The Stereotypical Necromancer

by JinxTJL

Chapter 62 - Waxing Explication

Wood tasted bad.

This was a remarkably insightful observation from the brilliant mind of Light Flow, who was currently quite engrossed in gnawing at the middle of his standard rule pencil. He did so—quite masterfully—in the hunched-over position of a scholar at the end of their rope examining every facet of a work of literature because, as most scholars knew, there was a certain point at which the inherent sense of infallible logic they held to be so laudable skidded off the tracks and smashed against a cliff face.

In Light's case, this inextricable work he was discomfortingly engrossed in was his own, and—if it was going to be a sticking point—this work happened to be completely blank.

At this point, he was still unsure of how to actually start.

To his merit, it hadn't been all that long since he'd set the letter from Nightm- Luna ablaze. He could still smell the cheery scent of rising ash, and the thin trails of tears scored down his cheeks had barely dried. It wasn't like he was overdue, and he was more or less mentally prepared for his coming work. He just- he didn't quite know how.

Light sighed—after letting the pencil roll off his tongue. He rested his chin on an awaiting hoof, sending his gaze ceilingward as he shamefully retreated into the hovel that was his mind. Once, it had been a sanctum—to his eyes, anyway. How sad its state was now; he was unable even to expound at useless end.

So sorrowful was the state of his vocabulary. How tragic were the lengths of his imagination.

Light shook his head, raising it off his hoof with a grumble. Whatever he was trying to do, spinning prose wasn't going to help. Maybe he should step back and reevaluate exactly what he wanted out of this.

With a suitably contemplative deep breath, he lit his horn to take his pencil once more. Maybe he'd do that.

He wanted to consolidate all that he knew of Necromancy, of Nightmare Moon, and of wherever the two crossed bounds. It was his eventual goal to somehow extrapolate a way to bring Zecora back, and beyond that... to just... gain proficiency. Study was an excellent way to do that, and without supplementary materials, it'd just be a matter of documentation, hypothesis, testing, and interpretation.

Chronicling his history with the recently deposed then enthroned Lunar Deity was more for his mental benefit. For Necromancy, through—well, first he had to document what he knew. Then, he'd apply it, see if it worked, and if it didn't, he'd work backwards. Trial and error was a perfectly workable scientific method—ask anypony!

His eye wandered down on a whim, catching a shy peek of the brown box hiding just behind a leg of his desk. Of course, he had some supplementary material, he just...

He averted his gaze back to his notebook.

He didn't know if he really trusted it all that much.

Nightmare Moon had been insane—but She'd been so insane that he was more or less absolutely sure of when She'd been telling him the truth. She'd been too desperate not to come off as untrustworthy, and he seriously didn't think She had the wherewithal to very effectively cover deceit as She screamed bloody murder at him.

The acidic burn of charged air. Thunder crawling on the crumbling walls around the maddened Goddess on high.

He blinked twice, and he was fine. It was okay. Just a passing memory. No danger here. No need for his heart to set aflutter. Everything was fine. Deep breaths. Light was okay.

Nightmare Moon had been one of the least trustworthy creatures that had ever slopped their disgusting hooves all over Equus, but he knew She hadn't lied to him. If She believed whoever had sent him the boxes was a fraud, then She had probably personally known them to be some kind of cockatrice-oil salesman.

Still...

Like a curious child not yet learned of harsh consequences, his eye once more wandered to the sight of the box at the edge of his peripheral, and Light eased out a suffering groan. He turned in his seat, adopting a dubious expression as he dragged the box around the side of the table's leg. Leaning over to peek into its contents, he chewed thoughtfully on his tongue for a moment of indecision before he said buck it and began to feel around inside of the container with an exploratory tendril of mana.

Had to... work around the armor... flip it around... sweep it aside... tug... tug... and tug...

It wasn't easy, especially not from his awkward vantage point on the chair, but by the time he wiggled the top of one of the books out from under all the silvery apparel with a few panting huffs and puffs, he found it had become more about the principle of the thing. It'd be like letting Nightmare Moon defeat him, otherwise.

Eventually, he managed to finagle the tome out from where his sordid past was weighing it down, and he was able to set the first of three on the desk beside his notebook with a sigh. The ever-intriguing heady scent of its cover was almost enough to entice him into staring deeply into its gold-embossed cover as he turned its top page for a mindless delve into tantalizing knowledge—but he stopped himself.

