Space to Breathe

by Casketbase77

Time to Think

The consciousness wasn’t fond of moments like these. Moments when its stupor was interrupted by a resurfacing sense of self.

The consciousness didn’t know what brought on these short but unpleasant cycles of lucidity, but to be fair it didn’t know many things anymore. Perhaps it had not known many things in the first place? The consciousness had been deaf, blind, and numb for so long, it didn’t even remember what it was like to forget.

Still, one thing the consciousness was sure it had known at some point was its own name. The rest of its knowledge was worn away at this point, like recordings that had been played so many times they could no longer produce anything but a uniform static hiss.

But its name… its name…

The consciousness was certain that one in particular hadn’t been completely eroded yet. Locating it in this endless, directionless dark could be tricky. Maybe the consciousness should start wide and then narrow its search? Feel its way along the shadows of shadows until it found something that had yet to be swallowed up by the nothingness?

Yes. That was a good idea.

If it still knew how, the consciousness would have felt proud of its problem-solving skills. Whoever the consciousness used to be must have been one very clever pony.

Pony?

There was something worth latching onto. A concrete piece of flotsam adrift in an otherwise empty void. Pony… pony… The consciousness turned the word over, cradling it in the ghostly reconstructions of its forelimbs. This was progress. This was good. Pony was wide. Name was narrow. Wide was a step on the road to narrow.

Type of pony?

The consciousness strained to recall. Wings? That word felt right. Winged pony. The consciousness would operate under the assumption for now that it used to be one of those. What about a horn? The consciousness was less certain about that one. Like the answer depended on something the consciousness wasn’t in charge of.

In charge.

The consciousness was getting closer to its name, it could feel it. In charge… in charge… The consciousness used to be in charge of something. Happily in charge of something. Something that was cozy. Something that glowed...

The moon.

Luna.

The consciousness’s name was Luna.

And she was dead.

Fully realized now, the consciousness that used to be the winged and horned pony who'd been named Luna but was now dead curled up pathetically and mournfully inside the construct of herself in the dark.

Luna was dead and had been so for a long time. Accepting that took nearly all of the courage Luna still had, and recalling the ignoble process of how she’d died nearly crushed her.

Age.

That was what had done it. She stopped being in charge of the moon, which meant the nefarious thing called “age” was free to take her.

And take her it had, but not all of her.

Luna had been asleep when it happened. Asleep and away, exploring the dreams of another creature. But when she tried to return home to herself afterwards, the lights were off and the doors were locked.

She wasn’t Luna, the consciousness realized bitterly. She was- it was - an amputated piece of Luna. A spiritual limb that had been outstretched when the door to her crypt slammed shut. And it had been detached and drifting in the space between space ever since.

How long?

The consciousness had no idea. Time meant nothing to the senseless. Distance neither. For all the consciousness knew, it had not actually been drifting at all, and instead been languishing all this time right next to the rest of Luna. Or next to the dust that had once been her bones. These thoughts frightened the consciousness, but what frightened it more was the fear this moment of lucidity would end soon, just like the countless others had before. Earlier it had been cursing returning to self-awareness. Now it was cursing the inevitable departure from it.

No.

Not inevitable.

The consciousness refused to allow these cycles to continue.

The consciousness drew itself up, though only in a metaphorical sense, because she had no physical form. The consciousness then righted itself, though again only in its own mind because there was no up or down in the void.

If the consciousness had a nose to wipe, it would have done so. If it had eyes to blink away tears, it would have done that too. But it had neither. All it had was Luna’s leftover willpower, so it used that to make a solemn promise to Luna’s shadow of a self. The consciousness made a decision:

It would not languish in this spot any longer. There were no senses left to find its way through the abyss, but the consciousness didn’t care. Blindly fumbling through the æther was better than staying here. Anything was better than staying here.

Its phantom mind made up, the consciousness set off. At least, it hoped that what it was doing counted as “setting off.” With no references nearby, the consciousness couldn’t be sure whether it was actually moving or not. This void stretched on in all directions, possibly to infinity. Could there really be something out there that the consciousness, in its incomplete state, was able to detect, let alone and interact with?

The answer turned out to be yes.

After an unmeasured but definitely brief amount of wandering, the consciousness did encounter something. Or as close to an encounter as an aspect of an aspect of a dead pony could achieve. The consciousness must have indeed been moving, because it abruptly encountered another, more solid mass in the void.

This mass was moving too, though not through sheer defiance of fate like the consciousness was. The mass was bobbing naturally and gracefully because it was most definitely a pony who was still alive.

