The Stereotypical Necromancer

by JinxTJL

Chapter 45 - The Theory

Light Flow wasn't freaking out.

Light Flow would never freak out over something like this.

Light Flow had grown beyond petty little freakouts like he maybe- might've- could've been having anytime before tonight.

Light Flow was, for all appropriate intents and otherwise, completely fine, and of the highest constitution possible for a pony of his size, stature, and composite background. He was, if nothing else, a bastion.

An emotional bastion.

Nightmare Moon's cold, covered hooves pressed in like a vice on either of his shoulders: squeezing and abating in random intervals to keep a match to the desperate pants that he had to keep deepening because there just wasn't enough air in his body to compensate for the fact that he had two souls in his body. Two souls in his body there were two souls in his body oh sweet stars above somepony help him get it out.

The drowsy whirlpool of panic nearly swept him away for a time he'd long since stopped counting, and it was only the mild-tasting awareness that he was panicking that kept his head above the cold water lapping at his struggling neck. Really, he was doing remarkably fine considering-

-he was freaking out he was freaking out and everything was wrong because nothing was right and every time he tried to find something to focus his eyes onto it would get bigger and bigger and squish and squash because reality was warping from the fact that two souls were sharing the space of his body what if he exploded what if his soul and both souls burnt like a star and he was left cold and alone and soulless like the spinning spinning spinning feeling in his chest that made it so hard so hard to breathe that he had to keep breathing breathe harder breathe harder he needed to breathe he needed to breathe please breathe please don't stop breathing-

There was the panic again: viciously throttling his mind into cruel submission. Shoveling nonsensical gibberish like fetid trash over each niggling little thought that was actually conducive. How helpful! How wonderful! He loved how his special little mind worked! Tonight was a great night to be Light Flow- he was so lucky!

It was too much; all too much all at once with the constantly babbling streams of the same terrible thoughts whispered over and over in his head like there were ten ponies talking over each other struggling to make themselves heard and they were all too dumb to realize they should stop just stop!

He couldn't think. It was too loud. He could barely stand to keep his eyes open anymore. Everything moved when he looked at it and it gave him such awful vertigo and he wanted it to stop to throw up he just wanted to be able to think again!

But he was. He could. He was doing it right now.

Revelation.

He was thinking just fine. He was reasoning- analyzing. There he was: making clever little metaphors for each dizzying height of every mountain made from the same tiny molehill. Look, he'd just done it again!

He wasn't insensate; dead to the world, but he was... insensate. He couldn't really... define the sort of... disconnect he was feeling- or, not feeling, to his body. To his myriad emotions that he knew were all drifting so lamentably down a languid creek to uncertain mindlessness- and now he was making metaphors again. Nothing ever changed.

He was able to form coherent thought. He was able to put aside the momentary mania. He was able to pontificate.

And, perhaps the most telling contrivance: he was able to identify that he was panicking.

And he knew, perhaps inexplicably, that everything was fine.

Huh.

To be frank- as he was quickly finding himself able to do in the dizzy, spinning background- nothing was wrong: or, at least, he couldn't say with clear certainty that anything was truly wrong, per se. He wasn't a psychologist.

Actually, just a few minutes ago, everything had been rather right. The soul may have been in his body, which, again: was of an undetermined wrongness that he was trying not to focus on too hard for his own sake, but the other hoof still held a death grip on the fuzzy fact that he'd finally achieved his dream.

That small island of conceited, emphatic joy still sat in the sea of his body, even amidst the typhoon that he was. A warm, cozy retreat deep within the cold storm. A comfort in dark times, and how dark this time was.

Or maybe it was just that soul he'd assimilated still spreading that wonderfully unnatural warmth. Could be. Didn't change the feeling either way; it was just a detail.

He'd like to hold onto it.

Checking down the list: everything he looked at may have seemed distorted, but it was a deep-rooted fact nested in his sense of logic that reality was just fine. Any sight to the contrary was a diagnosable symptom of his dissociation and massive panic. Easy as that.

He didn't know for certain that anything bad would happen to him with another soul in his body, and maybe that was disconcerting, but it was hardly on the forefront of his mind or the true crux of his panic. He'd get to that- just as soon as he could control himself.

Maybe he was a psychologist. Or could be, at least. Play pretend. A reasonable facsimile- hey, maybe he could trick ponies into thinking he was studied in psychoanalytics and make an illegal practice out of it! Finally make an income by swindling certainly uncertain suckers into false emotional security!

If he'd had any measurable semblance of mindfulness, he would've smiled at the thought.

It was still so funny in that laughably unfunny way how absolutely perfect his clarity was right now. He could see, label and detail every underlying message to his panic, but he couldn't force a single opposing thought or action. Half of his mind trapped like an emotionless prisoner while the other half beat itself red in a brutal fit.

It was an uncomfortably familiar feeling. Not so funny as it was squeamish. He'd shiver if his body wasn't already violently doing so ad nauseum.

In any case: no matter how familiar the tactic or how painful the memory, Nightmare Moon shockingly wasn't doing this to him. She was right there: trying to keep his body breathing steadily. She'd been right there, from the time that he'd stood like a statue with his hooves on his chest as his breathing slowly anted, and he realized what had happened.

She'd come right to his side as he'd failed to reconcile any of the increasingly terrifying thoughts that had piled in; shock carrying him away like a river, making his motor functions lock, and leaving him unsupported and tilting backwards.

She'd caught him by the shoulders, thankfully for his head, and though She'd started by trying to shake him to awareness while demanding that he calm, She'd eventually evolved. Applying pressure to his shoulders in attempted time to his out-of-control breathing, and not doing much otherwise but for staring into his constantly moving eyes from a safe distance.

He was becoming less and less scared of those wide, draconic slits. He didn't know if he liked that.

Why was She so nice to him? No, that wasn't the right question. That had never been the right question, and he'd been blind and half-dumb to continually bemoan it. Stupid foal was right: he'd been acting like a child pointing hooves.

Why hadn't She always been nice to him?

Maybe that was a stupid distinction not worth answering, if it even needed answering outside of what the question itself inherently answered, but maybe it was worth the thought until his body allowed him input. Maybe it deserved to be considered.

For posterity. For... a clear conscience.