Instead, he took the time to work the second—then the third tome out from under the armor, placing them both atop the first in a surprisingly light stack. The books themselves were of varying length, and though the third volume was quite the hefty book, the first two were only about as long when measured together.

It'd been a while since he'd been wreathed in this scent—the scent of intoxicating anathema. There was something delightfully sinful about how they smelled, and for the texture of their binding—taut, bumpy, and delicately flexile to the touch—he was somewhat sure he knew why.

The only thing that bugged him was the seeming anachronism of it. If the original author hadn't been a Necromancer, then binding their tomes in leather was a gross overcompensation. He wasn't sure if he'd even do such a macabre thing—not that he was all that hardcore to begin with.

No matter. He was sure he'd be one day.

Breathing deeply in the scent of something long dead and thinking nothing of it, Light found himself markedly more sure of himself as he turned back to his notebook, taking his pencil in a swish of mana and holding it aloft with a twirl. He instantly regretted the showoffy move because turning things that fast was hard and it made his brain hurt, but regardless, he was ready.

And he was actually fairly certain of where to start, now.

Light Flow's Compendium

Volume One: Initial Preconceptions and the Melancholy of Memory

A stark beginning on the first page with an appropriately sized header, as bold as he could make bland pencil be. Aside from the tear in the top of the page from being interrupted by a prescient, many-speaking voice in his head, it was immaculately professional.

He'd had the idea when he was reminded of the travesty that was the tomes' naming scheme. He didn't even need to look over to see the jumble of words that comprised half the books' faces. When compiling a technical document, a succinct title was rightly the first matter to settle.

From there, it all seemed obvious. A foreword, next.

In the years that I have This text serves as a collection of my the author's recollections, theories, and preconceptions involving that which cannot be spoken of in public: Dark Black magic.

This text is written under no sanction, agreement, or otherwise favorable accord. What follows is a wholly illegal account of magic that may not be a great many topics that each should see their speaker in jail or worse. All the same, these writings must be recorded, because the author knew he was was, in all honesty, rather distractible.

It is not as though this is not obvious.

Okay, that was a good note to begin on, right? Writing about himself in that removed tense was... suitably haughty, he was thinking. It wasn't weird to phrase it as though anypony but him would ever read this, was it? They probably wouldn't, but pretending like they would made him feel legitimate.

It might've been a little personal, but what was a technical document if not personal? He'd second guessed himself a few times, but he was getting the hang of the voice he was wanting to use, at least for the foreword. He'd probably fall out of formal and slip into informal as he wrote down his memories and whatnot.

He flipped the page, already dwelling on what the next page looked to be waiting for. He could start with... no, not yet... or... maybe... if he...

...Yes, that seemed to be the most relevant topic.

His pencil set itself down, and his eyes drifted closed. His breathing slowed—no, evened. His posture relaxed; as his muscles loosened, his head rose up on a murmuring sigh. His mind began to drift away.

Each time, it became easier. The more familiar he became, the more it seemed like walking down a road. He knew what signs to look for and how to tell where the path had been worn by regular use. He remembered the twists and turns, and though he had to stop and think to himself a few times along the way, it was more familiar than it was foreign.

When he was alone, he was already well in hoof to forget how he was tethered to the outside world. When he didn't have to deal with a Goddess bearing down or a corpse on the other side of a freezer wall, it became so much easier to stop pretending.

It was so much easier to drift away and look inside than it was to deal with reality.

Because it really was that simple. They were essentially the same thing.

As without, so within.

As Light's crimson eyes fluttered open with a shallow sigh, a corporeal flicker of light began to bead from the center of his chest. It roiled under his skin like the sun over the waves, and at his command, and with a breath, it bubbled. Bit by bit, it ballooned outward.

He obviously couldn't really watch it, but he could feel it. The odd, detached sensation of something round and warm grow under his skin and push through. It was kind of uncomfortable, but it didn't really hurt. It was just... foreign. It felt like he was pulling a ball out of his chest, but it wasn't like his chest was being torn open, and there wasn't a hole, either.

There was just... warmth inside of him that felt... solid. It bubbled and beaded like goosebumps on his skin, and as it grew, the last wisps of what he could feel inside dried and evaporated. The last cord snapped, and though it felt like he'd... lost something, as his eyes widened and he cast a look down, a tiny, perfectly circular orb of shimmering grey light floated down towards his outstretched hoof.

It was still kind of cute, in an odd, macabre way, how shy souls seemed to be as they moved. It floated listlessly on a nonexistent breeze, seemingly caught in its own strange way by invisible strings that pulled taut every half-second to make it bob. It made it seem coquettish, too afraid even to freely fall.

