//------------------------------//
// Chapter 20 
// Story: The Slender Pony 
// by The Poet of Silence 
//------------------------------//

Rarity couldn’t sleep. Her purple mane was unkempt, with knots and tangles galore. She was cold, too. The chilly weather had kept Ponyville under its spell for far too long, if you asked Rarity (which few did, but then Rarity was never one to shy away from sharing her opinions). It was always chilly, at best, and the streets were usually coated in a thick, brackish mud that more often than not splashed up past Rarity’s boots and ruined them. 

Rarity would never, though, try to imply that her situation was worse than those of the poor souls whose houses had been destroyed in the floods, and definitely her situation was better than those who had died in the floods (Rarity shuddered at the very thought). Rarity had helped as best she could, stitching together warm, woolen blankets to pass around at the Ponyville hospital. She simply wished that the weather would pack its bags and move out, for the benefit of her and everyone else (a request that Rarity felt she was entitled to, given her efforts at charity during the floods).

But, the cold had perpetuated itself in her humble abode. The windows were usually frosted over in the morning when she awoke, and her bed was now less a bed than a mountain of the warmest blankets she could find stacked on a mattress that, if she looked hard enough, she could find before passing out under the covers. 

Rarity shivered again. Her teeth chattered together nosily as she curled up into a ball, her movements restricted by the massive amounts of blankets covering her. She sighed deeply. Sleeping was going to be an issue tonight, as it was nearly one in the morning and she couldn’t sleep. Her eyes burned for want of sleep, but since that obviously was not going to happen, Rarity contented herself to trying to stay warm.

Rarity squirmed under the blankets. Her thoughts wandered as she did so, wandering to her dreams as of late. Her dreams were usually vague, as most dreams are, and forgotten by the time Rarity had fixed herself breakfast. Lately, though, her dreams were more lurid. Rarity could perfectly remember running, always running, running as fast as she could through a dark forest. She remembered running through the forest, constantly looking over her shoulder as adrenaline and fear pulsed through her veins, until she reached a clearing. In the center of the clearing stood a tree, a medium-sized oak with large boughs covered in green leaves. A few twisted, gnarled roots poked through the dirt, though most remained hidden below ground. In her dreams, Rarity always stopped short of the tree. A pony stood in front of the tree, in the same place every time. This pony had no face, and black tentacles writhed behind it. Each night, Rarity awoke with a start after having seen the faceless pony, her breathing always ragged. Rarity shuddered at the memory.

She had been struggling to stay warm for seventeen minutes (Rarity had been keeping track) when she heard the footsteps. They were soft, to be fair, but still audible. Rarity paused mid-squirm, her eyes widening. Her breath caught in her throat. “S-S-Sweetie Belle?” she called, her voice faltering, “I-I won’t be mad if you’re getting a midnight snack, if you just answer me.” There was no reply.

Rarity suddenly remembered that she had to breathe, and that she had been holding her breath. She exhaled deeply, though she tried to be as quiet as possible while she did so. She squirmed out of her blankets, her feet landing on the chilly floor. Rarity shivered. She closed her eyes and lit up her horn. The magically created light allowed Rarity to see, whereas before she couldn’t see her hoof in front of her face. 

Rarity walked to the kitchen, slowly. She looked left and right, throwing light around the dark hallway. She got an eerie feeling from behind her as she walked, like something was watching her in the dark, something that vanished as the light touched it only to reappear after Rarity had moved past.

The footsteps had stopped. Rarity paused, hardly daring to breathe. Her eyes were wide with fear. Her heart beat so hard that Rarity wondered if it would be possible for it to burst from her chest. She shook violently, causing the light from her horn to waver. For a moment, there was only silence, save the beating of Rarity’s heart. She took a hesitant step forward.

Rarity walked into the kitchen. She looked around, checking the area near her pantry. Her search was in vain, as she couldn’t find anypony. She turned around, and was blindsided from her left. Rarity cried out in pain as she hit the floor, knocked completely off her feet. She struggled and thrashed, kicking out at her attacker. “Let me g-“ she cried, her voice nearly rising to a shout. She didn’t actually see the knife, nor did she hear it. She only learned of its existence when it stabbed her in the chest.

Rarity stopped thrashing. Her jaw hung open, and she began to violently shake. The world took on a muted gray tone, and the sounds of her attacker breathing heavily became muted and distant. Rarity felt the cold blade in her flesh, though there was no pain. There was a sticky feeling from the blood seeping out onto her formerly white coat, and a numbingly cold sensation where she had been stabbed, but no pain. 

Rarity whimpered as her attacker withdrew the knife with the wet sound that seemed, to Rarity’s crazed mind, to be like that of a knife being pulled out of a melon. The cold sensation was spreading, now, covering Rarity’s entire chest. The stickiness was spreading, too. Rarity’s breathing came in shallow, wheezing gasps. Her attacker walked in front of Rarity, and Rarity caught a glimpse of familiar pink. “P-Pin,” Rarity tried to say, though blood filled her mouth and she coughed it all over the floor. 

Pinkie Pie bent down and looked Rarity in the eyes. Rarity might’ve been taken aback by the vast emptiness of Pinkie’s eyes, but Rarity was too far-gone to notice. Confusion filled her, mixing in with the adrenaline from earlier and the faint, aching pain, which was now starting to manifest where Rarity had been stabbed. The white unicorn’s chest rose and fell rapidly. Pinkie placed the knife with which she had stabbed Rarity in Rarity’s mouth. “Just,” she said, her straight pink hair falling into her face, “Go to sleep.”

Elsewhere, Applejack stood at the entrance to Applebloom’s door. They were renting rooms at an inn in Ponyville while their house was being rebuilt. Applebloom had been released several days ago from the Ponyville Hospital, and Applejack hadn’t argued the matter much. There were plenty of sick ponies that needed tending to now, and what Applebloom needed was time to know that the horrors had passed. It would take a lot of time, something that many of the ponies they had passed on their way out of the hospital did not have. 

Applejack heard Applebloom whispering. She was recovering remarkably well, as many people, Applejack included, had noted. Perhaps the worst truly was behind them. Applejack knocked on the door. “Applebloom,” she said, “Ah just wanna check up on ya, see how yer doin.” Applebloom whispered for a moment before replying, “Come on in, Applejack.” Applejack opened the door to Applebloom’s room, which was adjacent to hers. 

Applebloom’s few remaining possessions sat in a bag near the bed. Applebloom herself was lying in bed, curled up on one side. “Hey,” Applejack said, “G’night.” “G’night,” Applebloom replied curtly. Applejack was silent. Big Mac’s funeral, which had been held a few days earlier, still lingered in both their minds. “Ya know,” Applejack said as she walked over and rested her forehooves on the bed, “That you can tell me whatever you think you need, darling.” Applebloom nodded. 

There was a momentary, awkward silence. “Who’re you whisperin’ to,” Applejack asked, trying to make conversation. “Oh, mah friend,” Applebloom replied. Applejack laughed. “Ah remember when Ah had my imaginary friends at your age,” she said, ruffling Applebloom’s mane. “Well, anyways, g’night, and g’night to your friend too.”

As Applejack walked out of the room, Applebloom muttered, “Ah don’t think Mr. Widemouth likes being called imaginary.” As the door closed behind Applejack, she could swear that she heard what sounded like small, rapid footsteps from inside the room.