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Prologue: Writhing Star [v2]2,039 words
Chapter 1: Awake [v2]1,447 words
Chapter 2: Gimel-grof4,320 words

Chapter 2: Gimel-grof

"Finally." Spike sighed with fatigue.
He coughed up phlegm that smoldered as it landed. He could feel, in his chest, adjustments taking place for the expansion of lungs.

The floor wore sheets of ash in some places and blankets of fire in others.
He put a hand over his face to block out the sight of fire; the flames' bright, wavering contrast flashed like the nightmarish scales. The very thought made his own scales crawl. When an itch motivated one clawed hand to scratch the opposite, it revealed that they were literally crawling.

From muscle to bone, his flesh broke out in a rash of perforation. Pores spread all over Spike's body, even down to the extremities where they ended in large ducts gaping out of his paws and feet. Spike leaned in for a better view, but they contracted, leaving the outer scales seemingly unchanged.

The forge was at rest, so he was unsure how the fire was set,though it might have been his unconscious thrashings. The burning was low and left much unlit, but light slipped through cracks in the floor above. He had to get up there. With all of these transformations, he needed a mirror.

Stores of gems and scrapped jewel-craft were knocked from their inlaid shelves and scattered by a limp body slouching up the stairwell.
Once above ground, Spike sat against a wall to breathe some fresh air.
He needed this chance to examine himself. The basement hatch opened into the laundry room, no mirrors to be found there. Since this was the Carousel Boutique, the gallery would be the best bet.

By the time he entered the showroom, Spike had enough strength to maintain bipedal motion.

“Hello? Rarity!?” Spike called over the hushed snare of rain.

He felt along the wall on his left having sworn there was a light switch somewhere.
The cloud-dampened dawn flowing through the windows was adequate for sight, so he abandoned the hunt for a button.

The fabrics and threads were gone. Mannequins usually aloof had been corralled behind the dressing screen, forlorn and bare. The sowing desk had been pushed next to the stairway between the kitchen and bedroom. Dust and motes lay and swarmed in the wrapped furniture.

Spike was an island on an empty floor in an abandoned boutique.

“How long was I out?”
His stomach sunk in disappointment.

"Hello!?"
He didn't care for an answer this time. He simply hated silence.
The search for a mirror resumed. If the materials haven't been removed, they were in the storage at the rear of the tailor's stage. Spike went around to it, lifted the padlock in his hand and tried to pick it with his thumb claw.

A random storm of kicks began pounding on the front door. The sudden percussion caused Spike to whip around. This was in time for him to see the entrance thrown open by a pair of white hooves.

In charged a mare in a rain soaked cloak. His heart skipping two beats, Spike recognized the stature, pale legs and purple tail. Out of spontaneity, he sprung over and snatched the cloaked figure up in an embrace. The affectionate gesture wasn’t met in kind.

A bone-rattling screech erupted from under the hood. The cry's intensity was so overwhelming, Spike's ears verged on collapse. While he fell back, she whirled into charging position, her brandished horn closing in for the gore.

Reflexively, his right hand caught the unicorn by the head and stopped the point of the horn one hair away from his vulnerable eyes.

“What’s wrong with you!?” Spike growled. His ears were still splitting with reverberation, so there was little concern for the way he voiced himself.

The assailant was held with ease. Her strength was nowhere as terrible as the wail.
Just as it clicked in his mind, he saw the light of magic gathering in the horn’s cuticle. It could be seen and heard that it was going into another, more powerful, scream.

Preempting the very idea, Spike muffled the mare with his paw and the gruffly shoved her away. This inadvertently sent her tumbling all the way back to the door. Seeing she was jolted, Spike attempted to reason with her.

“Rarity, will you please stop? Look and see that it’s me. It’s Spike!”

There was a pause. The two simply stared one another down. The unicorn stood up and didn’t attack. A little unstable at first, she stepped over and hit a button near the door. Bulbs all over the Carousel Boutique lethargically flickered on. They revealed that Spike was the one mistaken.

“Rarity!” She snapped incredulously; grass green eyes glared through a light -not dark- purple mane. “You must be out of your mind or blind!”
Spike stared back, eyes wide at the realization he’d been fooled by rain water and poor lighting.