Although the consciousness was not the part of Luna that had access to her five senses, it had a sixth, nameless sense that it vaguely recalled could aid in determining whether a target was “open for dream visitation.” The consciousness remembered now that this was the exact sense that informed it that found Luna’s old head was no longer habitable so long ago.

This new mass, this “head,” as the consciousness tentatively decided to label it, was not “open for dream visitation” either. Not because it was dead though, but because it was awake. The consciousness allowed the head to pass by unmolested, yet in doing so the consciousness felt no discouragement. It had a clear goal now: find a “head” that was “open for dream visitation” on the grounds of not being “awake.” Many of these words carried only vague, residual meanings for the consciousness, but it strongly felt these instincts would lead it out of the dark. And having experienced and committed to memory what the sensation of a nearby “head” was like, the consciousness was now aware of countless others nearby. If even a single one of them was “not awake,” then salvation would be had. Off the consciousness went, a comet soaring past so many uninhabitable stars as it searched for a safe planet hidden between the lights and the endless, inky backdrop.

Several failed encounters later, the consciousness was beginning to worry. How could so many “heads” be “awake” all at the same time? What circumstances could cause this? The consciousness was not the part of Luna that knew the answer, but it was definitely the part of Luna that was capable of feeling the onset of panic.

Useless “awake heads” were everywhere the consciousness turned, obscuring its path and crowding its sixth and only sense with unhelpful pulses of rejection. Frustrated and angry, the consciousness fled from the clusters of exclusion as it searched desperately for a head - any head at all - that was quiet and unstimulated enough to accept it.

To the consciousness’s unfathomable, incomprehensible luck, it eventually found not one, not two, but three available heads all in unmoving proximity of one other.

Rather than pick one and immediately dive right in, the consciousness instead orbited the trio. Partially to bask in appreciation of this wonderful find, but also to evaluate these choices. This was the first instance since Luna’s death that the consciousness had any choice in what happened to itself, so it was determined to make it count. Resolute, the consciousness approached the first head.

The sixth sense registered a jagged, chitinous mind, full of hatred, but impotent in its current state. From within the head came bizarre, fluctuating signals intended for long petrified receptors, issuing commands that some sort of “change” occur, though none seemed possible at this time.

This head intimidated the consciousness, so it moved on to examine the others.

The second head the consciousness screened with its trusty sense had a malicious gravity to it. A brutish, domineering pull that threatened to force the consciousness in and (for lack of a better word) metabolize it. This head wanted to convert all that the consciousness was into fuel for the being to which it belonged. The consciousness drew back, worried about its own safety.

In doing so, the consciousness bumped into the last head. It hastily retreated again, fearful this head might have the same authoritative tug as the previous one. The head didn’t, but what it did have fascinated the consciousness.

This head was… smaller than the others. And very conflicted. Alternating loud and quiet thoughts braided and unbraided before the consciousness could pin down the flavor of either. Youthful and idealistic pulses filtered into hardened, task-oriented mental constructs. And at the core of the head, beneath the ever shifting liquid of the outer layers, the consciousness detected an air bubble. An antechamber. A place this head’s own consciousness had hollowed out and claimed through painstaking effort. And emanating from that pocket of negative space, the consciousness detected… loneliness.

Compelled by compassion, the consciousness steeled its nerves before diving in.

Author's Note:

Tomorrow: A conversation with Cozy Glow.

Comments

[Venerable Ro]

The perils of dreamwalking I suppose. An unfortunate situation to be sure.

[asdtroi8895]

Luna dying while dreaming and remaining in the dream realm as a result is an interesting concept. I like it so far.

This head was… smaller than the others. And very conflicted. Alternating loud and quiet thoughts braided and unbraided before the consciousness could pin down the flavor of either. Youthful and idealistic pulses filtered into hardened, task-oriented mental constructs. And at the core of the head, beneath the ever shifting liquid of the outer layers, the consciousness detected an air bubble. An antechamber. A place this head’s own consciousness had hollowed out and claimed through painstaking effort. And emanating from that pocket of negative space, the consciousness detected… loneliness.

No matter how many times the petrification comes up it always makes me sad and angry that it happened.

Compelled by compassion, the consciousness steeled it’s nerves before diving in.

Seemes that she's more compassionate while dead then when she was alive.

[Casketbase77]

10411279

Seems that she's more compassionate while dead then when she was alive.

Predictably, this is one of the main things Cozy will call Luna out on.

[RainbowDoubleDash]

Come on Luna, or what’s left of Luna. You can do this.

[Pete100]

I’m a little confused. Also, I’m glad this came out on my birthday.

[B_Munro]

Is this a piece of Luna, or a piece of Nightmare Moon?

[publiq]

This is some good void-walking.
10412733
How much of NMM was left after the rainbow lasers in S01E02?