Where to start? Was there time to start from the beginning? Perhaps not.

He'd be brief; here, alone in his mind.

He couldn't remember when they'd first met- the otherwise unaccountable time having likely been around a decade ago- but making reason out of his foggy memory lead him to believe it was probably not long after his cutie marking.

Had it been implied, to himself, that his gory hallucination at the time was Her doing? Tentacles dripping from the shadows and tearing his body from itself- had She shown that to him?

Maybe, or maybe it had been his own, hopped-up-on-adrenaline mind. He'd had enough imagination as a foal to believe himself great and powerful, so total insanity wasn't that far off. It probably wasn't all that important in the grand scheme. It certainly didn't change what had followed.

She'd been very cold when they'd first met. Even colder than She was now, if such a thing was posisble. Endlessly brisk, brusque, and often especially brash- oh She was so brash. He'd often thought to call Her an overbearing witch, if such a thing wouldn't have earned him a psychological thrashing.

She would come to his dreams- sometimes smirking and sometimes snarling- and just speak to him. Doing nothing but simply telling him things on no seeming end. It was so extensive; he couldn't even distinguish the things he had learned from his daily life from the things he had learned from Her.

Theories on magic- and now he remembered just how little he knew before- lessons on sophistication- which, as a whole, he was attempting to entirely forget- and more- just so much more.

After so, so long- it all kind of blended together.

So many days after so many forgotten nights of learning. His lexicon had never been the same- and neither had his confidence. Heavens, She was disparaging.

But... in those many forced lessons... was She callous? Was She ever... cruel?

Was there even a worthwhile distinction to be made between the varied shortenings of manner, temper and care, or was it just worthless semantics?

He thought so, and... he didn't think so. The cold of the winter does not, in itself, imply a total lack of warmth. It does not deny the existence of the summer: only asserts that they are, in fact, different.

She'd not been callous. Not cruel. She'd never hit him. She'd not overtly belittled him without cause. Perhaps She'd not been traditionally friendly, but still. She'd never given him any reason in those times to see her presence as an explicit negative, even if he'd never remember Her come day.

She had always been, if not kind or even nice, then at least... decent. Was that enough? Wasn't it?

He had a funny feeling... If the curtain had been pulled aside in its proper time, without the pain and the betrayal, then maybe he could have- would have welcomed Her as a friend. A mentor. A-

...

But it had changed. Two years ago, it had changed. She had changed.

That day... that dumb day that had destroyed his life, and cost somepony else theirs.

It had been small ways at first, like randomly passing out. He'd always been drowsy at his desk, and he'd always adored the dreamy idea of falling asleep on a book, but the frequency then and onward became dramatic. Near every morning woken the same: somewhere starkly away from his bed.

And he'd just brush it off; think it was normal. Just... Light Flow, acting just as crazy as he'd always known himself to be.

It was small things, of course. Until it wasn't.

Oh, that was what he was reading last night? Oh, he'd put that book there?

Oh, I fell asleep? Oh, It's morning? Oh, it's night?

Oh, I went into my cellar last night? Oh, it's this month?

Oh, what's this black stuff on my fur? Why does my mouth taste like tar?

Whose influence was it, that made it all seem so ordinary? Such a gradual escalation of events, that he hadn't realized he was being boiled alive. Annoyances reasoned into habits with the passing of time, and habits forgotten for perceived monotony. The pages of his mind earmarked and ripped off one miniscule corner at a time.

She'd tried so desperately to exert Her failing control... and for what? What had She really accomplished, other than to destroy what little peace of mind he'd ever had?

So much done in shortsighted anger... but was it anger drawn from hatred? And if so: at whom? Did it even matter? Should it, to him?

Was She even angry to begin with? Perhaps then, but what about now?

How did She feel now?

He sighed, and let his hoof come to his head in a long-worn feeling of fatigue: the cool feeling calming a rising, uncomfortable heat in his head. So blissfully cool; that soul-filled warmth may have been starting to wear on him...

He'd lost so much of those years on sleep not his, but that was only one of his torments. The seemingly endless torments afflicted by the cold turned bitterly callous.

What did he even say? What did he think? Without the anger, what did he feel?

It hadn't been deliberate. It hadn't been calculated. Did that make it worse, or better? Was it better- easier to imagine instead that the damage done had been precise- meditated? That the creature who'd done this to him had done it out of pure, knowing malice? A vindictive mind?

Would it be easier to forgive the proud figure of a strong mare who'd seen his transgressions as defiance, and thought to punish him for it? Something so easy to understand, so nearly tangible that- with minimal effort- he could probably fool himself into believing?

Was the reality better, then: than that?

A maniac. A madmare. Lunatic.

...It still wasn't cruel. Harmful, thoughtless and vain without end, but not done from a place of anger. Not towards him, he didn't think. In the way that She spoke to him; acted towards him: it was obvious. She'd never truly meant him any harm. The opposite, especially now, would be evidently graphic.

Her anger was gone, Her mania was restrained, Her guile was... manageable. And now: here She was.

Considerate. Teaching him Necromancy. Giving him a soul as a gift. Helping him through a panic attack.

A friend. A mentor. A...

It should have been easier to forgive Her. So much time spent so far gone from the world, and so quick to anger and actions unconscionable: She clearly wasn't in Her right mind. He knew that. Psychologically, he understood Her. He might've sympathized. Maybe even empathized.

It should've been so easy to forgive Her.

When he noticed, finally, he couldn't say for sure how long it had been.

A touch. Feeling.

Long enough that what would have been the cold first sting of the touch had warmed minimally; though he couldn't say it wasn't the difference of the effervescent warmth that now seemed to generally pervade him.

He did feel oh so cozy as a general affection: maybe that was why he was so willing to think about Her on end? He did fundamentally despise Her in every quantifiable way otherwise.

...Probably.

The world had returned to him somewhere along the way, and Nightmare Moon really enjoyed touching his cheek, didn't She?

He felt almost compelled to jerk away, with the turns his mind had taken. Back alleys and dank, dark roads full of confusion and confrontation, and he'd come out marginally more suspicious than he'd once been. He even wanted to, for a moment. Almost forced himself to.

