Book 1 - The Behemoth came to Canterlot

by Equimorto

Endure

She had never been drunk. She had never been one to drink. Partly because she couldn't afford it, partly because she couldn't afford the potential consequences if she ended up going too far. Mostly just because she had no interest in losing control of herself like that. A little because she was afraid of what might come out if she ran her tongue while not in her right mind, to some strangers no less. But she had seen drunk ponies, and she had read descriptions of what the experience was like. Flowery descriptions perhaps, that was the kind of prose she usually read when she had the time, but she still believed they illustrated the experience accurately.

What she was experiencing was a lot like being drunk. A lot like her idea of what being drunk was like, at least. It was the closest comparison she could think of. The lack of control, the distant sense of awareness, the way her feelings seemed to flow out of her and take charge without a filter. It was like watching another part of her piloting her life around, from afar, everything muffled and distant and weird and confusing and unstable.

It hadn't been like that the previous time. That made sense. The previous time she had wanted to do everything she had been doing, or at least she'd been believing that to be the case. She was letting her feelings run free that time as well, but she had wanted to, she had embraced it. She had failed to even realise it was overtaking her, so immersed in her own unbridled ego, so aligned with her selfishness and indulgence. She had been drunk then too, but too much so to even realise it, too inebriated to understand she wasn't in control.

It was different from that. She was actively fighting back, trying to. She had other wants, other needs, other far more complicated thoughts swirling around her head. Between her confusion and her altered state, she lacked direction. That was not good, not ideal, but it was better than a clear focus on something wrong. It was a starting point. Something she could work from. All she had to do was actually regain control of herself, rein in her emotions and gain clarity over her state.

That was easy to say. In practice it was so far beyond her possibilities at the start that she hadn't even known what to do and how. She had been lost, afraid, growing worse and spiralling. The first time had been the worst. She'd almost failed there and then, she still wasn't sure how she'd been able to pull herself out of it. She'd been scared to go back after it. She had avoided it for a while, avoided everything, thought about calling the whole thing off.

But she hadn't. She wanted to say it was because of her promise. The truth was different. The truth was she still enjoyed the way it made her feel.