Well, the crow's soul was like that, anyway. He'd never really seen another outside of its... natural habitat.

Light enjoyed a satisfied shiver as the corporeal soul drifted out to land atop his awaiting frog. Oh, the feeling was exactly as he remembered it. Like electricity running down his spine. Like fire in his veins. Intrinsically fulfilling.

Though, he couldn't really say for sure whether it'd been better inside or out. As it was, as he lifted his hoof to inspect the pulsing blob of whirling light, he could certainly notice... something lacking inside of him. Not anything all that major—the crow's soul was pretty small, after all—but still, there was something.

Something fleeting that just... wasn't there anymore.

Staring down at the ever-shifting complexity that was the lowly crow's soul, Light's expression began to hue gently wistful. It really felt... like he was lesser without it. Had he become used to the feeling of two souls inside him? He supposed... it'd been a long time since he'd only had...

His smile, sad as it already was, turned down.

...just the one.

The regret began to tilt over him—but Light shook it off. He raised himself up on a sudden rush of awareness, taking a deep whiff of dust as he straightened, keeping his eyes wide and alert as he directed his gaze back to the crow's soul he held in a hoof. Waiting and bobbing and scattering coalesced energy like rising embers that smothered in the air. What was that? Where did those little cinders of refuse go?

Who knew? Maybe he'd find out one day. Maybe it was soul juice.

Light quirked the end of his mouth up in an amused little smile as he reached forward, inwardly sobbing a little bit as he tilted his hoof to the side and let the soul he held aloft begin to float off of it. He held his breath, but kept an easy expression as the crow's soul floated off his hoof and towards the table—outwardly and incredibly relieved as the little orb slowed in its descent and maintained a cool distance from the table's surface.

He waited for a moment, watching the orb sit and benignly exist where it really shouldn't have for a moment before he nodded to himself, content to leave his new decoration where it was as he once again retrieved his bygone writing utensil. He cast another... slightly paranoid glance to the soul he'd placed at the corner of his notebook, but he quickly shook the feeling off and let his attention drop to the awaiting page, instead.

Souls.

What were they? That was the question. A question... he needed to come up with an answer for. That was hard. He knew what he thought souls were, but... what if...

...no, this needed to happen. If he didn't make guesses, he'd never be proven right or wrong.

He just needed... to make conjecture. He could do that.

Chapter One: Souls. Preconceptions and Intrigue.

For all that is waxed on about the intrinsic nature of a pony's^{be broad} creature's soul, the actual denomination of such a thing is a matter of mystery. There are a great many philosophical ponderings put forth on what a soul may be, what it may mean to an individual, and how it relates to one's destiny. These beliefs are as numerous as the stars in the night's <--- dumb

What is certain is that, despite the mythos, the soul is a very tangible artifact. Not tangible, actually, more It definitively exists as a presumably magical artefact, and it exists within every living creature.

He lifted his pencil, casting his gaze to the soul hovering just above the desk. That was... correct, wasn't it? Every living creature had to have a soul, right? He'd not ever seen one that didn't—unless bugs weren't just too small to see.

Well, he supposed this was a moment of uncertainty. Here was a presumption he could make. He'd take it to heart, and if he was ever wrong, then he'd take it on the chin. He wasn't above error—he was counting on making errors, as a matter of fact.

He'd just ignore the cramped feeling in his chest.

-within every living creature. It is a matter of fact that living creatures must possess a soul to be classified as such, otherwise, they possess no obvious identity emphasis of self. This fact is self-evident.

As the soul is the ostensible 'existence' of a creature, it must logically hold true that, without a soul, a creature cannot be said to 'exist'. This is true because This fact is predicated on the assumption that death releases one's soul, and such is what causes the actual state of death. Beyond the cessation of natural bodily functions, the soul is a fundamental requirement for a creature's existence, perhaps at an even greater more fundamental level.

If this assumption does in fact hold true, then the inverse opposite must, as well. If an expired creature were to have a soul forcibly impressed upon them, would they they would ostensibly reanimate without need for the vital processes.

This is the founding principle for the Black magic school of Necromancy: the magic that governs the soul.

He paused. Was that correct? He was thinking... probably not.

This is the founding principle for the Black magic school of Necromancy: the magic that governs the soul.

This is the basis for reanimation, one of the governing principles for the Black magic school of Necromancy.

