Tales of the Veiled Ones, by Beloved Craft

by I Thought I Was Toast

What Madness Sleeps in Sanity

Color me surprised. It is quite unusual for somepony with the wrinkles of a manatee to enter this humble institution without babbling like a baby. I do so love the smell of mothballs when the source actually realizes its age.

I see you wrote that insult word for word in your report – which is most unprofessional.

Perhaps you babble like a baby on the inside.

No. I am not insinuating anything. I’m not sure I could have been more direct unless I literally called you old. You were, however, only meant to interpret that as an insult to your age and not your weight. Most cows are of perfectly average weight for their species. It is the average after all.

We are also talking about manatees – or sea cows – meaning you should probably seek new employ before being fired for tribalism. The diarchy tends to frown on it.

Or you could take the risk of taking it to your grave. You are almost there after all.

I question why you continue to copy my statements word for word, but I suppose you must have a certain dedication to being stubbornly obtuse. It’s something all bureaucrats have, although you express it in a most unusual way. It’s like you are punishing yourself with monotony rather than punishing me.

I suppose it falls on me then to cut down on my usual wit. I wonder if you planned for that. It would be a cunning trick.

You are here, after all, for the story of the poor late doctor.

It is not often that the patient treats the doctor, but my warden was as much my ward as I was his. For ponies in these times hold a grand delusion of their stature. They believe in life and love and happiness, yet think sanity is the answer.

The truth is I am labeled mad, but am happier than the lot.

Life is a fragile crumbling thing. We age to dust under an alicorns wing.

Love is a petty selfish dream at best. For in finding a partner who makes us happy we deny others that dream. It is naught but a fleeting and fickle illusion – a lie.

At most, it lasts as long as life until you’re wrenched away for all eternity.

Happiness is a hilarious concept. And I find true joy in the stupidity of the common pony who thinks they understand it. For the world is a strange and maddening place, yet they all try to deny it.

The signs are there, but no one sees. They’d rather look away. This is why they panic and flee when the madness comes to knock – be it on door, through village, or on mind.

My doctor was a special case – in dire need of treatment. Most ponies share the grand illusion, yet few believe it in their heart of hearts. Almost everypony in this world is delightfully insane until the twilight comes to claim them. They deny it, of course, like the world around them. And they fail to see the good mad and the bad. But batty they are none-the-less.

No offense to my thestral cousins. I find the term charmingly simple, and it makes an excellent distinction for those claimed by the more mild of the madnesses.

Thus most of the world is batty. There are a few lunatics in-between. The mad ponies come out in the dead of night. And there they study the occult and taboo until they rise to the rank of insanity. There the hierarchy ends – or rather it shifts through various hues of reality. Each pony who survives the trials to go beyond that title of great rarity usually sees the utter pointlessness of having a majority. We all have different systems, ranks, and ways of classification.

I personally find myself to be of the Ehh class. My nemeses are those of Meh – though only half return the hate. I’m also neutral towards the Strudels, but they are far too cheery for me, and they leave me feeling half-baked.

Forgive me though. I’m rambling for you’re here about the doctor. I was the only one with him in his office when he snapped, you know. The hospital blames it on me, but they are denying the clear cut truth.

It is the truth I always warned them of whenever I dared to try.

The doctor is one of the poor few ponies in this world whom I’ve found is special enough to be sane.

He was an earth pony as you know. It’s a miracle to find one in the medical field ‒ especially that of the mind. That may be changing soon, however. I hear his progress inspires the youth. There are at least three colleges already in his name at the paltry age of forty-nine, and he has many a paper to his name.

I wonder if you see the problem yet. You probably think he was over-stressed, but it was not such a pitiful problem.

Doctor Studious Mind had a wonderful laugh. He was actually happy compared to the batty beasts of his fellow ponies – shambling about as you do. I could relate to him like no other pony I’ve found. For you see, those of the Ehh are solitary folk: We are content, but awkward around each other.

We are unlike those cursed Meh who wish nothing but to share their pain.

The good doctor was truly sane, however. He was neither of the Meh or Ehh. Nor was he like you and the other bats. Thus I could relate to his contentedness – though his was charmingly simple where mine is twistedly complex.

Our sessions were casual, and I like to feel we were friends. He would give me dull little stories of his loving wife and children – pure fairy tale he actually believed. In return, I would bedazzle him with stories of the wonders of reality – censored for his sake.

It was nice. I should never have thought it so, but it was really and truly nice. And I would never have tried to interfere in the order of things – unless I had dire need to.

For the truly sane of this world hold a special purpose.

As mad as the world may truly be we are shielded from the worst. You batty commoners – be it mud pony, feather brain, stick head, or more – wrap yourselves in that grand delusion of sanity to shield yourselves. You hide from the little bits of madness leaking through onto this miserable hunk of rock.

Every hour of twilight the world sees brings us closer to the end. The realm beyond sneaks past our beloved sun as it makes way for the moon and fellow stars. It is such an arrogant guardian ‒ the sun I mean, not the moon – to think it can guard us all on its lonesome. The power it holds is enough to be sure, but its fatigue makes it much less watchful as day slips into night. The moon at least has the stars.

Alas, I wander in my musings once again. Though my mind is happy to wander; Let me return to the point.

The sane of this world are the pillars. They are the lynchpin of our reality. Normalcy exists because of them – in their blissfully innocent stupidity. If I had dared to bring my madness to the doctor before, the world would be one step closer to crumbling.

