“A horse seeks out wonderful things, that she may explain them, and yet she fails. What then has she accomplished? Does the sun shine less brightly on the flower than the scholar? Neigh, this too is foolishness. As the flower blooms, though it cannot see the sun, so the wise horse chooses to believe in what she cannot explain. Only a fool, when she discovers she is blind, will not follow the voice of a friend.”- Letters to the Sun, 1:15
“She who wields a heavy truth may fear to use it, lest she injure her friend. But greater is the injury wreaked upon the deceived. The charlatan says, 'better to be happy than right.' This is not the way of the worker.”- The Worker, 4:20
Ten thousand pegasus heroes scorch the words into the clouds.
“The Enemy is fallen. Harmony is restored.”
The workers in their fields and factories grunt their acknowledgement. When they break for lunch, they share a grim laugh at the Enemy's expense. Rumours fly half-heartedly between conversations. “I heard she was pitching an apple when they caught her,” is a popular one. By cot-time it has become the official story.
The starlit halls of Sparkle University echo with the impassioned chatter of the scholars, who seek to determine what this development might mean for the future of equinity. “Do you think that at last our cultural revolution may proceed?” they ask. “Perhaps,” they invariably respond, sipping their coffee. “Only time will tell.”
In cottages and studios across Equestria, the artisans panic and clear their workstations. All other projects are put aside, all creativity channelled into the need to do justice to this historic moment, to somehow, in some small way, be a part of it.
Outside, the entertainers take to the streets, playing old favourites, making extraneous noise, and giving the ponies permission to celebrate.
The nurturers watch it all transpire, sighing and quietly judging. “No death is a happy occasion, not even hers,” they murmur, to each other and to all who will listen. And they turn away, slowly shaking their heads.
But when they curl up in their nests, they find that a weight has been lifted from their withers, and they sleep better than they have in years.
In a cavern deep below Canterlot, where the limestone glitters with untouched gems in the light of a single brazier, the Enemy wakes to the pounding of raindrops on her face. She cracks open an eye, and yawns.
The falling droplets dampen her tongue, just enough to fan her thirst. She licks the water from her snout. Her throat is a dead thistle.
She can feel the stumps where her wings and horn were a few hours ago. She vaguely remembers them being sawn off, and cauterised with an industrial solderer. Her mane and tail are gone as well. Each of her hooves is attached by a short rope to a different hooded stallion, so that she hangs like a hammock between them. A pegasus hovers over her, poised to give the order for them to tear her apart if she makes the slightest move.
She laughs.
“You came to see me. I'm honoured.”
The Hero lands, and shakes the rain from her mane. She leans over the Enemy's exposed barrel, gently brushing her blistered coat with one hoof.
“I had to see you laid low with my own eyes.”
“I respect that,” says the Enemy. “You could have washed your hooves of me and flushed me down the system, but instead you're taking care of it yourself. That's commitment is what it is. That's why you're the Dashy. What are you, the twenty-fourth? Twenty-fifth?”
The Hero sniffs, and pulls away. “Uh-huh. Are you going to ask me for some water?”
The Enemy chokes down a lump of saliva, that might as well be a pine cone. “No, no. I think there gets to be a point in life where you stop needing water.”
“Alright then. Just remember I offered.”
The Hero rubs her hooves together, and strikes the Enemy with lightning. The cavern flashes lilac.
“Where are your friends hiding?” she asks, in a tone that tries too hard to be emotionless, but can't conceal the electricity crackling in her eyes.
The Enemy's screams quickly turn into more laughter.
“Straight in, are we? Haven't you been paying attention? I don't have any friends.”
The Hero abandons her composure, and shouts in the Enemy's face.
“Boxer Cherries. Doctor Honey Jack. Your confederates. You sent them into hiding the minute you realised you'd lost. Where did you send them?”
“I haven't the faintest idea what you mean.”
The Hero tries to stare her down, but gives up after a few seconds. Her eyes flick to the ceiling, and glaze over in thought.
“What are you doing?” says the Enemy. “Are you... Dear Twilight, are you about to sing? Please, I swear I don't know where they are.”
The Hero grins, and slaps her flank. “Of course. I've got it all wrong. You wouldn't send your pawns into hiding, would you? If you saw the end coming, you'd want them there with you, waving the flag while you all went down in thunder and fire. Or you'd sacrifice them so you could escape. No, they deserted you, didn't they? How disappointing. That's loyalty for you.”
