The lock clicked shut. It was such a profound sound, what that lock made. If you listened, and you happened to know the owner of said lock, then it would tell you much. The sounds was not a crisp, quick click, as one would get when they ordinarily would lock the deadbolt of a door. It wasn’t the quiet click that sounded far louder than it actually was because the key holder was trying to sneak in without waking whomever might be on the other side. The sound had too much grinding, and was too slow but too loud at the same time. It was the sound of a pony going through the motions with little care for precision. It was the sound of a pony with dark thoughts on their mind.
The key to the lock floated into an inside pocket within a grey, worn-out robed, which rustled underneath the fabric of two saddle bags. That particular pair of bags contained a list of food items, and a distressing bag of bits.
The reason the mare holding the bit bag found it distressing was twofold. On one hoof, paying her legal debts and her family’s landlord had left it distressingly light. On the other hoof, the chance to fill it and her belly with proper food came with a price that was so heavy, the mare wondered how she could even walk.
Her hooves carried her across the length of the hall, plodding along the stained carpet with purpose, but not vigor. Methodically she descended the three stories of stairs at the end of the hall. There was a window in the stairwell, and through it, Sparkle could see the base of Canterlot mountain.
Her brother was somewhere up there, she noted. He’d been in the barracks all month, patrolling upper Canterlot during the evening patrols. Her home was lonely without him. And with Thorn out on another of her long-distance errands to collect esoteric texts from Manehattan, she was truly alone down here.
The mare stepped out of the stairwell and out the door way. Bright sunlight struck her face, making her blink and shy away until her eyes had adjusted. When they had, she lifted her gaze to its proper place. She trotted off.
The eyes bored into her even as their owners cleared the streets. She was used to the sideways glances, the confusion in ponies when they looked at her, knowing something was off but not what. This wasn’t that. These stares seemed to burn into her, criticizing and condemning her. Eyes that wished she would burn in hell. Eyes that hated and feared her.
A tiny voice in the back of Sparkle’s mind said they were just scared of her looks; she had forgone the set of illusions she affectionately called her “makeup” after all. Smoking eyes, a too-skinny face and a horn that had its filing neglected, leaving it wickedly sharp, did not do wonders for a pony’s pleasant image.
The larger voice in her mind convinced her that they were judging her, and they found her lacking. Every step she took, under the constant onslaught of whispers, stares, mares shooing foals away, and the likes, made her hooves feel heavier and heavier and heavier.
She pushed her way in through the door of the corner grocery store. The jingle of a bell above her head made her pull herself inward in an attempt to make herself as small as possible. Eyes turned to her. One mare even set down her shopping basket and hurriedly exited the other door, making the pony behind the register glare harder at Sparkle.
That tiny voice came back, calling for her to just make them stop. Half-heartedly, she wished that she was a griffin in their empire, where it was legal to attack those who offended you. Of course, that would defeat the whole reason behind her mood if she could do that.
Head down, she grabbed a basket by the door. She walked towards the isles, but was quickly stopped by a stallion. “Ma’am, you’re scaring away my paying customers. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Sparkle blinked. “But... I just needed to buy groceries. I’m out of food at home.”
“And I need to make a living,” the stallion replied, his voice taut and shaky. “I’m sorry, but...”
“No,” Sparkle replied quietly. “That’s OK. I understand. I’ll just go...” She turned and left without another word.
Stepping back out onto the street empty hooved, she raised her hood up and made to move forwards. Her hoof caught in air, stopped by a sudden thought. “No,” she whispered. “No, that is not OK.”
Quickly, she dashed into a side street and called up her magic. The spell was an illusion, but not her usual variety. Her “makeup” usually consisted of a spell that made her look ordinary, with a cost of about a half-percent of her reserves to cast and maintain for an hour. This spell took a whopping half of her reserves, more than most unicorns could muster without killing themselves.
All of her illusions required her to have a “base” idea in mind, imagining what she wanted her victim to see. The more complex, the more detailed the illusion would be, while the simpler the idea, the more powerful the illusion would be. Sparkle knew for a fact that had she used “I am the most impossible thing” instead of what she had, she could melt brains. Goo out the nose, dead body, the whole nine yards.