Light leaned back, somewhat more satisfied with his rewording. There was no use in coming off as overeager. He didn't think he was comfortable enough to slap an outright denotation on Necromancy just yet. He had the vague idea that's what it was, but he wasn't sure if it was something that he'd read from his books or the trashy literature he'd used to read as a foal.

Otherwise, it seemed to be coming along well! The idea that the soul's separation was what caused death seemed a little iffy in his head, but as he'd written it down and explored what that idea actually meant, it had seemed a bit more intuitive.

It was the logical progression, wasn't it? If the soul was the culminative being of a creature, then that meant it was the most vital piece of the greater whole of life. If it was all that remained, well... it wouldn't be whole, but half of a life was probably enough to get by on.

That was what zombies—or the real life equivalent of the concept were.

It was a major guess, but still. Just because he didn't really know whether putting a soul in a dead body would just revive it didn't have much bearing; he was still in the theoretical phase of his exploration. He'd find out eventually, and if it was true, then hooray! His ideals were intuitive!

A stray thought flitted by, buzzing past his ear and drawing a lazy flick from it.

He could go try right now...

Errant thoughts of that path crashed into his headspace, and momentarily, he was overwhelmed by the possibility. Zecora's blackened gums parting in a frosty wail as unnatural life disturbed her rest. Her empty sockets oozing thawing viscera as she tried to stand from her coffin, fumbling and failing as the jerking stumps of her hooves cracked and snapped in half. Her shambling corpse writhing on the floor as what was left of her innards slipped from her loose chest onto the floor and shattered into icy pieces. The voiceless moaning and pleading of skin flapping and bones crunching in the absence of a windpipe.

A smile on her face.

Light blinked, shaking away the... nightmare with a distressed exhalation. He had to readjust his aching haunches against the chair as he took a hefty swallow, just trying to... stop feeling whatever he was feeling.

No. He'd not be reenacting his nightmare. Best to do something else and wait for a less traumatic opportunity.

He chose not to address whatever trauma was trying to spring forth, instead focusing his attention up to the soul that still hovered bookside. Light took a long moment to focus on it—to really stare at it, doing his best to internalize what he was looking at.

The approximate dimensions... probably... inch and a half, maybe two inch diameter. Small, but still fairly self-evident with its properties. Relatively benign as far as he'd seen from others' characteristics; it seemed to present the most basic behavior he'd come to expect from souls.

Could that be because it had no entity to shape it? That would... no, the soul was the actual 'entity,' wasn't it? Was it because its owner had died? Had that dulled it somehow? Was it just because it came from a crow? He was fairly sure animal souls presented individual characteristics as well—Rarity's cat, for example, was always angry—but was that universal?

Its grey shine came from its undefined edges, but its core... within, past the infinitely fluctuating, racing trails of energy that its open bounds kept within themselves, he could swear his eyes were fooling him into believing its core gradually faded to a gentle hue of white.

Just... some kind of mirage, maybe. It depended on how he focused on it. If he just looked at it—a glance, really—it was very obviously a single shade of grey all the way down. Its natural color. What it was meant to be.

But if he focused... the longer he watched the light shift... it was almost as if...

...it nearly seemed... less than recursive.

His eyes slid closed, and it was only then that he realized they were stinging. Aching. His jaw drifted wide open for a mouthy yawn, and as he peeled his suddenly tired eyes open, he cast a glance down to his notebook and the pencil that hovered just above it. He blinked blearily, then again.

It looked... better than he'd imagined it to be.

Light affected a weary smile as he tilted the front of his notebook up with a lever of his mana, pursing his lips and blowing the eraser shavings off the surprisingly consummate drawing of a soul he'd just spent... some amount of time absently doodling.

He'd wanted to draw a picture of a soul, but he'd not anticipated the... trance he'd entered into. He wasn't exactly an artistic whiz—more in the realm of the starving artist who was starving for a reason. He'd expected to spend a few hours hunching over and stealing quick peeks up at the soul before dropping his gaze and hastily whipping his pencil about the page to repeatedly fix and make new mistakes.

The drawing he'd done... without ever even looking down, just focusing on his muse, seemed as though it'd come from somepony else. The way he'd outlined its bounds in hard lines—fading and strengthening as they bound out and crossed through the half-articulated lines he'd already scored, bringing a sense of interconnectedness to life through enormity—was... unlike him. It seemed too nuanced to have come from him.

The proof was all there, though. The pinching pain in the corners of his eyes from not blinking, the half-shaven eraser topping the pencil he yet held, and even the worsening twinge resonating through his skull and his joints told a story of drawn-out mana use.