A million year old drop of moisture falls from a jewelled stalactite, runs down the Enemy's belly, and stirs the puddle that remains of the Hero's rain storm.
“You'd know all about loyalty, wouldn't you Rainbow Dash?” The Enemy's voice is hoarse and humourless, her ears pointed back. “Why are you even here? Are you going to try and break me? You silly little pony, don't you know I was born broken?”
The Hero chuckles darkly. “Funny. From here you look almost intact.” She taps one of the stallions on the rump. “Gently now. Giddyup.”
The stallions shuffle away from each other, until the ropes and the Enemy's legs are pulled horizontal, and her joints creak, threatening to snap. She bellows through gritted teeth.
The Hero can't quite make herself watch.
“Whoa,” she says.
The stallions look at her.
“For mercy's sake, whoa.”
They let the rope slacken a little.
The Enemy's bellows fall to desperate panting, then to hollow laughter.
“You can't even torture me,” she says. “After everything you've done, you still think you're the good guy.”
The Hero throws lightning in her general direction. She misses, and hits one of the stallions, who absorbs it with a stifled whinny. “Sorry,” she mutters.
“Alright,” says the Enemy. “You want me to talk, I'll talk. There's no need to damage the help.”
The Hero calms herself, and narrows her eyes. “Go on then.”
“Here's what's happening right now. The hated of Equestria are gathering, in their burrows. They're discussing what they will do now that I am dead. By this time tomorrow, each of the factions will have begun a new campaign. Most will probably fight each other. A few of them will fight you. You're going to try and wipe them out, but everywhere you go you will find them breeding and swarming like cockroaches in the dark places nopony would think to look. Your civilisation will implode in time, and when it does, the infestation will survive in the ruins, keeping the flame of Discord alight in my name.”
The Enemy locks eyes with the Hero, until the Hero breaks away.
“But what about you, Rainbow Dash? When I get free and bite out your throat, or you slip in the bathroom and break an ankle and have to be taken out behind the shed, and the almighty She-Who-Eats-The-Sun-And-Moon descends from her tree house to anoint your successor... What happens then? Will anypony remember that you used to look a little bit different? One might argue that you never died at all. There must always be a Rainbow Dash, to sit on the thunderbolt chair. A strange sort of immortality, wouldn't you say?”
The strength in her voice gives out, and she drops to a whisper.
“You think you have power over me. But what can a pony, even an immortal pony, do to the carcass of a giant whose bones are mountains?”
The Hero looks from one stallion to the next. None of them show any reaction, but that doesn't mean they're not being swayed against her, just a little.
“Enough!”
In answer to the Enemy's question, she turns and blasts an ancient limestone formation. The thunderclap shakes the cavern. Another bead of moisture lands on the Enemy's belly from the stalactite above her.
“Ponies have levelled mountains bigger than you,” the Hero says. “But you're not a carcass yet. Where there's life, there's hope.”
She takes a deep breath.
“Anyway. I have a victory speech to be getting ready for. You, it seems, could use a little more time to get to know the subtleties of thirst. Perhaps next time we meet you'll feel differently about asking for a drink. Who knows? Maybe you'll change your mind on a few other things, too.”
She makes to leave, then stops and turns around.
“You know, it's funny. Everypony praises the Eternal Twilight for banishing night. But far fewer ask where she sent it. You're one of the few, aren't you? You know what I mean when I say the dark does strange things to ponies. Especially ponies who think they're giants. Imagine what shadows a memory like yours will cast. Gives me the heebities just thinking about it.”
She addresses the stallions. “Tie her to the column over there, would you lads? Nice and tight.”
They unhook the ropes from their harnesses, and string the Enemy up so her back is pressed against the jagged rock, with her legs bent the wrong way around the column behind her. Her shoulder blades dig into her spine, and contract her chest muscles so she has to lift herself to breathe.
“Don't forget the fire ants,” she croaks.
The Hero smirks. “Be careful what you wish for, my little giant. You have a long night ahead of you. However tight your body hugs you, I guarantee the night will be tighter.”
The stallions return to her side. She waves them away, and they duck through a metal hatchway into the chamber beyond.
“Farewell,” the Hero says. “And sweet dreams. I'll see you in the morning, whenever that may be.”
She kicks over the brazier on her way out, scattering its contents across the wet cavern floor. As her hoofsteps fade, the embers shrink, from yellow to orange to red. One by one they go out, like stars at the end of time, until only the darkness remains.
A droplet falls from the ceiling.
The Enemy closes her eyes, and waits.