“Sweetie Belle, What are you doing here?”

“I came here to look for supplies and to find you.”

“So you could kill me.” Spike stated flatly. Tilting his head from side to side, he shook to check for blood in the ears.

“Don’t blame me. I wasn’t expecting an attempt on my life!”

“ I’d say you were more than prepared,” Spike grunted as he stood. ”Well, You’ve found me. Just, please, explain what’s going on.”

“Everything's-” Sweetie Belle started, but set it aside for priority. “Trust me; it'll be obvious once we’re outside. Right now, I need bandaging and blankets.”
“Sure. There’s bound to be fabric you can use over here. I was getting the lock off actually.”

She quickly trotted over the linoleum to the storage. As he followed her, Spike was shocked to see its door ajar, the handle nearly torn from the wood. Conspicuously gleaming from the foot of the stage was the padlock, ripped off in the excitement.

Sweetie Belle ran in without question, Spike was left to inspect the small mechanism.
Two compressions marked where he'd flattened it between his thumb and index.
By not realizing his own strength, he put her in harm’s way; visualizing the possible damage was nauseating. He would've been sick had he eaten recently.

Spike sequestered the grim notion by switching focus to hunger.

Crushing the lock in his fist, he brought it up to his nose and found it had a savory aroma. Metals were a bit removed from gemstones, and eating them had never crossed Spike's mind till now. He hadn’t eaten in days or weeks and the scent was quite enticing, there was no cause for hesitation.

“Spike, don't stand around. Pack something! I don’t know if you'll be taken away, but I'm not leaving you here.”

“Who’ll be taking me?” Spike turned to the closet

“Later! Just get your junk!”

Spike snorted and popped the iron wad into his mouth. Had she always been this commanding?

On the top floor, Rarity's room, the dawn permeated drawn curtains; it shined and dimmed infrequently. A few stripped mannequins huddled together alongside a wall, as if they were shrinking away from the needle, the gleaming tooth of the sewing machine. Spike didn't pay them any mind coming in.

His eyes kept to the king-sized bed* adjacent to the door. Running his scaly digits along the wall, the switch was found and the room was lit. Looking on the maroon bedding, he ran his callous fingers over the blankets as if he could smooth over regrets. The sound of wind rustling through the room was as irregular as the sunlight, rising and fading on a whim. Sounds weren't relevant to Spike's concerns at the moment.

The sight of two pillows at the head of the bed inflamed him with guilt, the only fire the fire-breather burned by inwardly. He would've turned away had he not spotted a letter on the pillow that supposedly was his.

In an airy script-typical of Rarity-the envelope was designated 'For Spike'. Picking up the packet, he felt its weight and determined it more than he had time to read. It was held to his side as he entered the walk-in closet to collect his personal effects.

On the closet's left, the rack was heavy-laden with the seamstress's hangers and outfits. On the right, the sole article of clothing was a tin wool mining coat. Spike pulled it off the hook and swung his arms into it.

The sleeves measured up to his arms fine, but the back fell short. Spike's heels,haunches and tail were left exposed. Out of the nine years he'd been in Ponyville, he had whittled four away with Rarity in that boutique. Having managed a steady rate of growth by the time he moved in, Rarity designed the coat not to be outgrown too quickly. She apparently overlooked the possibility of spurts like the one Spike had gone through. He was roughly two meters tall.

After the coat, what remained was the Gravelwood satchel; it was a wood plated container sewn and built from the sandy bark of a rock eating shrub. Laid flat, it stood as a box, lifted up, it was slack as a sack. Overall, it was made to transport raw earth materials, being watertight and highly durable.

Spike threw up the lid to slip in the letter and was surprised to discover a stash of emeralds. They were milky and uncut, nothing prime, but Spike didn’t much mind.

"What's bread without crust?" He quipped hungrily.

After a few of the gems were downed and the letter tossed in, the bag was slung over a shoulder and the dragon exited the closet. Lightning flashing through the window accented some nearby movement. Out of the corner of his eye, Spike caught a glimpse of horrible fangs and a ragged hide. He instinctively lashed out , thinking it a monster. His left hand flew as a purple blur and impaled the intruder.