But what real purpose would it have served, even to him? He'd not reevaluated any of his stances, only taken firmer stock. He wasn't any more disgusted or disgruntled at the contact than he'd once been. If he did... he just didn't think he could put his heart into it.

He shifted, and the metal pressed to his cheek... chafed, just more than it should've. His fur was wet.

Again?

His shoulders sagged, and it was then that he really noticed how heavy he felt. Like his withers had been tied with lead, and his head drawn with weights. He wanted to lie down: maybe even on his bed, for once. He sure did miss it, and indolence in general. With all this possession and memory-loss and ostensible murdering of crows, he'd been far too active for his usual tastes.

If he was still alive after the world ended, he was gonna sleep for a week. Sweet, dreamless sleep.

Moving any more would have expended energy too little and too precious to waste, so his next and only motion was to then look listfully up at Nightmare Moon. He tried not to look pathetic, he really did.

Try not to tighten his eyes. Don't let his lip wobble. Stop his ears from drooping. You're pathetic Light Flow.

He might've failed.

The silent lines of Her long watching eyes caught on attention as the relative focus in his expression conveyed, and they creased for the motion of Her hooding eyes. Slightly more piercing from a stance of vigilant concern, as Her head turned an inch. Sharp fangs glinting pale in the low light as Her mouth quirked in a noiseless exclamation.

"You've returned." The soft tone of Her voice was as smooth as it ever was, but... for whatever reason, he couldn't help but imagine an edge of wear to it. There was no catch, no waver or break; but perhaps, for want of a flaw: just a misting of gravel.

How long how they been speaking, now? Without the fall of the sun, or the rise of the moon: everything seemed... stagnant. Even the cold air pressing in seemed too caught for a breeze. Maybe it was just them: trapped as they were in an endless scenario in a forgotten castle, but the world felt rather like a photo still.

Would he want to remember these moments, when they were over?

He still remembered his mother, and Zecora.

Stop it.

Even with his newfound inner warmth, it was still a chill to feel the air pressing again at his fur as he lifted his head away from the hoof. He shook his head just to feel the motion; letting his eyes track the halting sway of the hovering limb as it stilled for a moment, then fell to Her lap.

What a thing to say... She'd made it sound like he'd actually gone somewhere.

"It's not like I really left, you know," he murmured lowly. He let his eyes rise up, to Her watching, searching face; feeling the melancholic turn of his felt frown rise into a smile: bitter with something he didn't quite feel. "I was only having a panic attack. Hardly a day trip down to Las Pegasus."

His voice didn't sound as bad as he'd imagined. He could only lose it by doing nothing so many times, he supposed. Maybe he'd actually earn that wear soon.

Nightmare Moon must've found his joke marginally funny: Her smile rose even further, and She chuckled fondly in such a way that showed all of Her sharpened teeth at once. "It is just as well. I can only imagine how you might fare amidst so many so outspoken. It is a wonder you found even that farm mare to be your friend."

The cadence of Her words ended in a decadent purr that set the fur along his back prickling, and She must have seen, as She openly laughed with Her teeth again. Every single pointed tip on display.

Why did She do that? Seriously- why did She feel the need to constantly intimidate him with Her especially alien features? Was it simply instinctive; did she not realize She was doing it? No- there was no way; everything She did was extremely concerted, even when She was overcome with rage.

He... wished She would speak to him... just slightly more candidly. Even a bit less reserved, in the way that she was reserving her affectations for him, would be incredible. He knew She was capable: behind the posture and the cunning; the guile and the calculating force: She was more.

He knew She was considerate, even behind the pure intelligence. The way She would rein Herself in when She lost control: it spoke of how She cared for his well-being. Her deceit was so backwards: an inherent honesty to every word that somehow belied the grandeur. It nearly seemed lackluster, at times.

She simply seemed... ill-fitting. Like... everything about her- the pitch coat, the gleaming segments of armor from a time displaced, even and maybe especially Her face- the way it all meshed together sometimes made it seem so ingenuine. Feigned.

She was a pony, so why were Her features so? Why were Her eyes so bestial: so foreign? Cut up and long like a snake's venomous furrows; why were her eyes not soft and round, like his? Why could She simply not relax; allow Her features to soften; lose that weathered edge of quested vengeance?

She was so strong; the strength of a Goddess, but She needn't always be strong. All of the intelligence, the depths of wisdom and surprising humor: what would it seem without that regal edge?

He could still remember... he'd pictured Her so different as they'd... laid together. Her stomach to his back, and with his memories of Her simple, faded color: he'd put such a different face to that voice.

Truly... what might She look like... without those alien artifacts?

His face was sullen: he noticed too late. He'd gone quiet: too long without breathing. By the time he'd picked up on the fact that he'd never laughed alongside Her, it was too late even to make pretend, and She was already peering closer at him. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity, and- no: he shied away as he realized it was concern, not curiosity.

Even if he was trying to wish himself out of the nearest window, he could still feel Her gaze inspecting him all over. Stopping first at his restlessly kneading hooves that he tried and failed to stop, then at his still chest behind which beat three hearts, then his face began to burn. Was he blushing? He hated blushing for Her. What had She done to deserve his flush?

The feeling lessened, and he dared to peek as She leaned back and towered over: seeming contemplative. "You..." She trailed off, and tilted her head to the side. "Have you still reservations left of your breakdown?" Her questioning was accompanied by a lean forward: to look invasively into his eyes.

Somehow, incredibly as he was so hung up on details, he only really noticed how close She was as She took hold of his face. His cheeks smooshed between her cold-plated hooves, and he sputtered indignancies as She leaned his head up so their eyes could meet. All incredibly demeaning- but buck himself if he couldn't do a thing about it!

"Are you truly recovered so fast?" She murmured, tilting his head this way and that as She studied him. "Your gaze seems sharp, if quite meek, yet your reactions remain as dull as usual." Her brow jumped, and She hummed a laugh. "Though, perhaps that is more reassuring than anything. Some things may only change so much."

Now he was blushing and he felt like a fool! He pushed his hooves up against those holding his face like a child's, and surprisingly, they slid off. He blinked bemusedly as he'd truly not expected his rebellion to bear fruit, though he quickly turned his independence to work: staring angrily up at the placid face so far above him.

"I'm just fine, thank you," he retorted, and Nightmare Moon only smiled humorously at him. Because She was not threatened, or offended, or unamused, because he was just her little plaything, wasn't he!?