What she had used was almost as dangerous. Anypony who saw her would be cursed. Nothing would ever bring them joy again, merely boredom. They would remember this moment as the happiest they had ever been, and wouldn’t ever be able to find happiness again. No stallion who saw her would ever be happy in a relationship again, and no mare would see their own beauty. Why?
At that moment, Sparkle was the most beautiful mare possible, given the victims’ definitions of beauty, and they would always remember it as such.
She stepped back out into public view, and the world stopped. Mares cried and stallions stood at attention, in more ways than one. Though her gait was normal, they would see it as powerful, righteous, and divine. She was untouchable, and the common ponies knew it, and were ashamed to even spoil her beauty with their proximity.
In the store, the story was similar. Whatever she put in her basket, ponies would swarm to and clear the shelves in an instant. Whatever she ignored, the ponies would treat it as if it were the plague itself.
Sweet nothings graced her ears, and, while knowing full well that they were lies, she savored every one of them. Affection, admiration, praise, and vengeance were drugs to the darkest of ponies, she knew; yet she indulged anyway. She knew it wouldn’t last, that she would be back to facing the same choice, but in that moment, she lost the will to care.
She approached the register and the stallion behind it, the one who had kicked her out not a half hour before. “Hello,” she said simply. To the ears of everypony within range, her voice was the single most beautiful melody that could possibly exist. Silence descended upon the crowded store, every last pony afraid to move a muscle, lest they cause a noise and miss even a fragment of her voice. “I wanted to buy these, but I’m a tad low on money, could you-”
Pandemonium erupted. Ponies were pushing and shoving and biting and kicking and screaming and surging forwards to offer her their hard-earned bits. In the seconds before Sparkle raised a hoof to stop them, she saw at least three ponies break bones. “Please, I was only asking if I might have a discount. If you must give somepony your money, you could always pay for my food for me.”
The bits started flying, literally. Heavy, metal-filled sacks were tossed towards the helpless store-owner, or, in the case of a few unicorn and earth pony customers, launched with enough force to dent the wall behind him.
Sparkle smirked. Leaning down while shielding herself from the onslaught, she whispered into the fallen pony’s ear, “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Something changed in his eyes, causing them to appear dull and lifeless. He stood as Sparkle straightened up. She stepped back, allowing the still-growing crowd to continue throwing bits at him. Suddenly he jerked to the side, completely on his own accord, and took a bag of bits to the face. There was an audible crack, dropping him like a puppet with cut strings. Sparkle turned towards the crowd. “You should all be ashamed of yourselves.”
She exited the building, illusion shattering, with a stomach sick with pride. The rush of pleasure all ponies experience when using their talent faded, and the guilt set back in. She was worried about ending one pony’s life, when she could just casually do that?
Right then and there, standing on the street corner where that shop - now in flames - stood, she decided that that money was cursed. No matter what, that fortune would go to her head. She knew it.
Her hooves burst into action, galloping towards her home. She couldn’t stand it any longer. Without the illusion, the stares were back and in full force. She was going to break, snap, shatter, disintegrate if she stayed out any longer. Sparkle ran.
With food in her belly and time to stop and think, Sparkle had calmed down. By no means was she better, but she was calm. She needed help; of what kind, she couldn't quite picture. Who would listen to her? A therapist? She could never afford that right now. Shining Armor? He was away until Friday, the day of the deadline. Thorn? She could reach him, but he wasn't the kind of individual she would want to unload on; his advice would probably hurt more than help. Twilight?
Sparkle's eyes affixed themselves upon the typewriter. Could she help? Sparkle didn't know if Twilight would understand. Maybe... Maybe she should just talk to her about something else. Something other than this.
Her eyes drifted over to the book next to the machine. It was that book. The words on its leather-bound cover, only ever visible to her and those she empowered, read Dread Necroptica: Mind. She glared at the book.
Stomping over, she took the book in hoof and whipped her foreleg around. "I HATE YOU!" she yelled. The book, which should have been across the room, was still firmly in her grasp. "This is all your fault," she spitefully hissed at the paper object.