When Spike attempted to draw his hand back, the mysterious enemy fell to pieces at his feet with the tinkling of broken glass. He looked down at his folly, and fell to his knees, consumed by mirth. Ridiculing this violent skittishness couldn't be helped. Alas, his mirror was found, and, by his action, rendered mostly useless.

“This is what I do now. I'm so out of it, I'll jump at shadows--reflections, even!"

Sweetie Belle came up the stairs, her hooves echoing against the floorboards. She saw Spike lodged in a looking glass and walked right past it all. Not a word passed her livid lips. She simply went to the utensil desk and tensely rummaged through the drawers. Ribbons, needles and thread were illuminated in her green cornesis as they were snatched up.

As he pulled back, Spike’s arm dislodged a long shard of mirror that retained much usefulness in regard to vanity.

“Lookin’ different.” He mused at his reflection. “Different is good.”
Panning over bright topaz eyes, large fangs and spiny tongue, he noticed something within the fragment’s edges: One of the mannequin ponies behind him still wore cloth.
Spike turned and stalked up to artificial herd, grinding the shard of mirror to dust on the inside of his cheek; It was flavorless like water.

The outliers were moved aside to uncover a specific model hidden amongst them. Draped over the casting was an unfinished gown.
The material was pallid, glossy, layered with frills that reminded Spike of something, but the memory evaded retrieval. There was little to no dust on the work, and it was most likely placed behind the others for a purpose.

There was this, the letter and...

“These emeralds didn't gather themselves either.” Spike hissed under his breath while patting his satchel. "Rarity, what are you thinking?"
Maybe he knew exactly what it was, but refused to grapple with it.

Spike didn't come to a term because his reverie was disrupted by blinding rays of light shooting through the window before him. Spike saw Sweetie Belle pulling the curtain string with her teeth as he averted his eyes.

“Look,” She demanded “Look!”

An additional blinking membrane swept his eyes as they adapted to the glare. Once his vision cleared of spots, he went slack jawed at what was seen.

Far in the distance, Canterlot: The city, the castle, the entire mountain was veiled in abysmal gray light and slowly being dragged into the sky. Silver tendrils reaching down from the light whipped and dug at the mountain’s base with such scathing force that the land form was severed clean from the terrain. Hovering beyond the mountain’s summit, just over the head of the palace, was a black orb. Though massive, it was a marble compared to the structures about it, and from Spikes vantage point it appeared as a familiar black pin point against a white canvas.

A more awe inspiring phenomenon than the flying mountain was the cyclone diving in to swallow it. This tunnel of wind great enough to engulf a mountain budded tornadoes from its mouth and spread them over Ponyville and the surrounding lands. None reached the ground. They simply spun off from the mother spiral like roots from a tree of storms.

The body of storms rose so high Spike opened the window and poked his head through to follow it up, only for Sweetie Belle to snag him by the tail, pulling his head back in.

"I know you've been asleep, but you really need to wake up now. It's a disaster out there! Nobody needs you drifting around like in some dream."

Spike didn't have a response for irony. He was listening.
Alongside the rain, wind and flowing water, the storm against the distant mountain moaned with a deep bass. From under the guts of these songs of power, a roar and a beat soared up out of a street or back alley of town.
The beat was faint and on a short rhythm. It was there nonetheless.
The roar, on the other hand, was an unmistakable. A dragon's roar, again.

The crawling sensation struck. Pores gaped profusely from all over Spikes body, but were mostly hidden by the coat. A wicked and visceral scent wafted through the air. He recoiled from its pungency, his claws splintering the windowsill. With all the restraint he could muster, Spike grabbed the young mare by the collar of her cloak.

"How many dead have you found?"

"...I didn't see anything like that. I've been dressing wounds!"

"So none?"

"Well, yeah. There's been word of a few."

"Did they die violently?"

"I don't know. I only heard that there were flood victims and some others who were crushed; I think the- uhh... crushing had something to do with crumbling buildings, because there's also been word of earthquakes in parts of town."

Sweetie Belle's lower lip trembled. She didn't shed a tear, but was visibly shaken by having to recall all of that.
Spike released her. He was confused. So many questions came to him. How was this real? How had his nightmare come to be? What was this fear creeping in?

Another roar flew up from the town. It was closer this time. The mare didn't seem to hear it.

