitating phobia of holding new-borns.
If fathers couldn’t even do it right, what chance did he have?
And now that he was old enough, he was terrified that she’d force him, terrified that she’d trust him, and he’d forget to support the head and the head would fall off and he’d scream and panic and scream and—
“Stygian, are you sure you don’t want to hold the baby?”
Stygian shook his head dumbly.
She smiled understandingly. “Maybe in a few months, then?”
Yes, when it’s older—older with stronger neck muscles.
There was a moment of silence, and then his neighbour suddenly made an off muffled sound. Stygian regretted looking up.
The instant their gazes met, she burst into tears.
Muffled, heart-wrenching sobs filled the room, the harsh cries and dripping tears the only sounds in the house. Stygian watched in dumbfounded silence and the baby beside him slept on, oblivious to its mother’s grief.
Stygian stared and wondered why he didn’t set his tea down, excuse himself, and walk home. He wondered why he didn’t tell her to suck it up. He wondered where all the apathy had gone.
Silently, he set his cup down and crossed the living room, heading into the kitchen and returning a moment later with a bundle of paper towels. He tore off a sheet and offered it to her, remaining by her side as she cried, handing her a fresh one every so often.
He felt displaced. Right now, he should have been at home, training and meditating and practicing how to hate, not comforting a widow he could hardly remember the name of and saw only once every few months. He couldn’t comfort. He was bad at it, but he still tried.
Why?
The distractions were everywhere; right here, right now, right in front of him, and he was letting himself be distracted.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry, I just…”
He shook his head, hesitating only a moment before speaking.
“I know.”
An awkward pat on the shoulder relayed his condolences and congratulations, and he departed a few minutes later without looking back. When he stepped into his dark, silent house, he forced himself to swallow the painful lump in his throat.
It’s quiet in here, he thought complacently, rubbing his aching head, and staring at the wooden floor. But it’s noisy up here. Too noisy.
Does thinking to yourself constitute talking to yourself? Is there a difference?
“I’m not crazy,” Stygian murmured aloud in the kitchen, rummaging through his fridge. “Not crazy… just…”
He slowly closed the fridge door, then calmly sat down next to it, his back to the cupboards beneath the sink.
Can I take a break from hating? A small, weary voice inside his head asked, pleading and weak as he stared blankly at the wall. I’m tired… I’m so tired…
Is there such a thing? He asked himself. Can you take a break from hating? Does that even make sense? It’s hard… it’s so hard, going on like this, hating and hating, non-stop, every day. I can’t do it anymore… not tonight, anyway. I’m tired, I’m so tired…
Stygian slowly leaned over until he was lying on his side against the cold floor, eyes closing wearily. He wrapped his hooves around himself, exhausted and cold and too tired to move.
The sun sank from sight and darkness spilled into the manor, inky blackness coating every inch and blanketing his still form. He slept and dreamt of a compassionate nature he didn’t want and tender, new-born necks.
He spent the next four months traveling in and out the village to Hollow Shades, returning only to replenish his supplies and get rest. He didn’t see his neighbour or her baby during those months, but some nights he wondered how she was coping and what she’d named the baby.
Then he’d shake his head and close his eyes, forcing the thoughts from his head.
Distractions.
Seven training trips later, he had finally granted himself some time off. He entered his village and headed home. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of black smoke spiralling lazily into the blue sky.
He walked on, checking every so often to see if the smoke had stopped rising. It didn’t.
He watched it now, brow furrowing as the tendrils of smoke grew into great black clouds, too close to his house for comfort.
Stygian quickened his pace.
A crowd blocked his path, and he squeezed his way through them. Through their fevered conversations, he still managed to hear roaring flames and splintering wood.
He emerged through the throng and stopped, staring in silence at the sight that met his eyes.
His neighbour’s house was on fire.
Stygian stared for a moment, face blank with shock, before he turned his head in the direction of the hysterical screams.
There was his neighbour, being restrained by two stallions. Tears streamed down her face, and she fought tooth and nail to get free. The mares around her were also in tears.
“My baby!” She screamed, her voice unlike anything he’d ever heard before. “My baby!”
No one moved. The flames had practically engulfed the entire right side of the house and were quickly spreading. The black smoke was literally opaque, ominous, and noxious as it billowed up into the pale blue sky.
Stygian slowly turned around and started walking back to his house. The hysterical screaming and hushed murmuring continued behind him as he calmly walked across his front garden. He placed his saddlebags near the door and walked over to the well.
His horn glowed as his magic grabbed the rope, he pulled and began drawing up the bucket, feeling the weight of water inside it. A few seconds later, he reached inside and pulled it onto the stone ledge, watching it slosh against the sides of the grimy, wooden bucket.
Cutting the rope with magic and holding the water-leaden bucket in his hoof, he walked back next door.