He'd written a nice, neat hypothesis, and below it, he'd drawn a picture of a soul. Like an extra large period.

He felt... what was that..? Was that... pride welling in his breast?

Light floated his pencil up to his mouth, once again taking it between his teeth as he let a whistling sigh out through his nose, fanning the tepid flames of self-satisfaction in his chest. It felt... it felt incredible to have... done something. When was the last time he'd done something? It felt like years. It probably was.

He... okay, he knew that probably wasn't true—but it felt true. He'd just... he'd been living with such a profound sense of dissatisfaction and unfulfillment for so long that... he didn't really know... maybe this was all just overwhelming him. Maybe he'd jumped in too fast.

His chin found home resting atop a frog, and Light blew out around his pencil. To his fuzzy gaze, the wall before him seemed to shift in the dark, spelling out that change was scary. Gone when he blinked, but still, the knots in the wood bore some resemblance to staring eyes, and the books stacked along his desk's back edge only made him feel all the more like there was something lurking behind them.

Just... waiting to jump out and steal his meagre accomplishment from him. Simple paranoia, he knew.

His eye fell, landing on the shining orb of shifting light floating above the table. His head rose from his hoof; Light let the appendage fall to cross over its twin as he leered closer at the former existence he'd captured and used for reference. Of course, that didn't bother him all that much—it was only a crow—but it was kind of telling that his thoughts had wandered enough to describe it as such.

His mouth drifted open, and the pencil rolled out to land on his notebook. In its absence, though fully within the bounds of the taste of chewed wood, Light's jaw quirked up into a wan little grin.

He didn't have many moral issues with taking souls, really. Not from... animals, and not from the dead. Murder was... beyond his limit, of course—and he wanted to give back what he'd been forced to steal from Zecora, but... really... that was mostly because she'd not deserved it.

The thought felt a little odd. As he dwelled on it, he couldn't figure out the reason why.

It wasn't disgust. It wasn't the logical fear of admitting that he didn't mind taking what was his, but maybe... defining what he considered such. He felt as though he'd had some hesitance in the past to imagine possessing any soul besides his own, but... he really couldn't remember why.

Who did it hurt if he held onto something no one else was using?

The thought was... fuzzy in his mind, like a downy blanket of security. It was nice to affirm his own beliefs—he'd not always been so able. It made him feel less like a shambling shell of a pony wandering around town and more like... Light Flow. Sitting at his own desk in his own home and doing what he liked.

He'd capitalize on that.

The soul of a pony being manifests as a spherical ball of pure, shifting light, averaging in size at half an one to three four three inches in diameter. This existence is constant, and up until the death of its host, it will remain attached to the being it exists inside of.

As is able to be seen by Necromancers and those

The pencil stopped its hurried scratching, and Light raised his gaze to the wall with a frown.

What had Nightmare Moon told him about Necromancers? He was pretty sure... She'd told him over and over that he was special, right? Because... his abilities were inherent. Other ponies, including Her, needed to use spells to do what he was naturally capable of.

His ego, small and abused as it was, certainly enjoyed hugging that cozy thought, but what did that imply? She'd said that he, specifically, was especially special, but to what extent? Was he the only pony with a Necromancy cutie mark that was able to see and interact with souls?

That was...

...wait. He was... remembering something...

Screaming. Walking towards a door. His mind racing.

His own screaming. Angry screaming.

He'd totally forgotten. He'd given this matter some thought, hadn't he?

That made this a little less confusing for him.

As is able to be seen by Necromancers and those who perform spells to alter their perception, souls exist at a magical frequency above at odds with what is typically perceptible, and they keep themselves within the general chest area of a creature.

Due to the discrepancy between the frequency of mana and the soul, an alteration must be made to any relevant facet of an individual to make contact with souls in any way. Whether by changing what is perceptible to the retina or by altering the frequency one's own arcane mana resonates with, the foundation for altering souls is that of manipulating magical frequency.

It is this principle that chiefly distinguishes those fated with a hollow destiny to perform Necromancy, as such individuals possess a numerically different

Light stopped short, pencil held still over the paper.

He'd worked off the memory of what he'd attempted to discern in a rather feverish moment the other night, and to his eyes, it was logically consistent. It'd all been such a shot in the dark at the time, but looking back, it'd all been remarkably cogent. Especially considering his relative state. Maybe he thought better when he was angry? That felt like it was probably true.

