//------------------------------// // A Silly Fate // Story: The Pony On The Wall // by BleedingRaindrops //------------------------------// At last her bath was over and she ran up to her room. She raced up the stairs, threw open the door and burst into the vast round cathedral that made up her room. It wasn’t really a full cathedral; she had a much larger room than most fillies her age, given that this was a very expensive house, but it was still just a bedroom. She had wanted a large, round room with a high window, and a skylight, like Twilight’s observatory at the library, and her mother was too happy to oblige. She seemed to think that if she bought enough stuff for Ink Blot, the filly would like her. Sorry, mom, you’re just going to have to tone down the crazy if you want to hang out. Well, at least the skylight came in handy at times like this; a bright orange sunbeam shone through it onto the far wall, making it shine like fire. Crossing the large blue carpet in the center, she reached her paint closet. She pulled out several different buckets. Scarlet, maroon, crimson, robin’s egg blue, royal blue, sky blue, sea green, green, leaf green, dandelion, gold, bright yellow, and even a vivid orange. She laid them out in a wide arc around her, and examined the walls. There were no places left to paint. She’d asked for a large round room with a lot of wall space, so that she wouldn’t run out of room, but she had underestimated her own ability to create. The walls were a rainbow of colors, showing several high moments in her life, from the time she got her cutie mark to the outing at Sweet Apple Acres, to the ride Gummi had given her down the river that ran through town. There was nothing here that she didn’t want to keep. As she scratched her head for a few minutes, she got an idea. The old barn! The sun was still high in the sky, so she had plenty of time. Perfect. Grabbing up as many paint buckets as she could—three in this case—she ran downstairs to load the paint cart she used for transporting her painting supplies. It had a wide, flat shelf on the bottom for paint buckets, with a lip around the edge so they wouldn’t slide out, and straps to keep them from jostling around.The top had an assortment of slots for brushes to be held in, and a basin which could be filled with water for cleaning the brushes with. The whole thing was shorter than Ink Blot, and wider as well, but raised high enough off the ground that she could navigate most terrain with it, and the low center of gravity meant it wouldn’t tip easily. “Going somewhere, Ink?” came the calm deep voice of her father. She spun around on the spot, dropping the last few paint buckets in her mouth. The look on his face told her everything. He wasn’t scolding her, simply curious. “Oh, um, yeah, I was heading out to paint something in town. I’ve got a few more colors though. Could you help?” “Eeyup.” Came his short reply. He nodded in time with it, and followed her back upstairs to her room. “Your mother means well, you know. You should give her a chance.” Ink Blot stopped mid-step. Now? She rolled her eyes and continued walking. “But she’s so exhausting, Dad. It’s like she never leaves her job. Everything’s a party all the time. I hate it.” Her hooves hit the wooden stairs a little harder than normal. He continued next to her, not missing a beat. “She just communicates differently than you or I do. You and your mother might not always see eye to eye, but she does care about you.” He’d grabbed a sling on his way up, and they began loading it with all the colors she’d need, plus a full set of brushes. “She works hard, and sometimes forgets where she is when she’s excited.” He smiled, then gazed down at Ink Blot fondly. “But she also likes someone quiet who listens a lot, when she’s not working. Those kind of ponies are hard to come by.” He reached out a hoof and pulled Ink Blot closer to him, pressing her against his side. “She might forget to show it, but you’re very special to her, Ink.” It wasn’t fair. She could never manage to argue with or be angry at her father. Mom just didn’t get it, but he did, and when he justified her crazy antics, it was like she was easy to understand, for just that brief moment. She shed a single tear into his thick coat, then smiled up at him. “I love you, dad.” He smiled back, and hugged her tightly. “I know.” The hug lasted a few moments, then they broke apart, revived. “I believe you were headed somewhere?” “Yeah. Thanks, dad.” ~ ~ ~ When they got downstairs, he helped Ink Blot load up the cart with her paint buckets and brushes. “Be home by dark,” He said as she headed off. At least somepony trusted her enough to get home at a decent hour. She never had to try to hide anything from her father, because he never pried, and she always told him when she needed something. Often times she didn’t even need to ask, either—he just knew. The two of them connected on a level that her mother would probably never understand. It didn’t take her long to reach the abandoned barn. The only trouble was the gate. It was old and rotted, and while it was easy enough to kick down, the cart wouldn’t travel over it easily. She had to fiddle with the rusty latch for quite some time before she got it open, and at last was able to drag it until it unblocked the path. Excitement welled up in her chest and she found herself accelerating up the path and across the grass as her hooves propelled her with eager swiftness toward the barn. The cart barreled along behind her, pulled by the harness she’d had