These chairs are really comfortable, Lyra reflected as she leaned back. They may have been a garish purple colour, but they must have been made from pure cloud stuffing. She tried to tap her hoof on the floor to ease off some nervous energy, but she found herself sinking too far back into the chair to reach it.
Lyra was still struggling to escape the cushiony vortex when the faint tinkle of a bell and a clear voice calling her name out reached her ears. She waved a hoof with a yell of ‘Coming!’, and continued fighting the pull of the comfort singularity.
“Hold on, let me help you.” Lyra felt somepony grab one of her flailing hooves and pull her out of the chair. She fell forward, almost knocking over her savior.
“Er, sorry,” she said, picking herself off the other pony.
The other pony was a handsome, older earth pony mare with a dark grey coat and a much lighter grey mane, which was done up in a bun. She wore a pair of silver glasses that intensified her sharp blue gaze. She stood up and adjusted herself with a smile. “That chair is always giving ponies trouble. I don’t think they filled it up with enough clouds if you ask me. Lyra Heartstrings, no? You can call me Casey.”
Casey extended a hoof and Lyra shook it. “Casey,” she repeated. “Is that short for something?”
“Yes, unfortunately. My office is this way. Shall we?” She gestured down the hall. Lyra started down and paused to look back at her. When Casey nodded, the unicorn continued until they reached her office.
“Take a seat,” Casey said as they entered her office.
The office was small, as Lyra had expected. There was a window with open shutters looking out over a duck pond on the wall opposite the door. Hanging on the wall above a dark green couch, was a painting of a regal-looking airship. If one were to squint, one could see the faint form of an alicorn at the bow looking off into the clouds with a spyglass.
“It’s the Seaworthy,” Casey commented. “Ever hear of it?”
Lyra paused. It sounded familiar, but she couldn’t remember any stories from school. “Not that I remember.”
“It was a great airship, built by the finest craftsmen of the Alicorn Empire. One tempest-tossed night, the Seaworthy ran aground. The Imperial forces never got around to looking for it due to various wars brewing. There was a Daring-Do book about the ship. My daughter used to read it all the time, before her company got worse.” Casey sat down and gestured for Lyra to follow suit.
“You said Doctor Trotson referred you here,” she said, flipping through the papers on her clipboard. “And that you have insomnia, night terrors, acute depression, and anxiety attacks. If I understand, your mother recently passed away?”
Lyra nodded. “Yeah. It, uh, it wasn’t a heart attack. It was something like… card something.”
“Cardiac arrest?”
“I think.”
Casey nodded, and scribbled something on her clipboard. “Diseases of the mind have a tendency to be passed along in families. Did your mother have anything like that?”
“Rapid mood swings. I, uh… I have that too sometimes.”
Another nod, another scribble. “What about this insomnia? Could you detail the history of it for me?”
Lyra put her hoof to her chin, thinking. “It started about a week ago, right before my mother died. It’s been getting worse every night. At first I woke up at five, but now I’m waking up closer to three.”
It seemed as though Casey knew only how to nod and write things down. “Hmm. Changelings feed off of love – you know this, right?” At Lyra’s affirmative, she continued. “They feed on all sorts of love, including lust to an extent. What types of ponies are you attracted to?”
“Guys, I guess. I don’t have much of a, uh… yeah.”
“Any specific type of guy?”
Lyra frowned, narrowing her gaze. “Uh… Flank Sinatrot’s pretty hot.” She paused for a moment, frown growing deeper. “Why does this matter?”
“If there is some Changeling interference, they could be feeding idly off any ambient emotions you have. Also I’m a psychologist. I have to be nosy about these things.” She smiled cheerfully, but Lyra didn’t sense any cheerfulness behind it.
There were quite a bit of questions along the line, all related to Lyra’s health and past. It was all tedious, and she found herself wondering if there was ever going to be a point to all this.
“Magic.” The word was unexpected, and Lyra snapped out of boredom to look up from the dark rug.
“Magic?”
“Magic,” Casey repeated. “Magic’s in all of us, and it amplifies our special talent. You may have other talents, but that one special talent… That’s what the magic works on.”
“Yeah? This is magic kindergarten stuff.” Lyra’s voice was a little harsher and sarcastic than she had intended.
“Your cutie mark is a harp, or maybe a lyre. Pardon me; I’m musically ignorant. Tone-deaf to boot. Your special talent is playing the harp or lyre. Magic has a habit of affecting the brain. Therefore, because of your emotional trauma you’ve become obsessed with this song. You say you didn’t compose it, but you did – more accurately, your subconscious did with the help of your magic talent.
“Your insomnia and dreams are also because of the various traumas you’ve experienced in the last few months.” She shrugged. “Simple really.”
Lyra stayed silent a moment, long enough for Casey to rip off a bit of paper and offer it to the other mare. “I think they’ll help,” she said. “It won’t make everything go away; but it can help you cope with it.” Lyra gave a skeptical look, and Casey moved the slip closer. “Please, at least try.”
She sighed and took the slip, wrapping it in a gold aura of magic. “I’ll try then.”
Casey smiled. “Then you’re on your first step.”
***
Lyra glanced down at the piece of paper Casey had given her. She still couldn’t make out the scrawling letters, but she had a feeling the pharmacist would. Ponies in the medical profession had a strange ability to decipher each other’s arcane writings.