Unlike any other book, it responded, flipping open to a blank page that certainly wasn't there before and wrote upon itself, 'I am a book. How could I do anything you accuse me of?'
"It was your spell that caused this mess!" Sparkle screamed.
'One which you used freely and of your own will,' the book's text replied. 'I am only living information. How could I possibly make you do anything?'
Sparkle set the book – and the information demon within – down on her desk. She had no reply, other than a gruff grunt of anger.
Turning towards her desk, she sat down in the chair and pulled the typewriter towards her. She pounded out a quick message on the keys, and then pushed the lever to set it to the next line, eliciting a ding in response.
It was only a minute later that a reply came.
Twi: Hey Sparks, what's wrong?
Spark: I've kind of had a rough day. Can you tell me something good to get my mind off it?
Twi: Sure, if that will help you feel better.
Remember the incident with my Trixie? So Celestreea walks into the farmer's market and starts examining the crops. She then says, 'I know how you could grow these crops even better. And over the next week, she goes to almost every garden in town and gives advice. By the second week, ponies are coming to her for advice, and by the third, the advice isn't limited to just plants. Eight days ago, Applejack came to me for advice on how to write a book, and yesterday, I found out that she and many other farmers are writing The Holy Word of the Garden.
The punchline? I'm not joking. I may have accidentally brought to life the founder of Equestria's fastest growing religion.
Sparkle honestly didn't know what to make of that, but at least it succeeded in getting her mind off-
Nevermind.
Spark: Well, as long as you aren't going 'praise the log' or something similarly inane, I won't stop you from joining.
Twi: You're laughing at me, I know it!
Spark: No, I'm not.
Twi: Yes you are!
Her accusation was met with no response. A long pause punctuated the moment, one in which the air seemed to grow thick and oppressive to Sparkle. Her gut twisted into a knot, and she knew what was coming, what she had to do.
Spark: Twilight, I can kill ponies by talking to them.
On the other side, the jovial mood in the library evaporated into smoke. Twilight watched in horror as the words of explanation formed before her eyes. Tears of empathy formed in the corner of her eyes, and before she knew it, she was sobbing as hard as her sister.
At last, the typewriter stilled into silence. Twilight looked at the clock and, realizing there was time left, typed one final message.
I'm coming now. Meet me at our garden spot.
Time bent sideways as the light unicorn entered the garden. Her dark counterpart sat on the bench they always used to meet at when they were fillies. Twilight sat down next to her, as did Spike on the opposite side. She embraced her counterpart.
For a time – it really didn't matter how long – they just sat that way. The comfort of long-needed physical contact calmed and comforted Sparkle immensely. Being as close to Twilight as she was, she did not feel the urge to talk; nothing needed to be said.
By the time they moved, the sun was low in the sky, tinting the world orange with pinkish highlights around the clouds. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Slowly, Sparkle shook her head. "Not really. There isn't much else to say."
"Then I'll just be here for as long as you need me," Twilight replied.
The sun had fully set before Sparkle spoke again. "How are you getting home? The last train must have left already?"
"Don't worry about that, sis. I can always sleep at my parent's house, Shiny's place, my room in the Castle, or, Celestia forbid, a hotel," she gasped in mock horror, trying to raise the mood. "I told you I'd be here as long as you needed me, and I think you still do."
"But-" A hoof silenced her.
"No buts."
They sat for a while more.
"Spike, can you send this for me?"
"Sure."
Fwoosh.
The letter, unexpected it its timing, landed on top of Celestia's late night work. "Oh, a letter from Twilight. Let's see..."
Dear Princess Celestia,
I know you asked me to write to you on what I've learned about friendship. This isn't that. This is something I've always known. Sometimes, ponies hurt real bad. And there are times when there is nothing you can do to ease their pain besides being with them. And it hurts, watching them hurt outside your ability to help.
Remember Sparkle? We talked today. She is hurting in ways I can't adequately describe. And, while I don't think it is my story to tell, I can tell you that she's in one of the worst places a pony can be.
And I can't help her.
What do I do?
Your Faithful Student,
TwilightP.S. I'm in Canterlot right now. May I sleep in my old room tonight?
Celestia set the letter down. "My dear Twilight..."