...Well, yeah, he kind of was.

His ego deflated all at once, and he sighed as he hung his head tiredly. He licked along the backs of his teeth for a moment as he stared at the floor, before he returned his gaze up to Nightmare Moon. "Alright," he conceded. "I am still a little... affected from my... erm... breakdown."

it felt a little silly to call it that and not a panic attack, but he'd settle for Her terminology. Reticence over semantics would just hold them up; he wasn't all that attached to something so superficial.

...Felt a little reductive, but what wasn't when it came to Her?

She nodded at his admission: seemingly quite pleased with Herself for calling it out. "Yes, it was as plain as the moon." He tried not to snort a laugh at the blatant satisfaction in Her voice as She raised a hoof to his shoulder: patting it as gently as steel and harder steel could be. "It is the matter of the soul you absorbed, is it not?"

Electricity jumped up his spine, and he jerked in a rough shiver: causing Nightmare Moon to draw back from her hold with a nearly affronted look on Her face.

He'd apologize, just as soon as acid and sparks stopped filling his mouth and fire stopped playing in his nerves.

It was the mention of the soul- he'd admit it: he'd been pointedly avoiding thinking about it the entire time he'd been lucid again specifically because he knew it'd set him off like this.

It was in his body: that was an incontrovertible fact, as much as the concept boggled his mind. Discounting the logistics- which in no lesser terms fascinated him just as much- the soul was in his body. It was in him. That raised- like- a million questions.

How had this happened? Was it just contact? If it was just contact then why hadn't it immediately been absorbed the moment he'd first touched it? Did it require conscious effort? Had he even made a conscious effort? What constituted a truly conscious effort in such a medium as something so comparatively arbitrary as touching an object, magical or not, without the aid of his magic? Would complications arise from the impromptu aggregation of his willful acquisition? If not, then what were the benefits? How many souls could he hold at once? If the limit was infinite, then that called into question the ethereal nature of souls and whether they occupied any definable physical space. If they weren't physical then how were they perceived? Regarding that: why did their perception require a specialized spell or otherwise special circumstances? For that matter: were they even imperceptible when removed from the body? What was-

"Light Flow!"

The shout wasn't so distracting as the shaking was. Of course, it seemed one had been ineffective at drawing him out of his trance, but both had done the trick. As it was, when he focused back onto Nightmare Moon's scowling face, it was made all the more difficult to see the expression as Her hooves were jerking him roughly back and forth by his shoulders.

He'd gotten distracted- but thinking about the soul didn't fill his head with mind-numbing, all-consuming, heady, delectable, inescapable need anymore! A win for his overthinking mind! He could teach himself!

He placed his hooves on the ones shaking him- and thankfully, they stopped. Not so gently, or quickly, but he was soon brought to a still all the same. Well, not all the same: his vision was still slightly fuzzy from all the shaking. He wasn't all that appreciative of that.

He blinked away stars and dizzy afterimages, and tried his best to focus and smile mildly up at Nightmare Moon's slightly blurry face. He pasted on his best penitent face: exerting an aura of cute, nervous uncertainty. "I'm- um... sorry..?"

Nightmare Moon's face began to unblur, and he could see better the sight of Her nonplussed expression, and her climbing eyebrow. His throat ran dry, and all he found himself able to do was edge slightly back: still smiling like a fool as Her hooves stilled in the air.

Oh, why did he make himself such a fool for Her?

She was the queen, and he was Her jester, and as a long-suffering queen might sigh and fitfully indulge the witless jester, so too did Nightmare Moon indulge him. Her eyes met his, locking him in place from his slow backwards scooch as Her hooves fell imperiously to the floor.

"Do not apologize," she intoned, and he was more sure than ever his eyes would pop out from his head from staring too hard. She ticked Her frown to the side in a testy grimace, and narrowed Her brows onto him. "You were thinking, were you not? Of souls?"

Sense trickled in at his hasty bid, allowing him to quickly turn his focus on nodding fervently. As it always seemed to, his nervous demeanor somewhat amused Her, and Her frown halved into a smile. "Good," She murmured: straightening Her back and leering down at him, such that She was literally towering. "Tell me of what crossed your eager mind. We shall start from there."

Start? Start what from where?

He babbled momentarily, though in less time than he usually did. Surprisingly, he found the words almost easily, for once. "Well- I wasn't so much thinking about anything in particular, I-" He swallowed, and, though he wanted desperately to stare at the floor, forced himself to fully meet Her expectant gaze. "I was just... thinking about the logistics of... what I did."

The stark honesty of what he'd admitted felt momentarily freeing. Was this what it was like to be Applejack? Being directly questioned and providing an easy answer in few words? Not deliberating for minutes at a time for every word?

It was... disconcerting, being so upfront. But in an oddly... good way? He didn't think he liked it.

Nightmare Moon's eyebrow ticked up, and he was suddenly reminded very much more of Applejack. "I was thinking about the actual cause of the soul absorption, actually!" he barked on complete instinct. It was obvious he'd been too reminded of his friend.

Applejack had always had a certain way of making him fess up whenever he got silent, which was most of the time, and that way usually started with a very dangerous raising of her brow.

Nightmare Moon seemed mollified at his slightly less concise answer, if also disgruntled. "I had already told you of your power over souls. It is because of your cutie mark." She frowned, and Her regard of him became altogether cooler. "What did you not understand of it? Need we remark upon it again?"

It was always an odd meshing of feeling whenever he became frustrated with Her. A messy cross between the slowly diminishing fear, the growing empathy, and the ever-present awe.

He frowned right back at Her expression, and found some of the tension in his shoulders abating for aggravation. "I... understood that part just fine, actually. I was really thinking more about... why."

Her frown deepened, as did Her pertinent brow. "Why what?"

He didn't often get angry: not anymore. He'd had issues as a child with his fits of delusion, and he'd had issues as an amnesiac with not knowing what was going on, but he'd more or less mellowed out over the years growing up. He preferred dry methods of expressing himself as of late: they tended to burn so much more. Implying he had a problem tended to make most ponies really uncomfortable, and him very amused.

But... there was just something about a terse pony that really set him off.

