Xenophilia: Further tales.

by TheQuietMan

81: Do you want to feel how it feels?

Do you want to feel how it feels?
Chapter published 7th Feb 2015

************

a crack of light, from where, who knew, spearing her eye, blinding her. she threw a forearm across her brow, hoping to block out the evil light, it didn’t help. it was time, they beckoned her to stand, to follow, she obeyed. leaving her cell, she let herself be lead, down twisting corridors, slick caves, ragged shoes slipping on the slime and dirt. they came the the armoury, the gaping maw into the vast room lay open before her. she stepped inside, didn’t wait to be pushed. procrastination, reluctance, delaying tactics, none would help her here. trunk after trunk, locker after locker, they all sat before her, their lids closed, their doors shut tight. only one glowed green, ready to be opened. it was the one she really hated, and right now she hated a lot of these damn things. fingers curling around the edges, she pulled the casket open, the lid swinging free, showing her what was within. nestled within a dozen partitions sat eleven spears, the twelfth partition, mocking her with its emptiness, told her which weapon she would facing soon enough. eleven remained, eleven from which she could choose. her hand moved, almost of its own accord, fingers curling around the same spear that she would pick every time. her fingers ran along the spear’s wooden shaft, tracing every bump and notch, each as familiar as the back of her own hand. four fifths of the way along the spear’s total length the wood was fused to the material that made up its point. well over a foot’s worth of the slick, spiraled material jutted out from the wooden shaft, thirteen, fourteen maybe, inches of what she could only think of as some kind of animal horn or tusk. straight and true as an arrow, much like those from a huge arctic narwhal or mystical unicorn. running fingers along its length, she was reminded of the smoothest of ivory, the slickest of polished granite, the sharpest of steel. the point at the end was lethal, she knew that all too well, had been a victim to it, and its siblings, more times that she’d like to remember. she ran her hands all along the horn-spear’s length once again, tracing the spiral patterning with her fingertips. it had become something of a ritual over the years, always this one spear from among the many others. always the same horn of darkest blue, so dark it might as well have been black. always the same gouges and nicks in the horn’s surface. always the same small tuft of midnight blue skin and fur hanging loose at the point where the horn was bonded to the spear’s wooden shaft, a gruesome momento from whatever mighty beast had sported this magnificent appendage before it had been wrenched free from their corpse, turned into some kind of macabre trophy. leaving the casket open, she rose, her guards ready to escort her to the arena. once again, in this distant land, it was time to meet her fate. and, once again, she would meet it head on...

.

...what else could she do.

.
.

so, they were going for the classics today. a large circular arena, sand beneath her feet, the crowd watching, observing, critiquing from high above. all the trappings of a roman amphitheatre, such as those where brave gladiators, soldiers, slaves and prisoners alike would meet their gruesome ends. today, and for as long as she could remember, she had been all of the above. a prisoner, a slave, a soldier. today she was to be a gladiator. the fingers of her right hand curled tight around her spear, she threw the left across her brow, blocking out as much of the blinding light as she could. silence reigned, the lack of sound deafening in its own way, her senses overpowered, vision flooded in white. her eyes cleared, her opponent approached, pads against sand, claws digging into the ground beneath him with every step. she recognised him, sort of. one of the hunde menschliche, they always brought werewolves to mind, with their hairy bodies and upright stance, their long snouts and sharp teeth. she’d seen this one around, faced him before, she knew that fur pattern, his gait, the slight limp, the way his ears moved, one then the other. yes, she’d seen him around, many a time, best not to get too close though, don’t pal up, it just made it hurt more in the end. he was swift, strong, decisive this one, but honourable. no games, no dirty tricks. while he fought to win, he did not play with his opponents as so many others did, desperate to please their overlords, to curry favour through their own actions. his movements were considered, his strikes un-pulled, his movements never wasteful, his attacks everything they needed to be, stopping well short of anything unnecessary to take his target down. she was going to lose, no doubt about it, but at least it would be quick. thank heaven for small mercies. and considered the weapon held in his hands, she’d take any mercy that she could get. a spear, much like her own. but where her weapon of choice was dark, almost black, his shone and gleamed, light reflecting from its pale wood shaft and pristine spike of purest white. almost a foot and a half of sharp, spiral horn was awaiting her, just a few dozen yards away. so, here they were, white versus black, weapons almost identical except for their colour, like the ebony and ivory of an old time chess set. but there was no gambits or mates or queening or rooking to be going on here, just stabbing, slashing, puncturing, volleys of blood and guts and tears and death...

.

...and so the games began.