"I hear you." Spike snarled in reply to the guttural squall.

"Spike. We're going to be okay." the unicorn had composed herself. In her eyes was confidence enough to show concern for him with his incessant questions.

"We'll be perfectly fine." Spike said, patting her on the shoulder. "Let's get out of here."

Spike rapidly strode out. Feeling reassured, Sweetie Belle followed.

The dragon was truly awake now, and prepared to hunt for the truth if not an enemy.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Sweetie Belle had taken a bridge from the old town square to the boutique. In a turn of misfortune that same bridge had sunk into the silted black swell of the river, so a detour had to be taken.

Streets were awash with overflows of water; it gurgled out of the drains and spilled from the rooftops. The channels of cloud undulating overhead constantly shifted the weather from sun to rain and back again. Their sheer size blotted out daylight for minutes at a time as they passed overhead.

The rain was also isolated; it moved along with the clouds, leaving areas relatively dry while others sat under regular downpour. Some places it rained in spots, others it rained in stretches. It all was disorienting for the dragon and mare tearing through this labyrinth of home, business, and ruin.

Spike’s claws and talons held traction against the water slick cobble while Sweetie Belle’s burdened hooves strained to keep pace; She skid about sharp turns and landed poorly after jumping roadblocks. This long route skirted wreckage of the northeastern residential section, carried across town by fluid mass wasting.

Loping toward the market place, Spike felt that he was closing in. The roar was gone, but throbbing in his head and chest was the beat again. It was a heart's beat. Not his own, but one that was small and rapid, in peril. The visceral desire to find that heart, to preserve it, was stronger than the command from his flesh to pursue the roar.

Passing behind the Sugar cube corner, Spike found that the bakery's overlarge smoke stack as well as a neighboring shop had toppled, piling into the street and blocking his way.

Skidding to a halt, he sized it up to see if he could jump it. Sweetie Belle caught up but was unable to change course now that Spike had stopped. She slid into him and bounced off like a pebble would a boulder. A few spools dropped out her saddle bag and had to be regathered.

"Town hall is this way! We’re not stopping now!" She railed.

"I think there were some … cries coming from over here."

"I don’t hear anything! Everyone evacuated. You're acting weird again!"

Sweetie Belle tried to the hop up the ragged slope for a better view but the rubble gave under poor maneuvering and the added weight of fabrics bundled over her back.

“I’m only checking it out. It's probably deserted like you said, so there won’t be anything to miss. Go! I’ll cut through to the safe area from here."
She looked up with suspicion,but ,surprisingly, made no further protest. She continued on the longer route.
Spike turned to the sooty brick and plaster pile, bent until his legs were loaded and sprung over the pile. It was cleared by a fair half meter.

On the other side, there was heavy fog and the thoroughfare was flooded; Water sloshed around the ankles and talons with each step while mist girded the knees and waist. The glowing heads of street lamps floated in the haze on either side, static and wavering.

Gimel-grof a low voice rumbled

Movement ceased. Spike shot his eyes upward and realized he disapproved of how much Ponyville had become like a city over the years. Each building was two to four stories; every other was crumpled or cut down in some way. A large twister overcast the area like night. Between that and the tops of lowered buildings was a sliver of the clear midday.

My name went the voice again

It neither carried through air nor brought an echo. It was in the mind. The young dragon was used to voices by now; though, the sound of the heart still disturbed him.

The cacophonous pulse had focused into a needle point deep in his chest. It ran through him and tugged at his body; it moved him. Step over step he was pulled to the market square where he found the source of distress.

In the middle of the square was a vanilla pelted colt, no more than five or six. His wet mane stuck to the sides of his head; his eyes were open wide and staring straight at nothing. The pulse faded.
Spike approached the the little creature peeking out of the fog. It pulled away, it's face retreating like a ghost into the dark. Wary of traps, he held himself from bolting after it and followed at an even pace.

Spike had never known a dragon to use magic like that.

“ You’re not a dragon!” Spike shouted his suspicions out to the dark.

Once was. am dragon no more. am ....Other now

The pony child stopped before an isolated shower. The wall of rain splashed against the flood waters as it slowly marched forward and filled the calm air.

"Other?" Spike asked.