Stygian stopped near the crowd with the bucket in tow and stared at the house. He’d be lucky to put out the fire on the door at this rate.
Unconsciously, he took a few steps forward, thoughts dormant and mind blank. There was a faint ringing in his ears as his grip on the bucket tightened.
Their comings and goings, their daily activities, he simply wouldn’t concern himself with them. If somepony needed help, he’d let another pony take care of it. If there was a fire, he’d let the firefighters put it out. If somepony in front of him needed comforting, he’d take the backdoor home. He would resort to apathy.
Stygian took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
Simple as that, easier said than done.
A few ponies in the crowd turned to look when they heard a loud splash.
Stygian closed his eyes as the water dripped down his face, waiting until he felt it seep into his cloak and covered every inch of his coat. Then he dropped the bucket and galloped into the burning house.
He heard the shocked cries of ponies behind him, saw them reach out, but the roaring flames encompassed everything behind him once he crossed the threshold of the house.
The heat was incredible, the air before him rippling and moving in waves as glowing ash rained down from the ceiling like black snow. The house was practically screaming—the violent noise of wood splitting and splintering and crashing down and around him mingling with the roar of flames.
Glass shattered near his head, and he shielded his eyes, darting forward into the house and up the stairs.
The baby’s room would undoubtedly be near her own. He knew that much.
As he dodged another flaming piece of debris, a disgusted voice sounded within his mind, loud and clear amidst the chaos.
Know this, it warned. The darkness will not serve your cause to rescue life from the flames.
Stygian couldn’t think of a reply.
He held the wet cloth of his collar over his muzzle, squinting into the hot, oppressive air as he emerged onto the second floor. Flames licked at the walls on either side of the narrow hallway, and he braced himself before dashing through.
The water hissed and boiled against his coat until it evaporated, rising in lazy white plumes of steam, only to be engulfed by the billowing black smoke around him. His eyes watered and lungs burned, ears deaf to everything but the sounds of roaring flames and splintering wood. Pungent smells assaulted his senses and made his head swim, a blend of burning plastic, turpentine, and wood forming a noxious miasma.
He emerged from the smoke, stopping before the first closed door that came into sight.
Wheezing and stumbling, he shielded his eyes and took a galloping leap at the door, bracing himself.
It caved beneath his weight and was torn off its hinges, sending him and the snake-like tendrils of smoke ensnaring him tumbling into the clean, white carpet.
The flames crept into the untouched room immediately, burning the carpet fibres against his feet until they darkened, smoked, and receded inwards like cigarette ashes.
Black smoke slithered against the warm pastel walls, creeping closer towards the crib situated in the corner.
Stygian forced his legs to move, unconscious of the way his breath rattled in his chest and coat burned as he leaned over the crib.
A small, untouched bundle met his eyes. Tiny, peach hooves beat fitfully against the soft downy mattress, a small, round head with huge blue eyes gazing up at him in curiosity.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Stygian found himself saying, as he reached inside the crib.
It felt like the baby barely weighed anything; it was just a bundle of blankets and softness. His blackened hooves awkwardly arranged the blanket around the baby’s small, tender head, he felt his hoof grazing the downy tufts of light blue mane.
A lump of pain and fear rose in his throat momentarily as he moved to support the baby’s head before lifting it out, loathing himself for hesitating in the face of a ludicrous fear. But the foal merely gazed into his face, leaning its head back into the warmth of his hoof and looking utterly content as he picked it up.
Stygian stared back at the child he held, frozen as the room around him filled with smoke.
Tiny pink hooves splayed against his burnt and soot-darkened cloak, clenching, and tugging with a strength that surprised him. Eyes that knew no fear, no hatred, no recognition, no anything—they stared at him, guileless, clear, and wide.
I’m going to die, Stygian vaguely realised, staring down at the baby expressionlessly. I’m going to die to save this child… whose name I don’t even know. I’m going to die… without getting my revenge on the Pillars, and that’s…
The baby tugged on his cloak once more, eyes imploring.
That’s…
“Okay,” Stygian found himself whispering, trembling. “Okay…”
The ache in his throat grew worse, eyes burning from heat and held-in tears as he gently, carefully rested the soft head against his shoulder, hoof gingerly rising to surround the frail body. His knees buckled as he heard the baby made soft sounds, gurgling and mumbling as he carefully draped the blanket over its head.
As he did this, Stygian realised he had never been so terrified in his life, so terrified that screams and sobs were reduced to a small, wispy smile and a loud ringing in his ears, to a slight stutter in speech and uncontrollable quaking in his limbs.
This was death, and death was frightening because it was not ambivalent, because it was ruthless, because it would hurt, and because there was no coming back from it. Did dying by fire equate dying in glory?