crafted by Apple Bloom. It wasn’t very extravagant, but it fit her well, and allowed her to pull the cart quite easily. It was quite obvious when she got closer, why the barn was no longer used. The roof was on the verge of collapse in several places and the paint was peeling just about everywhere. The once red barn had aged to a sickly green color. The perfect contrast to what her bright new creation would be. The only question seemed to be why it was abandoned, rather than torn down. The ground was clearly still fertile, judging by the flowers that grew in the grass surrounding it. She trotted slowly around to the side of the barn. The solid wall provided the largest available canvas, and would be very smooth compared to the uneven surface of the doors. There was an old wooden ladder lying on the ground next to the wall, and what paint hadn’t peeled here only covered part of the wall, as if somepony had tried to fix up the barn, and abandoned the job halfway through. Ink Blot shook her head, and picked up a can of paint. It was the only spot on the wall that paint would stick to, after all. She grabbed a can of paint and stood the ladder up against the wall. Up close, she could see the barn had actually been repainted several times, since the paint had cracked. It was all cracked with splits and chips everywhere. She’d have to try to scrape off most of the old paint before she could put more up, but for now, this spot was good enough. Ink Blot popped open the crimson bucket and dipped a large industrial brush into it. Thanks for these at least, Mom. She jumped back up on the ladder and took her first slice at her new mural. She recalled the events of the past few hours and the emotions and images that fueled them. Quick, sharp zigzags of red, scratched out the blurred form of a phoenix. Ink Blot’s hoof shook as she stabbed at the wall with her brush. Thoughts and emotion poured onto the wall, and she realized it was time for the next color; crimson was just the first, and she would need gold next. Gold, yellow, dandelion, orange, scarlet. Dense, harsh strokes scraped along the wall, growing into the brush which had been stolen. Colors flew to the wall beneath her hooves, and at last she found herself reaching for the greens and blues which would make up the forest. Every painting was like this—a euphoria of freedom. The liberation as she let her mind and emotions go free. Nothing could touch her here; this was her private escape from the world that nopony could share, only glimpse at through its effects—her paintings. Slow, precise, purposeful lines, grew into a wall of trees, shielding the fleeing bird from her pursuer. And at last, as Ink Blot reached her own part in the story she was painting, her brushstrokes became light, and the brush hung loosely from her hoof as she lazily dabbed out a pink blot beneath the trees. Repositioning the ladder as she had done several times throughout this endeavor, Ink Blot now noticed something beneath the paint that was not wood. She climbed up to get a closer look. It couldn’t be paint—it was far too smooth for that—but it was also not anything that would normally have been placed on a barn wall, or painted over for that matter. It had a grainy look to it, like hair, but when she touched it, it was perfectly smooth and solid. Whatever it was, the paint surrounding it would need to be removed for a proper inspection. She hopped back down to grab a scraper. She’d need to remove the old chipped paint anyway, and she wanted to find out what strange object had been hidden behind layers of old paint. Scraping paint off of wood that it had bonded to was hard, but harder still if one wanted to preserve what was between the paint and the wood. Fortunately, the paint was old, and if Ink Blot was clever enough with the scraper, she could fit the scraper behind a lifted corner of paint and remove whole sections of it without damaging the odd material beneath. Nonetheless, it was a slow and painstaking process. It took over an hour for Ink Blot to remove a section the size of herself, and at last she got an idea of what it was that was beneath the paint. Plastered before her against the barn, was… a leg. A pony’s foreleg. Held up as though one were reared back on their hind legs, and probably belonging to a full grown stallion at that. She followed it over to where the head ought to be, and immediately leapt back. There was an eye there, and it was looking directly at her. The eye was thrown wide, and stared down at her as though she were some great foe it must defeat. Ink Blot relaxed, letting out the breath she’d been holding. It must be a mural that had been placed there long ago—with incredible skill. It probably depicted a stallion in battle, defending the princess from a changeling horde. She ran up to scrape more paint off so she could admire it better, then froze. The eye was still looking at her. This wasn’t the usual illusion that came from perspective drawing, where an image appeared to look directly at the viewer no matter what viewing angle they took. No, the eye had turned, and followed her as she moved toward the ladder. Blood froze in her veins, and Ink Blot found herself struggling to breathe. Why was she so afraid? Ink Blot was familiar with most creatures from the Everfree Forest. She’d stared down a timberwolf and just laughed, running it in circles until it got so dizzy it fell apart. Manticores? No problem. They were big and slow, and easily avoided. Not much scared her, but this? She managed a step closer, and the