...this one... entered in. Was remade into Gimel-grof...by the Divide.

"That Serpent."

Not Serpent. More than! Devourer of Time, Conqueror of Death. Liberator and Master!

Spiked moved further into the layers of rain and fog after the colt. The frightened eyes rapidly looked about as they were covered in an entanglement of silver strands like those seen on the mountain; he was foisted into the air next to a hulking shadow that filled the passage. It was shaped nothing like a dragon.

The shadow rose and came forward into the lamplight, sprouting two bulky arms that extended at will. Sludge slick sinew rippled across a heavily armored body that was mostly torso. Its lower half was a segment-legged tripod.
The two halves joined at a gory hinge, allowing them to turn independently of each other. In demonstration, the three legs constantly stepped in a counterclockwise manner and never the other direction. They turned continuously on the hinge and the body only shifted to the left or right for balance.
It emitted thought-speak in an earthy slip that grumbled across the mind like boiling mud.
That was Gimel-grof

Am spawn of Nhasarlev. One you call serpent.

"I know what you are. Your kind have been after me for a while, chasing me in dreams. You seem to have a lot to say. Tell me why you nasties are after me."

Nhasarlev wills it. Spawn are to seek Nomad across all realms, all planes, all spaces. Till Nomad remade or unmade. Nothing more. Nothing less. Us spawn. Are only appendages to that end.

Spike understood that the word Nomad referred to himself, but the reason for the distinction went unseen.

Come. conversion or destruction. Choose.

"Why not escape?"

You will not save this?

Gimel-grof raised its terrible hands and used the stumpy fingers to puppeteer the web ensnaring the small colt. The threads tightened, forcing out a faint whimper from the struggling body and globular tears from the bright brown eyes.
The youth's pain was shared with Spike through an inexplicable link. This caused a sharp intake of air within the ducts and pores of his body, forcing a long tongue of flame to fly from his mouth.

There are no lies. Am done with this and with you. An end shall be put to both.

The spawn's dead eyes shone red with more intellect than its broken speak let on.

Spike unfastened his trench coat and threw it down into the water before him. He removed the satchel from his shoulder and looped the onto his left leg, tightening it. He then went down to all fours, hands in the flood, the right gripping the water logged coat.

Looking back into the calculating eyes of the demon and then the hopeful eyes of the colt, He steeled himself for the charge.
Spike would need a large amount of force to overcome the drag of water. Then the idea snapped on. If he could breathe air through any point in his body then-
The threads were released, the child fell like a rock. The dragon rocketed forward , bursts of fire seething from his heels. It wasn't flight as much as a boost to his lunge. It carried him to his target, but the enemy had anticipated this.

Gimel-grof swung both of his fists down clasped into a grizzly piledriver.

In that instant, Spike came close to saving the innocent. He came even closer to being crushed, but countermeasures had been taken.
Moving in a trajectory slightly off to the side of the falling colt, he utilized his soaked coat to lasso the child out of the air and into a cradle hold. With the advantage of position he attempted a defensive roll.
He succeeded in ducking the incoming strike, but had not predicted the magnitude of his foe's power.

The demon's giant fists struck down with horrendous force. The resultant shock wave sent Spike and his charge flying between the segmented legs and bouncing down the street into the open and empty market boulevard. It would definitely have been a killing blow.

From the point of impact, down both ends of the alley and beyond, grand fractures were creeping along the ground.
The fog was temporarily forced away but it slowly seeped back. The water followed, returning to flood the street again as a small filthy tide. It pooled in the dent Spike's body left in the brickwork.

Inspection showed that the colt was unharmed, but non-responsive, staring wildly into nothing while being cradled. He was in shock. Snuggled up into the coat he was placed behind the the midway line of the main street.

Gimel-grof barreled down the chasm ridden street on its stony knuckles but came to an abrupt stop. The dragon had stood to face him.

The circumstance of protecting the defenseless made it impossible for Spike to think up an effective way to retreat from such a quick adversary.

Then again, he was wholly unwilling to let something so wicked and willfully evil to remain.
Air rushed into his body from all around and was compressed and violently jettisoned from his extremities as Jade fire.
Pyro-vascular.

(illustration by Frees- fimfiction)