The Twilit Tower

by Fresh Coat

The High Priestess — Chapter IV

“What was all that about?” Flash asked.

“Important work!” Mulberry replied.

“A funeral was important work?” Flash exclaimed. “How? Why? And you could have at least told—”

“We don’t have time for these questions, Flash,” Mulberry interrupted with their usual chipper tone. “We need you to get moving so we can keep helping you.”

Mulberry pulled their head back, granting an unobstructed view of the ceiling. A single bright white light shone back causing Flash to squint. It filled his view of the world, letting him momentarily ignore whatever terrible surroundings he had climbed into.

“Now, Flash,” Mulberry called out.

With a weary sigh, Flash got back on his hooves and stood up, expanding his view to include the space he found himself in.

It was a long corridor made of warm-toned wood, one end stretching away further than he could perceive, the opposite end similar, but ending in an empty void of white. Evenly spaced along the wall on his right were transparent window displays with a single item illuminated by an interior spotlight.

“Welcome to the hall made up of your memories,” Mulberry announced. “Before you are all the items that are important to you.”

Furrowing his brow, Flash took a step toward the nearest display. Inside were two stuffed timberwolves. Both were made from worn fabric stitched together with poorly sewn-on patches of mismatched cloth. One was dark green with a blue ribbon tied around its neck, and the other was a lighter green with a red ribbon. They stared back at Flash from their pedestal with matching glossy black eyes.

“What are these?” Flash questioned.

“Your favourite foalhood toys,” Mulberry answered, gesturing with an outstretched hoof. “It's concerning to us how much you seem to not remember.”

“My favourite…” Flash trailed off before refocusing on the second part of Mulberry’s response. “Hey! I remember things fine. It’s perfectly reasonable to forget about something from my foalhood.”

“But not the majority of your teenage years and young adult life,” Mulberry continued. “You appear to have significant gaps and we only procured as much as we did by diving further into your mind than we normally need to.”

“Not everyone can recall every detail of their life perfectly,” Flash retorted, snorting angrily. “I remember plenty.”

“Oh, then we apologise. We may have misinterpreted what we saw. Perhaps you can answer a simple question to prove your assertion?”

“Sure, but it's unnecessary.”

“What high school did you attend?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Flash scoffed, waving a wing. “I went to…” he wracked his brain for the answer. “Well, it was in Dodge— wait, no, that was my sister. It was Cloudsdale? No, mom went there.” He bit his lower lip, uncertainty on his mind. “Canterlot… ?”

“You attended school in Manehattan,” Mulberry stated cheerily.

“Right, of course,” Flash smacked his forehead with a wing. “I knew that, obviously.”

“Apologies, but we lied. You actually went to school in Vanhoover,” Mulberry corrected.

Flash blinked. He didn’t remember that. Hoping to distract from the panic starting to build in his mind, he placed a hoof against the glass and asked, “So, why are these toys important to me?”

“They were a gift from your father after you pointed them out at a toy store,” Mulberry explained, their tone betraying no recognition of the obvious change in topic. “You thought timberwolves looked cool and decided you needed both.”

“Yeah, since I didn’t want them to feel lonely,” Flash murmured, the memory resurfacing. Giddiness from winning a flight meet earlier that day. His father feeling charitable after his success. “I must have really loved them a lot with how many patches there are.”

“Oh, no, you were actually quite gentle with them. You loved to cuddle and hug them a lot.” Mulberry giggled lightly. “The rips were caused by your father.”

It was like the scratch of a record, his content memories souring immediately as further recollections piled in. “He… what? Why?” Flash asked.

“In the following flight meet, you came in last place due to over-training. You were too exhausted and flubbed the whole competition,” Mulberry said. “Your dad told you that ‘gifts were for winners’ and then ripped both plushes in two.”

“Then dad stitched them back up when he realised he shouldn’t have done that, right?” Flash turned his head towards Mulberry who remained silent, memories resurfacing of falling stuffing and the disappointment etched clearly on his father’s face. “Right?”

Mulberry tilted their head to one side, then jerked their head in the direction of Flash’s hoof. Flash looked in the noted direction and stiffened in shock to see blood congealing under his hoof against the glass.

He pulled it back leaving behind small pinpricks of blood in the rough outline of his hoof. Staring at the bottom, he took in the pricks of dried blood on the surface. All at once, he remembered the long nights sniffling in bed as he stitched his wolves back together using scraps of cloth from the garbage. Crying in frustration for each slip of the needle that stabbed into his unskilled hoof.

“We should move on.”

Flash jerked his head back to Mulberry who stood patiently by him.

“Lots to see, and we can’t help you if you just stand around here,” Mulberry continued.