eye seemed to burn with intensity as it glared down at her. Fear was not usually a familiar emotion, but she felt it now. her hooves shook and shivers raced throughout her whole body as Ink Blot tried to recall her mother’s favorite mantra from her childhood. Giggle at the ghostie. Giggle at the ghostie. “Giggle at the ghostie, giggle at the ghostie.” Ink Blot found herself saying it out loud as tears welled up in her eyes, and she faced down her new fear, willing herself to laugh. What came out would have sounded more like a strangled wail from a filly, if Ink Blot had been paying any attention to it at all. Snatching up her brush, she ran forward and began blindly slapping paint back over the areas of the stallion she’d uncovered. Whatever this thing was, there must clearly have been a good reason why it was covered up. Ink Blot forced herself into the happiest place she knew, her painter’s trance, and began throwing paint all over the wall through forced—strangled—laughter. When at last she stopped crying, it had grown dark. The nightmare had gone, and she was tired. Her mother was probably worried, and her father would be disappointed. No longer her usual shade of bright pink, Ink Blot now donned the full color palette of paint she’d brought with her. The paint clung at her fur in clumps and felt icky and uncomfortable against her skin. Not to mention her mane. It would need a thorough washing immediately. But before she could head home, Ink Blot would need to gather up her supplies. In her panic, many of them had been thrown haphazardly about, and she would have to search for them. Some buckets had spilled and lost nearly the entirety of their contents. Her mother would surely be happy to replace those, but it was still an awful waste of good paint. Not to mention it left a lot of thick, sticky puddles all over the ground, that Ink Blot couldn’t help stepping in as she searched for a brush she’d dropped. Eventually she found it, and returned it to the cart. Clumsily gathering up her now half empty buckets of paint, Ink Blot began the slow trek home. ~ ~ ~ She had expected the crying hug from her mother. As she approached the house, she was flung to the ground under the weight of her mother, who wasted no time in letting her know exactly how worried she’d been when Ink Blot had not returned with the setting of the sun. Irritating though it was, Ink Blot was too exhausted and shaken to protest—though that didn’t stop her from trying—and lay trapped beneath her mother’s embrace. She had expected her father to be angry. Needless to say, he was not happy about her late arrival, but what she found in his face was not anger. Instead, disappointment. She had made a promise, and broken it. Not a Pinkie promise, but it didn’t matter between them; he had always trusted her, and she had let him down. Ink Blot’s hooves fell heavily as she trudged down the stairs to the bath room, again. Her mother did not join her this time, nor did Gummi. He set her bath, then left to go take care of her paint cart, which had been left by the front gate. Ink Blot was too exhausted to think, and simply sank into the bath, allowing it to soak into her coat and the skin underneath. She was grounded. She had to be. Her father was rarely cross with her, but why would he forgive her for breaking their promise? It wasn’t a Pinkie promise, but it may as well have been for how rotten she felt. She didn’t sit long in the bath. Instead she scrubbed the paint out of her hair and toweled the rest off when she climbed out. It would ruin the towel, but she didn’t care. She just wanted to go to bed without supper like she deserved. Ink Blot climbed the stairs slowly, one at a time. Nopony stopped her as she passed by the dining hall, though Gummi gave her a knowing look from the table. He would tell her mother, in his own special way. He always did, and he had such a way with words too, for one who could not actually talk. That alligator had saved her flank with her parents more times than she could count. She nodded a thanks to him and continued up the stairs, half dragging herself by the time she got to her room, and flopped onto her bed, falling instantly asleep. She was standing before the wall. The grass around her, the flowers, the wind, the sun—all gone. Just the big eye staring down into her soul, burning her out from the inside. The red paint on the barn began to soften, then flowed, slowly at first, but building up in thickness. It bubbled and oozed right out of the wood—a deep, dark red, like blood, pouring down over her. She could feel it seeping into her skin, consuming her being. A low wail rose up in her throat as she dislodged herself from it, turning to flee into the forest. Red hoof prints trailed behind her as she ran, following her everywhere. A bramble caught on her fore hoof as she burst into the brush, and she went tumbling, head over hooves, several times. She sat up in a sea of blue vines, creeping closer to her, trying to tangle her up in them. She tried to move away, but they grabbed at her hooves and dragged her back into their center. They wrapped around her countless times, constricting her movements and squeezing her tight until she felt as though she would pop. Her skin broke and liquefied, sloughing off and revealing her bones underneath, which also quickly melted beneath the strangling vines. Before long she was a puddling mass on the ground, indistinguishable from the mud. “Little one.” A soft voice called out to her from very far away, but it was too late; she was gone.