Book 1 - The Behemoth came to Canterlot

by Equimorto

679738482

It was like stereo. Twilight hadn't had a good clear concept of stereo audio before then, but in seeing her wound and looking for a valid comparison she found she did at that moment perfectly understand the meanings of it. And at that moment she found the bleeding from her wound stereo. Split into two separate channels, two separate iterations rather than a single stream. Blue and green rather than left and right, imposed one on top of the other and only slightly apart rather than split by side, but that mattered little, it was only a visual representation of the situation, a way her brain presented what it couldn't process. She bled in stereo.

It wasn't a serious wound. It was barely a scratch, barely painful, right across her cheek. She had no mirror and no reflective surface, yet she could see it clearly as if outside herself. She could not however see herself herself, most likely because her self was far different there from the self she was used to see as hers. The blood flowed up from the wound, vibrating away into the aether, green and blue and metallic sounding.

What was death like there? She wished to know it. She wished to see it. How many channels would death have? How many faces? How many layers? She wished to hear it. Almost she wished to live it. If she could, if she would, she would go there to die when the day came. An empty coffin was a worth tradeoff for one last experience. Yet she would never know then what death was like back home. She would be special, but would it be worth it? She wouldn't know. She knew many things there, many more than she did elsewhere, yet still death she didn't know. It frightened her more than the thought of it ever had.

Her golden armour lay discarded in her past and there she was pure plasma, formless, seeing vague outlines of a shape in her future. She would forget, she was not meant to know. Her wound vibrated, a stereo cut in the purplish nothing as she watched from outside. Where was up or down? Back home, back with the silly notions of the world she'd been bound to before. What was pain there if not more than a description of itself?

Dry. She could think of many things. Caves of giant crystals in worlds without magic, slowly dying emptied of what had brought them to life and size. Worlds too close to their stars burning lifeless without any abomination needed to destroy them. Too many things. She could think of too many things and could not control her thinking, and facts passed through her. She was a curiosity page in a weekly magazine, and every bit as vapid as its paper.

Purpose. She had a reason to be there, a reason to leave afterwards. Better she not forget it. Movement. Across dimensions, above directions, towards her goal. Higher still, to places meant not for mortals nor creatures of her kind, her world, her being state.

Comments

[Speckle]

...buh?