Even if that pony was the towering Goddess that held his life in Her hooves.

"I was thinking about why my cutie mark allows that, you freakish giraffe!" The first shout was knee-jerk as Her two word response had made him so inexplicably angry. Something tugged at his mind- something important.

But then, as Nightmare Moon's lids jumped and he leaned forward on his shout, he happened to find something burning hotly in a deep, neglected pit of his chest.

Indignance. Righteous indignance blistering like a sore in his heart, and he was sure he knew why it was there.

She'd had the gall to assert Herself over him when it came to souls.

He'd bucking show Her.

"Souls are ethereal, aren't they?! But they're still conditionally visible, so obviously, they must be comprised of some kind of measurable energy, probably magical!" He thought about stepping forward, but stomped his hoof instead, because he was mad, not insane. "If souls exist on some magical frequency, then that would explain why they can't be altered or interacted with by regular physical means; any amnesiac idiot could figure that out!"

-that would explain...

Nightmare Moon opened Her mouth, but he continued: his nostrils flaring as his desire to keep screaming won over. "That would also explain why the only way to physically interact with them would be though means of a spell, because you have to match their magical frequency to act upon them! It's basic Arcanic Theory!"

-if that were true, then...

"It would account for the average, stupid pony's inability to even see them, because, again, if you somehow still couldn't imagine it: souls, like certain other magical frequencies, aren't on the visible spectrum!"

The urge to pace was overpowering him, but he knew, even behind the red, that stepping towards Nightmare Moon in anger was over the line. So, he turned, set his sights on the door, and began to pace towards it: still yelling, though now mostly at the approaching floor.

"Souls must exist on a level of frequency only directly susceptible to Equine magical means, because what in Tartarus' name would it be otherwise?! It's the only explanation that makes even some sense, and I'm only half unsure of it because I don't fully trust my own knowledge of modern Arcanic Theory!"

-if souls exist on a wavelength, like mana, then...

He reached the door faster than he'd expected- the room really wasn't all that long and there wasn't much debris in his way- and now he stared up at its mockingly brown surface hatefully as his voice bounced loudly off it. "That's probably how souls are bound to living creatures in the first place! They're bound to a creature's fount and their mana rather than their actual body, unless it's really some dumb, spiritual thing, which I also don't understand!"

Even as his anger was constantly bubbling over, the idea that the glorious science of souls could somehow be related to the ego or something was absolute poison. He bent his leg back, and kicked it forward at the door as hard as he could.

The resounding thunk echoing out into the otherwise quiet, empty room was the only satisfying thing about what he'd done, as the door failed to budge an inch, and his hoof throbbed in pain.

"Who even designed this stupid door anyway! It's wildly impractical and disgustingly ostentatious!" he screamed: filled with rage and balancing on three legs as he held his aching fourth to his chest.

Really, though. The door was huge- easily three or more times his size- emblazoned on its flaking, dull, wooden surface by an imperceptible pattern- which he would guess was somewhat like the one at the castle's front door- arched- because everything had to be arched in this castle- and it apparently required incredible strength just to open it.

Or the hinges were rusty.

He turned to face the room: Nightmare Moon a distant black speck at the back of its stair-bordered body. The idea of Her being so small may have made him laugh five minutes ago, but now it only made him angrier because how dare She act that meek to him?!

"Back to my original point!" he loudly began again, as he limped back towards Nightmare Moon. "Having dissected the theory if not the exact science behind a soul's existence, it only makes me wonder all the more about me and 'my breed!'"

He slurred as he mimed the words She'd used earlier, just to mock Her all the more.

-but then again, if what he'd imagined were true...

His breath caught as he hobbled forward- was it because of fatigue or because he'd just had an idea- and he nearly stumbled; only barely catching himself, and though his vision sort of fuzzed over as his chest ached, he continued to scream at the approaching, unmoving black blob.

"The only certifiable conclusions I can possibly reach, knowing what I might know, are that those with a cutie mark in Necromancy are physiologically different, either from the time they're born or some change they undergo when they get their cutie mark-"

Finally, exhaustedly, he came back around to Nightmare Moon. He couldn't even bring himself to look up at Her; literally, he could not find the strength to look up at Her face from his position nearly doubled over.

He was out of shape. Terribly so. Sure, it was mostly because he'd hardly stopped just to breathe amidst his rant, but he couldn't deny the physical factor. His lung capacity was abysmal; reading all day just wasn't conducive to fitness.

He should spread the word. That sounded like a niche tidbit.

Between the long stretches of screaming, such that his panting voice was now hoarse, he wasn't really all that angry anymore. He could barely remember why he'd been mad in the first place; his head was mostly just swarming with little, buzzing ideas about soul frequencies and conditional awareness.

Still, he'd left a thought unfinished, and between every fourth or fifth breath, he found he could squeeze a few words in.

"-or... a Necromancer's natural arcane wavelength... is completely... completely different from a normal pony's..."

He wheezed- panted- gasped- finally managed to take a deep swallow that felt far too dry, and put his weight back down onto his fourth hoof. Vision returning: he blinked bemusedly at the four long, black hooves topped at their ends by dazzling silver shoes, and for a moment, couldn't for the life of him remember who they belonged to.

And then, probably because of the heavy silence that constantly echoed through the castle halls, he remembered where he was, who he was talking to, and just how he'd spoken to them.

Her. Nightmare Moon. Goddess- Queen- ostensible monster.

He'd had a nice life. Out of everything, he was probably going to miss reading and Applejack the most. He just wished Applejack had been more amenable to his idea of a book club, though. Would've combined his two great loves.

...Yeah...

When he finally found the courage to stop cringing and, to a lesser extent, gaping, he carefully- oh so cautiously slid his eyes up to Nightmare Moon's very likely furious face.

He expected fire and brimstone. Something along the lines of 'how dare you raise our voice to me, you insignificant whelp, prepare your mind to break and body to die.'

He didn't expect... Her smile.

"Buh-" He couldn't help the noise that escaped from his still-gaping mouth, because really, out of every possible thing, he'd never expected his angry screaming to result in a positive reaction. That seemed- well, a little backwards, didn't it?

Nightmare Moon was smiling at him, and it wasn't any ordinary smile from Her- no, it was... genuine. It wasn't the sharp teeth on full display or head thrown back and cackling kind of joy he'd come to expect from Her: it was... just a smile.