The thing was... he was kind of getting hamstrung by his lacking knowledge of general Arcanicism.

Schooling in Ponyville... wasn't exactly the most encompassing method of learning, and it wasn't like he'd ever cared enough to look very far into the matter at any other time. What he knew kind of boiled down to generalized bullet points that... he wasn't sure were all that accurate.

Natural and arcane mana... Magical frequencies... Magical pathways...

When he tried to follow the thread of logic for any of the topics, he only found himself dangling about an inch off a cliffside. That's how short the thread was.

He didn't think he was comfortable pursuing the relationship between Necromancy and magical frequency much farther at the moment. He didn't even know what frequency mana existed at—or what that even really meant! What was frequency, anyway? How did it relate to wavelength, again? Was any of this congruent?

He wanted to postulate that he, as a natural born Necromancer—and that was the term he was going with—possessed some kind of difference in the characteristics of arcane mana, because that just made sense. If he was going to put forth that souls existed at a similar frequency to mana, then of course it had to be different, because otherwise there'd be a whole bunch of ponies running around gawking at what he'd long since learned not to.

Without really knowing how frequency even related to mana's properties, though, it just seemed like bad hypothesizing. He'd just wind up falling flat on his intellectual face and probably breaking his big nerd glasses when he hit the ground.

His hoof met his face—none too gently—and Light sighed into the soft pad of his frog. He needed better foundations, because the public education system had failed him. Where could he go to learn more about magic, though? He didn't have any textbooks at home, so maybe he could go to-

'Me and Twilight are gonna be staying in Ponyville for a while while she studies friendship, at the Golden Oaks Library.'

Oh no.

Light's next breath came as a drawn out whine as his hoof slid down his jaw, hitting his table with a thump as his head lolled back against his neck.

He'd not internalized it. Why was he only realizing now?

Twilight was the new librarian, and she was living at the library.

Lucky mare. What had happened to the old librarian, though? Come to think of it, when was the last time he'd been to the library? It had been... wait, it had been the Summer Sun Celebration! That was why there'd been a party in the library—and there was a fuzzy blank in his memory filled in!

Ugh. Ew. He'd accidentally attended Twilight's welcome party without even thinking about it. He'd helped Spike out, sure, but he'd also given Nightmare Moon an in into his mind by hanging around Applejack. Not to mention the ill-fitting elephant in the library that really hadn't been built to host a party; he'd attended a party for Twilight.

He cast a glance heavenward, whispering a silent prayer to the guardian of Tartarus that he'd not be judged for it when his time came.

Then he slumped forward, laying his head on his hoof once more and pouting at the shining soul floating over his desk.

Great. What a swell turn of events. If he wanted to check anything out ever again, he'd either have to skip town to Canterlot, or suck it up and talk to Twilight. He'd have to endure her nattering about consequences this and danger that, and he'd probably have to avoid eye contact with Spike so Twilight wouldn't yell at him for... whatever.

He could practically hear her know-it-all tone. 'Light, it's not that I don't like you, it's that you're absolutely repellant, and your proximity may just be enough to finally make me combust. Don't talk to me or my dragon ever again.'

A snort escaped the stern expression he'd adopted to internally mock Twilight, segueing perfectly into an eye roll as he knocked his head to one side then the other. He was overaccentuating, he knew, but he just despised her so much. She'd already told him to stay away from her once, and she'd even used harsher words.

Bigger words, too.

He sighed as his head rose from his hoof, taking a moment to glare down at his imaginary image of Twilight before he lit his horn to take his pencil and stabbed it into her stupid, purple forehead.

Whatever. He'd figure it out. He had better things to do than sit around cursing Twilight's name—fun though it was.

The corner of the page before him wrinkled and rose in a shimmer of mana, turning a couple pages to one that felt right as he cast his thoughts out into the southern sea of wondering once more. He'd skip past the particulars of the soul's existence and how Necromancers were kin to it until he was more sure-hooved in Arcanicism. 'Till then, he had plenty of other thoughts to explore.

The light that evidently comprises the soul is more than simple iridescence; it is most analogous to the light that mana presents itself as, though not quite the same. Whereas mana is ------------- the makeup of a soul is a complex array of innumerable shifting lines that intersect and interlock with each other. In this way, souls are somewhat like lattices.

Light paused, barely even a quarter of the way into the thought he was trying to expound. Was making a comparison to lattices presumptuous? The simile... was similar to the literal definition of a lattice, but he'd had the mana construct more in mind as he'd written it. Were the two similar?