And that is something both of us do not want: I think we can agree, although I find your humoring nods annoying. At least be truthful if you don’t believe, for my tale is for those who will see it and believe – not for you and your red tape.

Again I wander, however. That’s been happening more and more since the doctor went. I think I may truly lose myself soon. I didn’t realize how much he meant.

The doctor was sane, and I left it so – although as I said I indulged. There came a day, however when I had to break that role. The doctor gave me a tale that shook my very soul.

It was no different from the last, and yet I saw the signs. The Veiled Ones – cunning and sly ‒ had filled his life in with a lie. The wife was gone. I knew not where or how or if she was alive. Their methods tend to vary, so I bothered not to dwell on it. It is completely pointless to try.

The point is that the Other side now had a foothold in the doctor’s life.

I gave out warnings, but he didn’t listen. The half-lies I told to censor the truth worked against me then it seemed. I lament that if I hadn't indulged before he would have heeded me.

For voices in the head and simple homicidal urges are all more accepted forms of insanity compared to the horrible truth.

But my warnings went unheeded until he shambled into to work one day – a drained and horrible mess. Once more I gave my warning, and it seemed fortune smiled for once for he finally believed me.

I thought it a great blessing – until the letter opener opened much much more than letters.

The interference of us both ‒ the Veiled One to kill and myself to save – had eroded the pillar to dust. Thus when he finally heeded me, he was naught but a simple bat that could not stand the awful glaring of twilight.

And it pushed him over the edge.

I admit, I find it confusing that the Veiled Ones would take that risk. As powerful as they are in this world, they are a smaller threat at best. They would be smashed by the tide of uncaring evil to come if the world were to break. And they are lucky enough to be unbeholden to the truly ancient beasts that cannot find – and thus tear at ‒ the Azure Veil of this world.

That is their reason for being here after all.

They are but pitiful maggots to be seasoning for the bigger beasts that roam the Twilight Void. Here they can thrive and gestate in this world’s stew of sanity. They take the place of something normal in a place they don’t belong. Fully glutted from their victim’s love – and other fickle illusory feelings ‒ they go through wretched metamorphosis into some sham of a greater madness. They are lies from their very birth, and until they reach the very end. And in that awful metamorphosis ‒ amidst a cocoon of space and time and the very Veil itself – they ascend to join the madness beyond our world.

But they are still a mere mirage of whatever form they take. Our world – and similar pockets of sanity where madness slumbers with peaceful dreams – protects them and their young. It is anathema for them or fellow refugees of the Other, along with those few ponies on my path, to erode the pillars that hide them.

We have little problems with the rest of you urchins, and the servants of the Truly Ancient hold no reservations whatsoever – should they sneak within the Veil. But that is neither here nor there for a bureaucrat who believes me simply batty.

Perhaps the poor gluttonous Veiled One didn’t know its vast mistake. If it didn’t, I wager it will know it soon – in an intimate and painful fashion. A pillar breaking is simply front page news for the mundane world you live in. Pillars tend to be quite famous though. They don’t need to put much effort into maintaining their little shield like you do. Thus they normally have more drive.

But those of us who have lives of the Other persuasion feel the cracking of reality within our very bones. And we know the truth immediately – the second blood is spilt.

For the final fall of a pillar is a horrendously wonderful occasion for those on the Other side. In those few not-seconds that follow in the near collapse of all normality the Twilight Void reaches back to leave its mark.

Always is there too much blood the shade of sunset red.

Regardless, you’ve done an admirable job of humoring me – far too admirable in fact. If I didn’t know far far better, I’d think you’d come to lock me up – not that I’m not already. Before you go though I’d like just one more sniff of the outside world. I really hope you don’t mind.

It’s a lovely perfume you carry on you. There’s just a hint of it from the missus. I can barely find it now in the stink of your sweat and your discomfort. That particular brand of mothballs and old lady is a really welcome event.

Do say hello to the Queen for me.

No, I don’t mean the Princess, foal. I meant the Queen.

That is assuming your ‘wife’ still uses that title.

I see you added the air quotes. That really is a bad sign. I guess you’re too far gone to save. She normally doesn’t use brute force like that. I wonder if she’s slipping or just that desperate for the truth.

You’re still sitting there and writing everything I say I see. I guess you need permission.

You are completely free to leave now. The twilight calls my name, and I’d like to actually grieve for my friend before I join him. As a word of warning, however, I wouldn’t bother to ask why this file disappears from your office on the morrow.

And stop pestering me on how I know your wife’s nickname in bed. Honestly, I know that is probably the last piece of normalcy your pitiful mind is clinging to at the moment, but a batty old stick head like you wouldn’t really care much for the truth.

Oh my, I think I went too far. I figured she picked somepony built of stronger stuff. She knows how I get sometimes.

Perhaps I should call the nurse now.

Yes, calling the nurse seems proper. You’re babbling like a baby.

I really must give you credit though for continuing to write.

Author's Note:

Okay... Reading through this it seems like an info dump... And yet it still seems chilling somehow. Is that possible? I would think an info dump would dull things since not knowing is the key to lovecraftian horror, but I guess if it was a distraction all along...

As usual comments and criticism is appreciated. If you do criticize, however, please try and include at least one positive criticism amid any negative ones. It doesn't need to be an even ratio. I just prefer being criticized by those who can tell me I'm doing something right in addition to whatever I'm doing wrong

Comments

[reprovedhawk]

Wondering when this was going to be tied in.