Soft. Relaxed. Almost... normal.

He blinked, and for that one second after, he could swear he'd begun to imagine Her without the helmet.

"What are you... smiling for?" he whispered, and it was only a whisper because he didn't want to call it a rasp. His voice had torn badly from exerting his voice, and he could already feel his throat beginning to burn a little. He half wanted to rub at it, but... the way Nightmare Moon was leering at him...

Her smile, one of the most muted expressions he'd yet seen from Her, parted in a near-silent exclamation. His lip curled in confusion as Her eyes traveled up to stare somewhere behind him: the distance apparently more captivating than he was.

"I'm... reminiscing, child..." She murmured: Her eyes closing gently. Sweetly, and softly. Her voice a breathy whisper; he could almost say the moment was... pleasant.

What... had happened here? Had the sheer discrepancy of him yelling at Her caused him to phase into another reality? He might've liked that- though he'd put so much effort into bothering the ponies in his home universe... Be a shame to start all over.

With Her shoulders relaxing on a silent sigh, he was left to ogle Her seemingly melting form in disconcerted awe. Almost on instinct, he jerked his head to the side: his eyes catching again on the door behind him.

Though...

No- he was an idiot for even thinking about escaping. For something as little as the door being too heavy; he was once again sure running away would never pan out. Nice thought, though. Running always was.

He returned his gaze to Nightmare Moon: seemingly in some kind of nostalgic bliss. What the hell kind of memory could be so sweet- and triggered by his yelling at Her, no less- that She would relax the way She was? The way She'd done a very good job of proving She was incapable of?

"Would you- uh..." He smacked his lips together, and his voice nearly sounded a bit less graveled. "-care to... share whatever you're... reliving?" He didn't think it was all that big an ask, really. Part and parcel of having a night-long emotional confrontation was candidness. Might as well try enforcing that, for once.

Was that impertinent or insolent of him, to ask of Her memories? He hoped She wouldn't see it that way, because his second thought had been whether it was, and second wasn't so far down the mind's totem pole.

At his question, Her eyes fluttered barely open, though they stayed a distracted stare on the distance. "You... recall that I mentioned... other of your breed, don't you?" She whispered, barely loud enough to hear.

It was breathy. It was uncomfortable.

He fidgeted, because his only other thought was to run and jump out the window. "...Yes?" he eased, uncertainly. "Is it... am I... like them..?"

The very idea that She had known somepony so similar to him, that was so similar to him was... eugh. But then, She nodded, and the tense knot of uncomfortable, wriggling incertitude in his chest grew larger. "Yes... you are... very much like..." She murmured, trailing off tonelessly. And then, very slowly, Her head began to tilt down to him.

He nearly flinched back as Her glassy, vacant eyes met his; it was only through a very concerted effort that he continued to stare into them. And that was only because he really felt he should. He'd never been one to pass on opportunities to learn.

There was that old saying that 'eyes are the window to the soul,' and as untrue as he knew that was based on foundational thinking sans any definitive calculations on soul-to-optic logistics, he still bought into the general sentiment behind the big, fat, stupid lie.

It was difficult to read Nightmare Moon- impossible, even- but he'd never come as close to really understanding Her than when they were... engaged like this. Whether back to stomach, or eye-to-eye: the connection was never so whole. He'd been trying all night, and he'd come so close to seeing behind Her veneer a few times, but... there was just some... something to this stare.

A metaphorical, unseen line of communication: in his head alone, as She was so very far from him in every way. And... how far She still was.

So glazed: Her eyes were, like those of a corpse. Lightless and half-closed; cold and gone. So far away in Her past, in so many nights so past; how many would have met their end, for Her to ceaselessly watch? Innumerable.

So many gone. So much lost. To gaze is to remember, and to remember is to eventually forget.

That was what he read, in those deep furrows of cyan blue. A loneliness, at something far gone.

And still, he tried to read deeper, even as that far-gone light came back from the past.

"How did it feel, to take that soul into yourself?"

Just the first syllable was enough to shock him out of his blind staring; blinking into focus as Nightmare Moon had returned from Her vacation in the past. But only very marginally: Her face, though less still, less grim, kept a sort of off-tune vacancy.

Even as he shook off the muted trance, he felt a chill settle stubbornly over his pelt; even as blue light flickered so gently around the end of Her horn, and his breath quickened, the motion of Her raising one hoof in front of Her seemed... stilted.

He'd been wrong: it wasn't nostalgic bliss she'd felt, thinking of Her past. It was sadness. A deep, true sadness.

...Who had She been remembering?

He was beginning to think it was instinct that drove him to scoot back: away from the dangerous little spark of magic. Though he hardly felt afraid as he half-stared up at the glowing little crackle. He couldn't really manage the mood at the moment, besides how ridiculous it would be for Her to hurt him.

The iridescence of a unicorn's magic around their horn was nearly directly proportional to the amount of mana they were channeling, and it didn't seem like She was planning anything large. Nor did he think Her... in the mood.

Such a small fizz: hardly creeping further than even the tip. What might it look like at greater power? "Pardon?"

Was he stalling, or did he just want to see what She was about to use Her magic for? Maybe he was still trying to process the... cavernous, all-consuming void of loneliness he'd seen in Her eyes. He still felt cold, thinking about it.

He knew She was old, and that She'd been gone a thousand years, but... well, he couldn't really imagine it. Not right now.

Nightmare Moon chuckled quietly in Her throat as She stared down at her own, hovering hoof; the limb turning slightly as Her eyes roved around it. "Perhaps 'tis a strange question, but you must understand my curiosity."

Her voice, oddly smooth for Her seeming mood, was at quite the normal volume, but comparatively, to measure against the norm: it was... small. It was heavy with an emotion he... couldn't quite place; lightly disconcerting in a niggling little way, made even more as the light at the top of his vision grew just so. A shine brighter by a half-measure: to match against itself at it crackled to life around the near top of the high shoe over Her raised hoof.

She hummed: a strange little lilting tune he didn't recognize. The intense quiet made it very clear the sound of fabric sliding against itself, and his attention jumped as the snap of a undone buckle rang out. "Your art is inherently a curious one, and it is simply something that I have always wondered. Perhaps not as fondly in some times as others, but wondered all the same. It never seemed to leave my mind."