The pharmacy she was going to was old, and going to it was practically a Ponyville tradition. Lyra had come here many a time to get aspirin, mare necessities, and other sundries. She always felt the name was uncreative, though. Ponyville Pharmacy wasn’t the catchiest name, but she guessed simplicity won over catchiness sometimes.
A clear tinkle of bells rang as Lyra entered the shop. It appeared to be empty – the few aisles it had were barren of life, and the counter behind which the pharmacist usually sat was empty. Scratching her head at this mystery, Lyra took a step forward. Almost as if on cue, a blue and green head popped up from under the counter.
“Hoy, smallfry!” Lyra fell backwards with a surprised yell, landing painfully on her rump. “Oh dear, you aren’t Pinkie Pie.”
“Evidently not,” Lyra murmured as she picked herself up. Her heart was still racing from the sudden appearance of the pharmacist. She trotted over to the counter and took a better look at him.
The pharmacist was a dull blue, with an equally dull green mane. A thick framed pair of glasses sat precariously on his muzzle, warping his eyes to an almost-comical size. “Sorry about that. Pinkie Pie just left to get her purse and I was expecting her.” He rubbed his head as he smiled sheepishly. “So, how can I help you?”
The name tag on his white jacket read ‘Chemist Tree’. Lyra winced at the pun. Instead of saying anything about it, she simply slid the slip of paper Casey had given her. Chemist took it and scanned it.
“Cel-lestia!” His nervous green eyes flicked between her and the paper. “This is steep. I don’t even carry any of this. In fact,” he said as he set the paper down, “you don’t need any of this. I know exactly what’ll do the same job with much less pain.”
He disappeared behind the counter again, and exited through a door to the side. He gestured for her to follow, and she did. Chemist started kicking a ladder over to a shelf on one of the side aisles. Climbing it, he spoke again. “See, that’s the problem with ponies these days. Medicate all the problems. They forget we spent thousands of years working all these problems out on our own, with none of this rubbish.” He looked down at her. “Catch what I throw at you, okay? Anyway, my dad’s big thing ’fore he went away was: Find the natural way to do things. Like the zebra lady that – watch out – lives in that creepy forest. Of course we aren’t quite as natural.”
Dismounting the ladder, he landed next to her and picked up the bags she was holding. He returned to his home behind the counter, and she followed him to the other side.
“Now then, these three medicines will do what she wanted five medicines to do.” Chemist held up a red bag with a complicated name on it. “These guys? I just call ’em red chewies. You chew ’em. Don’t swallow, chew. They work on the nerve receptors in your brain and kind of rewire the ones that don’t quite work right.” He set that bag down and displayed a pouch that read ‘PLEASANT DREAMS BY LUNA’. Below that was a disclaimer in much smaller print: ‘Not actually approved by the Princess’. “This is a basic sleep aid. Take two before bed, preferably with water. If not water, then nothing with caffeine.”
He held up the last item, a generic looking white pill bottle. “Now this here, this is something I want you to be careful with. Any side-effects, I want you to stop taking them, come here, and talk to me. This is an anxiety pill. It may say anti-depressant, but for you it’s an anxiety pill.”
Lyra nodded, and he swept the items into a bag with a smile. “Time to check out, dear.” He named a sum, and Lyra began to count out the bits.
“I’m sorry about your father’s death,” she said absent-mindedly.
“I never said he died,” Chemist replied, “only that he went away.”
Lyra paused and looked up at him. “Went where?”
The pharmacist pony only shrugged. “Away. To be honest, nopony really knows where. He was a medic for the royal guards. One day he just left. His old sergeant swears up and down it was some Changeling thing.” He shrugged again. “I just sell ponies drugs. I don’t know and don’t care about what goes on out there. I care about what goes on in here.” He tapped Lyra’s breastbone. “Well, not your body in particular, just… bodies in general.” Another shrug. “I’m an old pony. Never mind my babble.”
***
Lyra returned home, thoughts of the pharmacist’s story racing through her mind. What if she were to suffer the same fate? Just wander off one day, never to be seen again? As she stepped through the threshold to her room, she realised something.
She didn’t believe Casey.
It was strange, something like that being a sudden revelation, but it was true. Despite the silk-toned, pleasant reassurances, Lyra knew she was wrong. She wasn’t having some nervous breakdown because of stress. The Changelings had done something to her, and this was the result.
Lyra sat on her bed, hoof running anxiously over the checkered sheets. She stayed like this a while, trying to process everything. Her mind refused to stand still, racing from one thought to another, the events of the day crashing together.
Day gave way to night and anxiety gave way to sleepiness. Lyra took her new pills and settled down for the night, bundled like a newborn foal in her blankets. Soon, sleep overtook her.
Her dream that night was strange and disjointed. It went by in a flurry of colours and indecipherable shapes. The song was there, muffled and slowed as though it were played underwater. She heard “kukures” said by a distant voice, accompanied by flashes of green. With one final clarion call of “kukures”, Lyra woke with a jolt.
Her fur was sticking to her sweaty body. She felt sick to her stomach. As was becoming a nightly ritual, Lyra levitated her clock over. The hands pointed to 2:15.
Letting the clock drop, she buried her head in her hooves and cried.