Do Not Go Gentle

by ShinigamiDad

Scene of the Crime

Luna appeared with a “pop” in Dew Drop’s kitchen, finding Reaper already standing by the table. His horn glowed a deep, almost invisible violet, and the long, curved sword hanging off his right side slid free from its scabbard.

Luna furrowed her brow. “Is that really necessary? Surely neither of us is in any danger!”

“I don’t exactly know what we’re dealing with, here, Princess, and I like to have all the tools at my disposal. A pony who can move through dreams, and take another pony’s life without our being aware is clearly sporting some serious power!”

They moved toward the bedroom. Luna wrinkled her nose at the stale, sour smell.

“Yeah,” remarked Reaper, “she didn’t go peacefully, that’s for sure.” He sheathed his sword.

They stepped into the room and looked down at Dew Drop’s rigid form, eyes frozen open and clouded over. Luna shuddered and closed her eyes.

“I cannot sense any trace of a dream at the end--just deep darkness, the kind I only recall…” She tapered off and bit her lip. Reaper watched her closely.

Luna gave a short shudder, then continued: “You have been with me on the rare occasions that a pony dies in their sleep; I bear the memories of those dreams most keenly.”

“Unfortunately, that jibes with my sense of it, too. She died--or rather, was killed--beyond my ken. Pony murders are rare, but even then I’m aware of them at the last moment. That’s why I believe the killer came to her in her dreams: I avoid entering the dreamscape at almost all costs, so a crafty murderer could strike quickly from there in the hope of avoiding my detection.”

Luna’s horn glowed, and the towel Dew Drop had tossed earlier onto her dresser rose and moved through the air, settling on the floor behind the dead mare’s body, absorbing the pool of liquid spread beneath her flank.

“How, then, did you detect this one?” she queried.

“I was north of here, taking an old stallion to his final rest when I caught the jarring, unmistakable scent of strawberries.”

“Strawberries?”

“Yeah, and believe me, it wasn’t a local source--he had left boiling cabbage on the stove!” Reaper paused, and nodded at the body.

“Anyway...it must have been her final thought, escaping as she was blotted out. I caught its echo, and tracked it here. Took several hours.”

His horn glowed again, and the body rose stiffly from the floor, allowing Luna to wipe beneath it. He held it aloft as Luna pulled the green comforter from the bed, and shrouded Dew Drop in it. Reaper laid the body gently on the bed.

“Blotted out?” Luna said in alarm. “Is there nothing you can do for her?”

“Besides give her a decent burial? No. Her essence is gone--destroyed or absorbed or something beyond my ability to perceive."

Luna’s head dropped, and tears welled up in her eyes. “How horrible! Her dreams were once full of life and growth and beauty! Who could do such an appalling thing?”

“That’s a very good question, one I’ve been asking myself for the last hour, or so. And it’s spawned a few unpleasant companions.”

“What do you mean?”

Reaper walked back to the kitchen and set down at the table. “I’ve been mulling over some unusual occurrences that took place during your, um, absence.”

Luna walked slowly to the sink, gazing out the window.

“What was ‘unusual’ about them?”

“I can’t really engage with dreams, not like you, but I can catch echoes of memories, akin to dreams, as a pony dies.”

Luna nodded.

“And there have been a few times where I encountered memories of other ponies, clearly from the distant past--loved ones, close friends, that sort of thing.”

Reaper shifted uncomfortably and picked up the mail, glancing at it distractedly.

“And…?” Luna prompted.

“From time to time I would notice that I didn’t know who some of these remembered ponies were. Now I’m not omniscient, but as you pointed out, once a pony hits the end of their life, I’m there to chaperon them onward. As a result, if a pony dies of old age, I certainly would have been present for the last moments of any pony from their distant past--say a grandparent, or something.”

Luna nodded again: “That stands to reason.”

Reaper dropped the mail and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, it does. So what became of these phantom-memory ponies? Were they--as I long assumed--just false memories, created from some end-of-life dementia? Many of these old ponies’ minds aren’t really all there at the end.”

Now Luna shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably: “I know; I see their dreams.”

“Yeah, so you understand the problem. Maybe when--let’s call him ‘Bucky’--is in the final stages of shuffling off his mortal coil, he recalls a long-lost friend named ‘Old Paint.’ But I never knew “Old Paint” back when she would have died some thirty-odd years earlier. So I chalk it up to fragmented memories mixed with imagination mixed with dementia. But what if ‘Old Paint’ had been real?”

Reaper looked up sharply from the table and fixed his gaze on Luna.

“But you--you see dreams constructed of real memories. You wouldn’t be confused by fantasy or imaginary friends: you could call up true dreams made of true recollections.”

“That is so. It is very difficult to deceive me, either with intent or unconsciously.”

“Right. But you were gone for a thousand years, and I was never able to check my hunches against sound dreams and memories. I think this has been going on for centuries!”

Luna’s nostrils flared as she drew in a sharp breath.

“But surely somepony would have noticed this at some point! Look at poor Dew Drop: her death would have been soon noted even without our intervention.” She waved a hoof at the scattered mail.

“Sure--but she was in the prime of her life. I’m talking about old ponies at the ends of theirs. Their deaths aren’t suspicious--they’re supposed to die! But what if, at the end, this pony, creature, monster, what-have-you, swoops in and snuffs them out, just like Dew Drop? There’s a strong likelihood I won’t know that it happens, and on the rare chance I come across a memory of them, years later, in another old pony, what am I to make of it?”

“Why? Why would somepony do this?”

Reaper pushed back from the table and stood up: “Oh, that’s just one of several questions that now present themselves! Let’s give poor Dew Drop a proper burial and head back to Canterlot before we dig any further into this.”

“Should we not tell somepony?”

Reaper sighed: “Yeah, you’ll need to let the village Constable know before we leave.”

“Me?” said Luna quizzically.

Reaper nodded ruefully: “Remember: I tend to freak-out the living…”

Comments

[Kadigan]

The only real issue I have with this, so far, is the amount of emotion Reaper shows. In my imagination, he's creepy, or perhaps eery and uncomfortable may be better words - he speaks well, but takes pauses at the wrong moments, or draws words where you wouldn't expect them... You know, a general "something's wrong with this guy, but I can't quite put my hoof on it" vibe.

Other than that, let's keep going and see.