The shimmer of magic floated barely down: its manifest sound quickly drowned again by the noise of cloth rubbing out of place. "I was never able to pursue your special craft myself, though there were times that I very much wanted to. Times that I felt envious of those who did, and those whom I knew. Times... that I dreamed of it."

The sound stopped, for just a moment. "Had you guessed that?"

The break in the steady noise of magic working against straps was jarring, and he didn't realize that he'd been so invested in the pure expression of simple work until he was shaking his head to clear the fog.

Nightmare Moon's unchanging expression stayed still on the back of Her hoof, to where one silver line of a square strap was now hanging off the middle of what looked to be a strong cloth belt. Focused, or vacant? What was happening?

He blinked. "I'm... not sure if I've really thought about it, but..." He trailed off for a moment, staring widely at the strap dipping slightly in time. "...It makes sense, in a way. It would explain your certain... fixations."

His throat felt dry. How long had it been since he'd yelled at Her? An hour? Two? Which time? The first? The second?

He swallowed. He'd barely even thought before blurting out his half thought, and he half wanted to take it back. "Why weren't you able to study... it?" The question was barely managed through his focus on the one hanging strap, and the other, far more burning questions in his mind.

It was nearly silent for the few moments after he'd spoken. The soft warbling sound of magic, and the tense pressure of the air.

The magic shifted, and then came another harsh snap. "There were many reasons, in those times."

A heavy breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding left him, taking with it some unassuming sense of anticipation that had pricked at his shoulders. Once more the magic lowered as he trailed it, and the busy sound of cloth unfolding filled the background as Nightmare Moon continued.

"I would like to say that it was my position. That the vaunted Princess of the Night would have been soundly denounced for pursuing things seen and thought so debased. A ruler lives and dies by the public, and my death would have been swift if discovered."

Even in the quiet and dull intonation that She'd said it, and through the toneless, grey scape of Her face: the words themselves still sent cold shivers creeping along the small of his back. He could barely force them down; focusing his best on that warmth still inside him, instead.

She never said it, and he'd never taken the time to give thought to it, but of course that's what She was. Celestia was the holy Day Princess, and Her sister, sitting at such opposites in so many ways, was the Princess of the Night.

She was a Princess. Equestria's Princess, lost a thousand years in time.

Did... She have legitimate claim to the throne?

Oblivious to his existential shock: Nightmare Moon continued in Her account; Her face showing its first change since She'd started in a tiny, grave deepening, as Her voice followed. "I would like to say that it was what I thought of myself holding me back. That somewhere deep inside: I believed the same, and wished myself not fall in such a way."

She grimaced: the expression seeming so radical from what it had been in a moment. "Would that I had such ideals."

Snap. The magic moved down; Her voice grew deeper with an edge of remembered heat. "Perhaps it was my sister. She so hated the darker side of magic, and there is no lesser word than abhorrence for what allusions she held of Necromancy. What she might've thought of it... What she might've done..."

The sound, the movement stopped. Nightmare Moon's mouth gaped listlessly open as Her eyes seemed to grow even duller; caught completely in thought between scant words separating Her from what she'd already begun to say. He, too, felt stilled.

But then, Her eyes tightened, and the very tip of Her mouth curled strangely up. A slow first movement, then came the next verse in the instant of an odd noise from Her throat; the rest of Her face following uncannily behind, only quiet and pale for a moment before She was chuckling.

There was no breath behind it, no emphasis. No laughter. A knell.

He could only stare. He could only imagine.

The lifeless laugh kept for moments longer than he thought he'd be able to stand, only trailing as he was becoming certain the sound would creep past crawling on his skin and into his very bones. She sighed languishly as it trailed and died: the noise itself trailing with a lightening tone of something cynical as She cocked Her head.

"Well... it would still be far less than... what she did."

Something sick burned in the back of his throat as the busy noise of magic and cloth returned; Nightmare Moon looking for all the world unaffected by Her own grim words, if measured to Her appearance moments before. If anything, She seemed almost... amused.

He just felt sick. He'd never... In all his years... playing and dreaming so desperately for a sense of darkness... he'd never dared to imagine a moment so... macabre.

He shook his head roughly as She hummed a tune approaching pleasant, but the disturbing scene still stuck stubbornly to his senses. He wasn't sure it would ever go away. Behind his eyes, as he blinked, and as he felt the latch of his throat shift... he could still see the sickening, rictus movement of Her jaw. Like strings jerking at the joints of a puppet.

Not felt. Not real.

She turned and twisted Her head in time with Her work; not speaking for a long moment until came another snap: leaving the fourth and final buckle hanging to the side just above where metal encircled the bottom of Her hoof.

But the horseshoe stayed. Hoof out, magic glow wrapped around its bottom and pastern, but... not moving. Still staring down at the limb with a smile that did not at all reach Her blank eyes: nearly again seeming glassy with foggy memories.

Her magic cut out, and Her hoof slowly lowered to the ground. Her eyes didn't move: staring forward sightlessly.

"Would you like to know the truth of the matter?"

He started, to hear Her voice. Quiet and hollow; sitting so unnerving and completely at odds with the small smile She wore even then. An unfitting thing: sitting so stilly, yet he could almost imagine it was a only step away from brittle.

Did She even realize She was still smiling?

The silence stretched as his mouth stayed shut, and he only stared. It wasn't that he didn't want to answer, to speak: it just... wasn't really occurring to him. He could, anytime now, say whatever he wanted to undoubtedly break whatever trance Nightmare Moon had fallen into. Move the conversation right along: away from the awful silence, and the dispirited disparity of a mare too blind to see Her scars.

But he didn't. And still, She spoke.

"The truth is... I don't know."

His skin chilled: the superficial feeling a painful contrast that made the moment seem so grave as Nightmare Moon laughed emptily again. Open and long and bordering on hysterical, and it trailed into a seething giggle as Her other, still latched hoof rose to rest over one of Her eyes as Her head shook slightly.

"There is much... so much that... I can no longer recall. Large swathes of my life lost appear simply... blank, while other parts- wrong parts- somehow seem almost fresh to me. Precious things I once held dear now appear so... distorted."