“Y-yeah, sure,” Flash nodded his head, the corner of his gaze lingering on the timber wolf plushies.

He had managed to repair them, but they had only lasted a week before his father had found them and thrown them out in the trash.

Mulberry began to trot away, a bouncy step to her gait. Flash followed behind, numbness spreading through his hooves as an unnoticed tear fell from his eye.

---

Flash and Mulberry continued to traverse the corridor passing by beloved and important items that told his past. Each memory had a happy tinge on initial observation; the cart he used for his first part-time job, a trophy earned from a music writing competition, and tickets to his first concert, but it was mired in the inescapable frustration of his parents.

Criticisms, arguments, and passive-aggressive remarks about how he didn’t measure up, and how his siblings were so much more successful. It drowned any happiness he felt in a horrible malaise that stuck to him like sludge. It caused him to slump as they trotted on, slowing down as each cubic inch of concrete memory poured back into him, reminding him of how miserable he had been.

Even as his canter slowed to a dawdle, Mulberry kept pace with him, filling the silence between them with ramblings about the various circumstances surrounding a display.

As a new exhibit came upon them, Flash stopped in front of the window, his interest piqued.

“What’s that?” Flash asked.

“Your high school’s honours badge,” Mulberry replied. “For graduating at the top of your class.”

The badge in question did match the purpose Mulberry described. A dull gold medal shaped like a star with a pair of wings and a single horn held together by an outer band. Engraved into the centre were his name and graduating year. It was a beautiful piece, but for one rather noteworthy detail.

“There’s dried blood on it,” Flash noted dully.

“There is indeed,” Mulberry happily replied.

Pausing to mull over his thoughts, Flash asked the obvious first question, “is it mine?”

“No.”

“Okay, that’s… good.” Flash wracked his memory for an answer but was left wanting. “So, whose blood is it?”

“Topo Glint.”

Another pause as Flash searched his mind for a face to the name.

“Who in Tartarus is Topo Glint?” Flash asked.

“Valedictorian of your graduating class, whom you punched so hard in the face he splattered blood on you and lost two teeth,” Mulberry answered happily. “Don’t worry though, he did get them replaced with gold a year later.”

Nodding his head, Flash tried to recall the incident in question. Unfortunately, his mind refused to bring it forth outside of a vague feeling of satisfaction.

“Why did I punch Topo in the face?” Flash questioned.

“We believe the adjoining display will answer that.” Mulberry pranced merrily to the next exhibit, looking back at Flash with a tilt of their head.

Confused, Flash followed after them taking a gander at the display before him. On the central podium was a wooden guitar painted blue with his cutie mark inscribed on the front. It was smashed in half with the strings snapped off.

Memories flooded into Flash. His dream of becoming a musician. His mother wanting him to join her investment bank instead. Arguments. Yelling. Endless fights. A deal. His guitar smashed over the back of the living room couch. His frustrations over why he tried so hard to be at the top of his class only to have his mother unwilling to keep her end of the bargain.

Topo Glint making a snide remark about how Flash never worked for anything. How it was all just hoofed over to him by his parents.

“His dad worked at my mom’s bank as the hiring manager,” Flash said, the pieces falling into place. “I took his attitude as an excuse to make it so he would complain to his father thus ruining my chances at the bank.”

“You did, and it worked!” Mulberry exclaimed. “Shiny Glint refused to hire you despite pressure from your mother. You didn’t have to work there. You couldn’t work there.”

“But I couldn’t follow my dream,” Flash intoned dully.

“No, you couldn’t. You were forced down another path, but this time of your father’s choosing,” Mulberry agreed. Then, in a darker tone, “And that’s what got you into the mess you’re in now, isn’t it?”

Memories of smoke. Burning. Screaming. Panic. Overwhelming failure and heartache. Rifling through garbage. Desperation. Anger. So much anger. Then nothing. The same walls. The same arguments.

Flash trotted past Mulberry, the corridor beginning to stretch further away from him as he felt the weight of his memories push him further to the ground. Every step was an effort, but forward momentum was all he had as the numbness spread further through his body.

Ever present Mulberry trotted next to him, matching his slow pace. “It’s okay to feel this way Flash. We know this might be awful for you, but it will all be worth it eventually. The process will work; just trust in one thing.

“We’re helping you.”

---

Flash continued his forward crawl, his hooves weighed down, his ears assaulted by a neverending deluge of Mulberry’s exposition on his life. The corridor appeared twisted, giving it the appearance of a spiral with the windows stretching to accommodate the odd structure.

“Here’s the contract your father made you sign when you started your career in the guard,” Mulberry said.

Since music wasn’t a real career and the bank wasn’t an option.

“The first suit of armour you were ever given by the castle.”