Brave Stallion Dies in Heroic Attempt to Save Baby from Fire.
His legacy would be an eye-catching headline. Somehow, he felt gypped.
“We have to move quickly, alright?” He muttered to the quiet bundle against his shoulder, turning and putting his hoof against the back of its head. “Don’t fidget, otherwise I won’t be able to save you. We’ll both die.”
You’re talking to a baby, the voice in his head said. And it doesn’t understand a single Celestia damn thing you’re saying.
He paused, thinking of what to say to try and stop his teeth from chattering.
“Your mother would be upset.”
As soon as he heard his own words, the lump in his throat grew to twice its size, suddenly and completely stifling his voice. The held-in tears fell, the release unbidden and uncontrollable, each drop sizzling against the burning carpet.
I still have to get my revenge on the Pillars. I still have to get my revenge on Starswirl. I still have to…
I can’t die here.
Soundlessly, holding the baby tight, Stygian turned and stepped out of the room.
His head swam, the noxious fumes and smoke poisoning his senses, only to clear away at odd intervals and be replaced with the delicate, soft smell of newness and baby powder emanating from the bundle in his hooves. Flames danced all around him, singed the ends of his mane, blistering his skin where patches of his coat had been burnt off, and his horseshoes had melted.
He couldn’t die here, and not only because it would leave his goals unfulfilled.
It hurt too much. He couldn’t fathom dying this way—couldn’t fathom the idea of his body becoming ash.
And the baby, the baby had to live. It hadn’t lived long enough to do anything wrong. It was cleaner, purer, and better than he’d ever be.
It was a she, an achingly pristine filly, one who’d grow up and be a mother like his mother, love her son like his mother, smile and laugh like his mother, be cherished like his mother.
She would be loved.
Live, Stygian thought vehemently, ignoring the searing pain on his head when he ploughed through the burnt, crumbling wall.
Live and die old… Live until you’re so old you don’t care about living anymore.
Stygian bit his lip forcefully, staggering and wrenching himself away from the splintered wood that tore into his cloak and flesh.
Live… because I won’t. Not for long, anyway…
He bled and burned, ached, and throbbed, but he still didn’t release the gentle, reassuring hold of his hoof against the back of her head.
Somehow, I just know he’ll be the one who defeat me…
Coughing violently, he staggered down the stairs and dodged the falling wood, leaped over the collapsed floor into the kitchen.
I have to beat him… but I probably won’t.
The door was twelve feet from where he stood, intact and ajar.
But I still have to try… because really, that’s all I’m living for… nothing more.
He burst through the front door, leaving the flames and black ash behind, and emerging into a shower of cold, glistening water.
His world swayed, orange and blue and vivid through the glassy mirage his tears created.
Air had never tasted sweeter, and he nearly fell to his knees after taking his first mouthful. Breathing harshly, coughing violently, he stumbled forward into the nearest pair of outstretched hooves.
Hysterical sobbing met his ears and Stygian stared at the tear-stricken face of his neighbour, her face unrecognizable through his smoke-fogged eyes. But he still moved to give her the baby, mumbling incoherently for her to make sure she supported the head.
Then the bundle was taken from his dirty, soot-coloured hooves, and Stygian slowly took a few steps backwards, feeling lighter than he’d ever felt in his life. Light-headed and warm and… the clouds were spinning.
She cried out his name.
The village doctors and nurses rushed over to him when he took a few steps back and abruptly collapsed to the ground.
Four blurred heads blocked his view of the spinning blue sky and he muttered at them to move, his voice hoarse and hardly above a whisper.
The soot had darkened his coat, the only patches of clean fur visible were through the tear-streaks that ran from his eyes.
His cloak still smoked, charred in some places. The exposed skin where his coat was burned were raw and pink, the skin peeling and throbbing incessantly. Tears continued to flow freely down his face. He felt none of it.
A mask was forced over his muzzle, feeding him pure oxygen, and he laid back and listlessly observed the sky, realising how close he’d come to leaving it all behind.
The thoughts, the insomnia, the pain, the hating.
All for somepony whose name he didn’t even know.
Hating is hard, Starswirl, he thought groggily, watching the sky fly by overhead, hoof hanging limply over the side of the stretcher. I’m tired… so tired of it… but hating you, I can keep on trying.
His eyes closed, and when they opened again, he was lying in a hospital bed with his neighbour and her baby sleeping in the chair beside him.
The sound of thundering hoofsteps and familiar voices hollering his name sounded somewhere outside in the hallway, alarmingly close to his room, and Stygian closed his eyes again because it hurt to smile.
Hating was hard, but it wasn’t impossible.
But not caring at all, apathy—that was hardest of all. Apathy was for the ruthless. Apathy was for the hollow.
And in the end, Stygian couldn’t help but care.