When She spoke on the tail of her insane laugh, Her voice was quiet and sad. Far too close to warbly as he'd never imagined possible, while She took shallow breaths like she was struggling even to speak. Yet still Her one open eye remained dry: only glimmering mournfully with something too forlorn for words.

But then, he was sure he might cry instead.

"The days I left behind were once such... powerful reminders of my... my resolve." Her eye closed, and Her face tightened in some phantom pain. "The beliefs I held... the ideals I once thought were so much stronger... I- I cannot-"

Her voice cracked. Her other hoof came up, out of Her long, silver horseshoe for the first time: and he could see, as She laid it to the side of Her helmet, how the front of that once-hidden and shaking limb was speckled in small spots of blue fur.

"...I cannot... I cannot even seem to remember why..." She whispered tightly, and in that moment, like the world had slowed to a crawl around him: everything he thought he knew about Nightmare Moon seemed to shift before his eyes.

Where once he saw the tyrant Moon Goddess who'd destroyed his life and toppled his kingdom...

...now he was only seeing a mare.

"...why it is that I am here..."

Author's Note:

Hey! It's me! Here's /chapter 45/ because I rebranded chapter 40!

This one's not too interesting aside some screamed musings by a Light Flow working furiously to unravel the secrets of the soul in as little time as possible- because he thinks best when he's angry. He's got the head for theory- but not any of the tools for empirical work. Oh well, he'll get there eventually.

Most of this chapter- and last chapter- are pretty boring because they're half-or-more comprised of the things I wrote five or so months ago before I took an extended break from this story. I was only able to put the things I'd learned into practice so much with what was here without rewriting it from scratch, so I just decided you all could take a little more torment, and mostly kept it even.

It'll get better soon, I promise!

A lot of the musings about Nightmare Moon here are a little cyclical at the start- and everything's a little worse at the start- but it might be helpful if you've forgotten some things over the long time away. Think of it as- a refresher!

Next chapter's a real hit, though! And I do mean the next intermission- because we're having those, now. Stay tuned!

Comments

[Simplyreader]

Thank you for another great chapter.

[JinxTJL]

11406523
Thank you for reading it!

Honestly, I didn't think much of this chapter was really all that great, but I just know the chapters coming up soon will be much better. Look out for a creative renaissance!

[Ya boy John Doe]

Nice

[Rawislon03]

“…Why is it that I am still here…” Just to suffer?

[Rawislon03]

But seriously great chapter, this is obviously a much darker Luna-Celestia conflict. The way things are going, if Nightmare Moon does become Luna again, there’s a chance Light Flow won’t end up grabbing her in his magic and slamming her post-element foal-like body against a pillar the moment he gets a chance.

[JinxTJL]

11407987
You are here as we all are: yes, to suffer, but at my whim!

Gaze into the mouth of hell and see my face smiling madly back as I recite hyperbole!

But also, thanks! All that build-up from the previous chapters was, if you can believe it, leading to this breakdown! Their relationship was at first as shallow as can be expected: that of a shadowy spectre and the pony whom she'd enthralled. But then, very very slowly, it was revealed to us, and more importantly: Light, the cracks in NMM's façade of the mighty, sneering imperialist. His demeanor slowly- ever so slowly- began to thaw, until, after the large shock of absorbing a soul, Light took a moment to reevaluate what he knew about Nightmare Moon.

And, as he looked back on the past, he found that, outside of what she'd done in anger and mania, she'd never explicitly harmed him. And even then, at that moment and through the night, it was all she had done just to prove that to him.

And now, as her past is becoming twilit, he's seeing her in new shades. Wondering... what exactly she was doing here.

Wondering why he was here.

[Witchery]

Holy shit. I was not expecting this to turn this way.

[Direct Access]

Haaa?...

I knew it was alternate reality, but it's a spin I didn't seen before yet.
It's it related to Celestia's mastery of mind magic?

[Aiwhisper]

So the language is great but it’s becoming difficult to remain engaged to the story since it’s not moving forward. Like how long has he been there after the party and where are the 6 to face down nightmare?

[JinxTJL]

11667971
Ah, now there's a complaint I hear all the time! Granted, it's been a while since it was a daily occurrence, but I still get a few like you trotting by and balking at the pacing! For good reason!

A-hem. I'm not so good at the sales pitch anymore- bit past my glory days, so the intrusive voices tell me- but I can still assure you, with one-hundred percent veracity, that your complaint is valid! Capital V-alid!

Yeah, the pacing's a mess! And, I'm sorry to say, it never really resolves! For every wow-factor introduced, there's an equal and opposite ten paragraphs of needless exposition or internal monologue. I'm sure you're familiar with the type at this point.

I would really like to say it gets better, but it really doesn't. You're just barely cresting the wave of a veritable typhoon of overblown positing, and we're still riding the coattails of the monstrosity to this day. I won't say the story is ever boring- though I've thought it in a few times of weakness- but I can only assume the main method for riding this slow, methodical ride is to have massive investment in the characters and story. Which, in fairness, can be a noted side-effect of spending so much time with these characters!

In my opinion, you've made it past the worst of it! I would love it if you kept going, because I do think the story manages to keep relatively interesting throughout, and there are definite moments of greatness- said the author- but you're going to have to tolerate the narrative style if you wanna see those things.

This story's very discreet, and I get that it's not for everyone. If you're interested in slow-burn stories with payout in the form of character-centric breakdowns after ^hopefullyrealistic amounts of tension and argumentation, then you're good to keep going! If you're looking for high-action, high-intensity thrillers with tons of intrigue and drama- well, this story's got that, but it's often sporadic. This isn't Rites of Ascension or anything. god, don't I wish

I'd like to answer your question to finish out, but I actually left a comment on the chapter after this explaining the relative timeline with far more clarity than I think I could now. The simplest explanation I'll still try to give is that Light left the party for Twilight a little after sundown, and the Mane 6 only went into the Everfree at dawn. If you're still willing to keep up the slog- and I would completely understand if you didn't- then that aforementioned comment may help to elucidate your specific gripe.

Thank you for giving the story a chance for as long as you must have, and I understand if this is where you'd like to part ways. My only hope is that it's as friends, however erstwhile.

Have a good day!