.
.

she had held her own for as long as she could, but she had been outmatched right from the start. every block, every parry, every desperate duck and dive, every weave and bob, not one of them had been enough. blood loss was slowing her down, her rapidly weakening limbs slowly but surely going numb from the extremities inwards. she had lost an eye in the first attack, an ear in the second, and it had gone downhill from there. hands slick against her spear’s shaft, she was desperate now, lashing out any way that she could, swinging wildly in an arc. her opponent stayed in her blindspot, circling her like a shark, darting in close to attack whenever he saw an opening, inflicting small wounds, one after the other, none lethal by themselves, but deadly en masse. so, they had decreed that today was to be a death by a thousand cuts. not a way she liked to go, but there were worse, she’d found that out long ago. a tendon here, a hamstring there, she fell to a knee, unable to stand. she turned her spear, thrust it into the ground as best she could. she could end it now, cast away her spear, admit defeat, but she would not, would not give them that victory. if they wanted her down, crawling in the sand, breathing her last, then they they could have that with just a word, but they would never have her defeated. leaning against the spear, she held herself upright as best she could, her cheek pressed against the wooden shaft, the slickness of her own blood making it hard not to slip against it, to slide to the floor. the attacks ceased, the pure white spear, marred by blood running free along its spiral groove, no longer stabbed and pierced and penetrated her being. her opponent stepped into her field of vision, standing not five feet away, his weapon pointed away from her, towards the stone roof so far above. he waited, just as she did the same, both knowing that orders from upon high would soon be forthcoming. soon enough her fate would be sealed, but until then they waited...

.

...what else could they do.

.
.

It didn’t take long, or maybe it had, she just didn’t know anymore. the cold numbness was taking her, pulling her away, calling her to places far away, promising that soon, soon it would all be over. he moved, her opponent, he moved. it had not been much, but it had been enough, enough to bring her back to the here and the now. she opened her remaining eye, finding him watching her. their eyes met, and there she found compassion, and sorrow, and regret. she did not envy him his position, she had been in it enough times herself. his eyes asked a question, one she had asked often enough herself. she responded with all the movement that she could manage, granting the forgiveness.that her opponent craved. a moment passed between them, one that only those in their positions could experience. she closed her eye, praying the moment would be swift, that her opponent did not falter, that if their positions were reversed that she could do the same for him. his arm was strong, his attack was swift, but, for all his best efforts, today his aim was not true. she felt the spear force its way into her chest, time slowing to a crawl as its point pushed its way through skin and muscle, working its way between her ribs, through a lung as it made its way towards her heart. but the wound was not fatal, not instantly. her grip faltered, her arm leaving her spear, her body sagged, falling backwards onto the ground below. agony screamed through her body, pain receptors and nerve endings doing their jobs just as they should. her brain was flooded with messages from all over her body, just to be drowned out by those coming from the gaping wound in her chest. she gasped for breath, her lungs filling with her own blood, her life flowing from her, soaking its way into the sand beneath her. time stood still, each breath lasting for minutes, hours maybe, and, with the powers that her captors could wield with a whim, this could well enough be true. the world faded from her vision, darkness creeping in from the edges. she could just make out her opponent crouching over her, could feel the warmth of his fur as a paw cradled her head, another as it stroked at her hair, the smell of his breath as he leant over her, the fading whisper from his lips as he lamented her fate. random parts of her mind recognised his words as being in German, even as synapses deep within her brain were misfiring with pain. the words were unknown, high-school language classes being so far away as to be another lifetime, but the meaning was clear. he was wishing her a quick death, an easy death, an escape from this life of torture, a journey to a better place. how sweet it was of him to try...

.

...even though they both knew that it was not to be.

.
.

consciousness faded in and out, moments of excruciating pain mixed with blessed bouts of nothingness. how long had she lain there, in her own blood, the precious fluids draining from her body into the sand below. she wouldn't die, not yet, they wouldn't let her, they’d never let her die. suffer, yes, die, no. the fight itself, that had just been the first part of their fun, the appetiser before the feast. the suffering, the crying, the begging, that was the real spectacle, the suffering of those that could die, the only ones that were truly alive. they liked it when you cried, when you wept and railed, called out for salvation, called out for loved ones, called out for death. she’d seen bigger, stronger, stranger creatures than her break under the pressure, fall into the pain, lose control of their bodily functions as they’d breathed what they’d wished had been their last. she wasn’t ashamed to admit she’d cried out herself, she’d called for her father, screamed for her mother, for someone to come for her, to take her away. she’d once bled out for, she didn't even know how long it had been, days or weeks, until they’d killed her, had her run through with a sword, her head cleaved in two with an axe. how dismayed she’d been to wake up the next morning, back in her cell, her injuries healed, her body restored. her body had been ripped asunder countless times since then, rendered and restored, rendered and restored, over and over. but her mind, her mind was still her own. they would not break her, never have the pleasure of the only thing they had left to take from her, she wouldn’t let them. one day she’d get out of this hell hole...

.

...one day she’d escape, one day she’d be free.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The beating of feathers against her face brought Princess Luna back to the waking world. Eyelids fluttered open revealing her large cyan eyes, tears running from red tinged corners, down her cheeks and onto her ancient writing desk.

The flapping ceased, Luna’s pet raven stowing his wings as he backed away, perching himself on a nearby lamp, far enough away to give his mistress some space but close enough to be of aid if required.

More tears fell, staining the half-filled parchment resting on the desk’s surface, recently formed words losing legibility as previously dried ink became moist once more.