He didn't really know how lattices worked, either—at least, not any more than the average understanding that the commercial mana battery was a specialized type of lattice, and that they just about powered the world. Outside of podunk Ponyville, anyway.

What did they do beyond that? How did they work? He was familiar with the outward structure—that was what led him to make the comparison to souls—but he wasn't sure of their internals. Was he comfortable leaving that vague proposal there, or should he cross it out? If he did, then like all the rest, at least it'd still be there for his future consideration in case it became relevant.

Light thought for another moment before he clicked his tongue and lowered his pencil once more.

Eh.

These lines of indeterminable energy that comprise the soul are, in actuality, the arbitrating code that accounts for every facet of an individual's unequivocal individuality. If a being could be said to have a personality, then the existence of the soul is what ultimately determines such a thing; the soul's intangible luminescence is the exact, culminated core of what may be described as individual existence.

It is quite analogous to the genetic code which comprises living beings, if only at a superficial level. As the particle particular chains of molecules such as DNA provide biological instructions for the physical propagation and growth of life, the particles that somewhat similarly comprise the soul instead govern thought and character at a spiritual level. This behavior may or may not harbor some connection to the inscrutable nature of mana. (???)

It is this fact that lends the school of Necromancy its extreme abhorrence. As its categorized spells may allow an individual to see, to touch, and even to alter these sacrosanct articles of pure personage, it is possible to change the defining nature of any creature which possesses such. If desired, a soul could be plucked apart, strand by strand, and made unrecognizable from what it once was.

Naturally, this would reflect on its owner. One's outward appearance and the inward existence of a soul are like two halves of a mirror; if one were to change, then the other would follow accordingly. Great turmoil affecting one's life may irrevocably change them forever, and all the same, the soul could be made to undergo this change unnaturally.

The actual ability to do so is predicated on

Light stopped short, pencil kept trembling above the page in a haze of red mana, while the throat-choking exhilaration that had crept over him at thinking of gleefully playing with the spiritual anatomy of another being began to ebb from the back of his tongue.

Like a carriage halted at the castle walls, his thoughts stopped. The steady stream of exposition that had come so easily to him... ceased. The taut thread of explication suddenly fell slack.

As Light pulled it up for owl-eyed inspection, he found it so much shorter than he'd been expecting.

He didn't have the necessary experience. He'd never... he didn't know how to...

...He'd performed Flesh Manipulation, hadn't he? He knew enough about the internal workings of a pony and how to channel his magic to avail or abet them, as he'd recently done, and he'd done it with only a few minor mistakes. Whatever he'd done to Bon Bon's nervous system had healed well enough, so in his eyes, he'd earned a passing grade.

He'd taken a soul—plucked it right from the still-breathing chest of a crow—and he was getting better at removing them from his body, too. It was such a profoundly meditative experience; he'd practically spent his whole life preparing for it. It wouldn't be long before he could do it effortlessly, and maybe without it feeling like he was ripping his kidney out. Or some such organ.

But he'd... he'd been able to see souls for nearly half his life, now, but he was...

Like rote, his forearms crossed over his desk—the position of resignation. His shoulders sagged as he bent forward, and as his pencil laid at ease at the heading of his scrawlings, his chin lowered onto the pointy, uncomfortable junction where his pasterns gave way to the solid edges of his hooves.

Sitting there in that position that no doubt wreaked havoc on his back, Light let out a puffing sigh of a breath through his pursed lips; his sullen, melancholic eyes kept lidded and focused on that taunting little sphere of grey light just before him.

Spinning about with its paradoxical white genesis. Mocking him. He didn't understand anything about it.

His eyes drifted closed, yet the soul's light stayed in the dark. Still shining. Still a mystery.

Just... stunted.

It would help if he'd ever actually tried to manipulate a soul.

He didn't want to mess around with the crow's soul, though. He didn't want to... mess it up. He wanted... to know before he did anything crazy. He needed more info. He had to... he had to...

...He didn't even really know what he wanted. To just... watch ponies? To what—understand what governed them? If he'd never been able to figure anything out before, then what use was there now?

Maybe it would be better to experiment with the crow's soul. It was like a controlled environment—any failure he made with it wouldn't really damage anything, would it?

But it'd still be a failure.

He should be more comfortable with failure.

Why wasn't he? Why did it... why could he feel the disappointment just... squeezing his lungs? Why did his stomach feel so heavy? Why'd it make his teeth ache so bad?