That never fit right since pegasus armour was forged for streamlined ponies, not hulking brutes that could barely fit in his own race’s tents.

“And this—” Mulberry stopped before the latest exhibit as Flash trudged by. “Strange. We do not actually know what this object’s relevance is.”

Curious as to what had confused Mulberry, Flash trudged back to the prior display window. As he looked over the object inside, his eyes widened and he stepped as close as he could to the glass.

Inside was a nearly complete scale model of a timberwolf with various tools spread around it as if its makers were due to return any moment. The model reared up, its mouth open wide and filled with pieces of cut cardboard, its individual pieces glued seamlessly together.

It also shouldn’t exist anymore.

“We see that you appear to remember this piece. Would you be willing to—”

“How?” Flash interjected.

“What do you mean? We have already told you, everything here is made from your memories.” Mulberry tapped the glass lightly, a tink-tink sound emanating from the impact. “Before you is an object we are unfamiliar with meaning that it is both so important that it had to be placed here and buried so deep in your subconscious, we failed to procure it on our initial gathering.”

Short, quick breaths. Heart pounding in his ears. Flash stared at the object, memories bubbling to the surface.

“Miraculously, we think this object was placed by you, not us.” Mulberry leaned in closer to Flash. “Would you be willing to enlighten us about its importance?”

Burning. Smoke. Flames licking at fur.

“He’s gone, it shouldn’t be here.” Flash placed both of his hooves against the glass, pressing his face as close as he could.

“Who’s he?” Mulberry asked. “We presume you do not mean the model as it has no gender. Is he important?”

“He’s—” Flash caught himself “—It’s, I meant it’s. It was just a dumb slip-up. I’m not good at— the model is useless.”

A pause stretched between them. Panic engulfed Flash as he waited, the quiet filled with memories bubbling to the surface.

“Are you aware of what trauma is?” Mulberry asked.

“No, and I don’t want to know,” Flash answered curtly.

“Trauma—”

“Do you listen to anything I say?!” Flash snapped.

“—is when someone is put under severe physical, emotional, or mental distress. Now, there can be any number of instances and variations, but some of the results may sound familiar.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Anxiety, depression, low self-esteem, mood swings, and memory issues to name a few,” Mulberry listed.

Flash stayed quiet, breathing heavily, fogging the window with his exhales.

“Does that sound familiar, Flash?” Mulberry questioned.

Yes. “No,” Flash answered.

“We believed your parents were the source, but with the effect this one object has on you, we now believe that is only half of it.” Mulberry turned themselves to face Flash fully, their focus solely on the pegasus. “Who do you see?”

“No one,” Flash stated, his face in a firm angry line.

“That can’t possibly—”

“It’s just a dumb toy!” Flash shouted, banging his hooves on the glass causing it to rattle. “It’s not important or connected to anything or part of some trauma that I don’t have. It’s just— it’s—”

A round, bright face stared back at him in the glass. Light blue mane curtained one side of his face, the other side shaved down. Brown fur the colour of baked bread, eyes always twinkling over some joke he’d recently thought of. An ever-present smile shared in private when no one was looking. A deep voice whispering his name conspiratorially as they muffled their laughter.

“—Someone I can never see again,” Flash whispered, a tear trickling down the side of his face.

Numbness flooded through him, taking any brief amount of joy at remembrance and wallowing in under a mire of grief. The kind that took everything, the kind you could drown a pony in.

“We are sorry to hear that,” Mulberry said. “Though, we are curious to know where this model went. Where is it now?”

A sneer on that kind face. Brown turned to puke-yellow, blue mane to a muddy brown. Two glossy hazel eyes peered back. Eyes that belonged to someone who had never once even considered a kind gesture.

The most punchable face in Equestria.

A torrent of rage tore out of Flash’s throat as he smashed his head through the glass, hate searing through him. Glass clattered to the ground, the jagged remains cutting into his face and neck, leaving red lines criss-crossing his fur. He found his forward momentum had brought him through the window and into blackness. The only sound was the choked sobs from himself as angry hot tears rolled freely down his face leaving burning trails of salt.

Flash’s ears perked as he heard a disgruntled cough followed by an unknown, yet familiar voice speaking to him.

“You’re late.”

Comments

[nlinzer]

“Why do you keep talking to him like that?!”

“Honey, I have no idea what you—”

“You know exactly what I mean!”

“Now listen here young filly, you can’t talk to your mother like that.”

“Oh, so it’s fine if you do it, but if I do the same thing it's suddenly bad?”

“Yes! You can’t talk to your parents that way.”

“It’s very troubling.”

“Are you kidding me?! You absolute—”

I knew Flashs parents were bad with this. Just not as bad as they turned out to be.