The raven tucked his beak under a wing, preening a father that had no need of it. His mistress needed time, so time she would get. But not too much.

Princess Luna took a moment to wipe her eyes before returning the quill that had at some point fallen from her grasp and onto the floor to its proper place in its inkwell. She took another moment to compose herself, just a moment, that was all.

“CAW!”

Luna turned, facing her pet. He watched her for a few seconds, before tilting his head, as if in question.

“I am fine, Nethermour, but thank you for asking.“

The bird tilted his head again, this time in the other direction.

“CAW?”

“Really, I am. But I appreciate your concern.”

“CAW!”

“Yes, you are right. They are becoming more frequent.”

With a single beat of his wings, Nethermour swooped from his spot on the lamp, across his mistress’s office, before alighting on the edge of the desk and shuffling his way over to stand on the now ruined correspondence. Lifting a forehoof, Luna carefully stroked the bird, letting her touch run from the top of his head to the tip of his tail. The raven did not often let her stroke him, but when he did she was ever-so gentle.

“It was the spears again. The ones made of alicorn horns. He took the one with my horn... the one he always takes.”

Luna closed her eyes, remembering the long, dark horn. She remembered the way it felt under as she’d ran her fingers along its length, the notches and dings, the slight imperfections in its spiral groove. She knew that spiral well, she saw it in the mirror every day.

“So many cases, so many trunks. How many alicorn horns are stored there, how many versions of me have fallen throughout the years? How many alicorns of the night, how many alicorns of the day? How many times have I fallen, how many times has my sister...?”

Raising a forehoof to her chest, she pushed it against her fur, rubbing at the skin beneath, just above her heart.

“I know now what it must have felt like for my love, to have died at my own horn. My sister claims it would have been instantaneous, that he would have felt no pain. I know this now to be a lie... but I cannot bring myself to hate her for telling it. Some lies are not told to conceal a falsehood, but because, deep down, we wish that they could be true.”

With eyes closed, the alicorn of the night began to hum- a slow, sad melody, faltering at times. In less than a minute it ended, the princess opening her eyes to find her companion settled back at the far edge of the desk, watching her intently.

“I heard a song, in old Germane. A gift, as I... as he, lay dying. Would you like to hear it?”

“Caw.”

The princess smiled, for the first time in many an hour.

“I will take that as a ‘yes’, then.”

And so a princess of Equestria sang to her faithful companion an ancient song from a distant land.

Komm, süßer Tod, komm selge Ruh!

Komm führe mich in Friede,

weil ich der Welt bin müde,

ach komm! ich wart auf dich,

komm bald und führe mich,

drück mir die Augen zu.

Komm, selge Ruh!

.

Comments

[Dnar Semaj]

what?

[Stormcaller]

Sums up this chapter nicely.

[Keeper of Jericho]

I'm noticing a trend here of alicorn = depressing and dark chapter.

[Ehunkel]

That was... Interesting. Was is merely a dream, or a repressed memory ?

Both would be interesting, though for different reasons.

[Djerid]

I feel like this in the future, without any solid indicator. Although given how far the story is in the timeline Tiberius could easily be dead, so the raven replaced him.

[FanOfMostEverything]

Well, that was several kinds of horrifying. Well done.

5598759
Lero dreamed of his time fighting for the amusement of the Fair Folk, armed with a spear tipped with the horn of a Luna from another timeline. Luna experienced the dream-memory as her own, much to her distress.

[mycarhasaMoustache]

Well that was horrifying in a good way. Well done

[Pvt PartyPooper]

I find it odd to give her a raven pet when she already has Tiberius.

But still, that is a most unsettling (and confusing) dream

5599500
Well, now it makes sense

[Zer0prototype]

I always imagined Lero to have been trained as a servant of the fae. Occasionally people complain that he is so Gary Sue but wouldn't it make sense that he would act perfectly if he was trained intensely to be perfect? It is possible that how he acts in Equestria is nothing like how he was on Earth, or only vaguely similar. That would mean that every time Lero does something that wouldn't please his 'lady' would be him rebelling against the psychological training they put him though. Maybe that is why he tries so hard to please everyone.
We also know that is not the flowing mane that distresses him, just Celestia's. As he has never freaked out around Luna, so the fae woman that trained him must have Celestia's hair as well.

[pahnazd]

I'm not really a fan of dark stuff. But at the same time I can't stop reading these chapters.
They're all just so well written!

[Red Bomber]

5602610
Yeah, that repressed memory definitely explains why he seems to be afraid of Celestia somewhat and why he's very afraid of them in general.

[General Spritz]

5598957
5599500
Fair Folk? There's a name for these tormentors?

[Natsu522]

5661239 Fair Folk are Faeries.

[Midknight Defender]

5661239 The Fair Folk, the Sidhe, the people of the mounds, fairies, fey, tons of other names throughout the various languages of ancient Europe. Nasty folk, even with the comparatively cuddly veneer Shakespeare gave them.