What was wrong with him? He should've been... better. Why was he experiencing this... dysphoria?

Nightmare Moon was gone. Applejack was his marefriend. He had the freedom to pursue his special talent.

So... why did he...

...feel so cold..?

Author's Note:

...I feel bad for him.

A'course, I'm the one who makes him suffer through all this turmoil, so maybe they're crocodile tears.

Anyways, hi! I hope you liked this one, technical as it was! We're entering the saga of this story where magic and Necromancy have begun to be explored further, and that means their details must be copasetic and nuanced! Remember, though, that this is coming from Light Flow, and at his own admission, he is a flawed narrator.

The quoting wasn't annoying, was it? I thought it was a neat way to insert Light's writings—neatness which I never quite caught on to every time Light read something, before. Now it's inconsistent, but who cares! If it works, it works!

I chose to keep this chapter shorter than usual—and not just because I've had a couple bad days when it came to having the wherewithal to write. Just thought it'd be better pacing-wise. Probably. It is still just seven thousand words of Light sitting at his desk, but it's not like we haven't had that before.

...Yyyyeah, so, I'm done! Nothing else to say, I don't think. If you're ever confused, then know that everything has a reason, and I never intend on having Light completely lose his mind again! Just... putting that out there!

Good bye! I'm kind of rushing to get this out because I feel bad! I'll probably remember something that I forgot soon! I'm sorry, because I usually am for something!

Comments

[Oreng Pingvin]

So fast, Я вооДУШевлен

[-newt-]

"Don't talk to me or my dragon ever again."

[jaceblackfire]

Very cool. Love the depth, dread, and humor.

[Vibrant lies]

Excellent

[Screw]

At this rate, I think Zecora's resurrection is much further away than the original episode of her. Oh well, Light has a process to this and he seems pretty set in that way. Just like stubborn Applejack.

Based on what Light wrote, I believe souls work similarly to magic, contrary to his epiphany. It's like saying they are similar because... using real life example, light travels at lightspeed, but so does gravity. Hell, radio is a good example: it is set to an encrypted channel. You need the right key, otherwise all you'll hear are static.

In this case, Light is the only living LIGO that can properly experiment and test this theory. He's got a partial working theory down: if souls and magic work on the same frequency, why doesn't anyone see them?

The difference now is that he is the only natural born necromancer out of, according to Luna, all lifetime. Assuming she included Sombra and the ilk. All Light seems to need now is to get his Arcanism down and attempt to cast the normie necromancy spell so he could break it apart.

Maybe the normal necromancy spell is a cobbled together regular spells that could somehow interact with souls. His affinity for black magic could help him bring to light an otherwise ordinary magic.

Maybe, the magic could be traced all the way to Celestia's holy light magic.

Or maybe he could compare the regular necromancy against his own resurrection. It would have either left a trace on the fall site, or literally bathed Bon Bon with his essence when he revived on her.

Either way, that'll force another uncomfortable interaction. Maybe with Lyra, it couldn't be worst. Probably.

He slept the whole day with another mare. Luckily, Applejack isn't as clingy as to look for Light the next day. Or on this third day too, apparently. I thought Applejack didn't want to lose him again, especially after the party.

P.S. That is on the assumption Light realises his necromancy is different than Luna's.

[hyperiumon]

Nice chapter, can't wait Tull knight forces the crows soul into something to test if he can do it, on the subject of flesh manipulation couldn't he just grab a bunch of meat and do some flesh manipulation to remake or heal zecora body and shove the soul in, or maybe make her a golem ?

[Witchery]

Who knew? Maybe he'd find out one day. Maybe it was soul juice.

He should get a cup. He'll feel better, what with his whole somehow existing when he shouldn't thing.

Plus it helps prevent tooth decay.

[Iso_the_Werewolf]

I can't help it. I really can't. Whenever someone is talking or if I'm reading something my mind tends to try to ..full in the blanks.. as information is given to me. If someone starts a word with 'ap-' my mind has already started to guess the word. Apple? Apply? Apparently? And as the sentence goes on I have to actively try to concentrate on what's being said to me or on reading a sentence or my thoughts will wonder into the false narrative that my mind has created, then I have to ask the speaker to repeat what was said or reread the sentence to properly understand.

My point is, in the authors notes I accidentally skipped ahead and saw you had written "I'm done..." and I panicked thinking you had given up writing or at least this story until I took a deep breath and started at the beginning.

[ChakatRedstripe]

Awesome chapter. I do like the technical aspect.