Dining Among The Dead
A gust of wind shook the trees, sending leaves tossing against the moonlit sky. The moon was gibbous and bright overhead, but waning, the light passing towards darkness. The wind held a hint of a bite, but summer still held sway, the leaves had not yet begun to turn. The gusting breeze shook them, making them whisper softly, telling their verdant secrets to the empty air.
Crickets chirped, somewhere in the underbrush, and a fox darted across the narrow dirt road that led among the trees. Later and elsewhere a rabbit's final scream would shatter the peaceful night, but for now the fox was both swift and silent.
Swifter, but far less silent, Flittermouse the thestral came swooping by overhead.
"Wahoo!"
He was a deep, midnight blue, and clad all in black, so only his azure mane and tail, and his shining golden cat's eyes showed against the barely deeper blue of the night sky. He did an enthusiastic barrel roll and whooped in delight again. "This is the best! I'm so excited! Ha ha ha! Have you ever been so excited?!"
On the ground beneath him, Zelatrix, his zebra companion, cast an amused eye towards the sky, but didn't dignify his extravagant display with a response. She would have needed to set the picnic basket she was carrying down to do so in any case, so she merely kept walking steadily along the path.
She was clad in black as well, wearing an elegant dress trimmed in purple. It was very much in the Canterlot style, the only nod to her ancestral Zebrica was the gold earrings in her ears. The dress, however, was nearly two centuries out of fashion; an oddity in most circles, Canterlot or otherwise. Her hair was long, falling in striped waves past her collar. Dramatic black eyeliner and purple eyeshadow that matched the ruffled lace trim of her dress completed her somewhat eccentric look.
"We're almost there!" Flittermouse dove down out of the sky to hover next to Zelatrix, his booted hind hooves just off the ground. "Do you think we'll see a ghost?"
Zelatrix's mouth quirked upward around the picnic basket's handle. Her younger companion's enthusiasm was rather contagious. She trotted a little bit faster, and Flittermouse zoomed ahead, darting through the rusted iron gates, no longer capable of closing and locking, that framed the entrance to the ancient cemetery.
Inside the walled area the pair paused and looked around, Flittermouse finally letting his booted hooves touch the ground. The boots were heavy, solid things of black, accented with bright silver buckles, plates and studs. They matched the overall look of his outfit, which was not trendy by most standards, but which was nevertheless stylish in its own way. Faded black pants with a profusion of pockets and straps kept company with a plain shirt in a slightly different black, and a long coat, also black, went over it all. The ends of the coat had whipped and trailed behind him as he flew, but now hung still as he settled to the ground amid the graveyard with its moldering markers.
This was an old cemetery, no longer in much use, though a few family plots still had spaces left. That meant that most of the headstones were the old-fashioned kind, standing tall in a variety of shapes, rather than the more modern, low to the ground sort. Several even had statues atop them, or elaborate artwork carved into them.
There were trees within the cemetery too, planted over the graves of ponies many decades gone, and now grown to significant height. The moonlight filtered down through their wind-stirred leaves to cast ever-shifting shadows over the headstones. Ivy buried other graves, making mysterious tangles with dark, unknown hearts.
A tall headstone, topped with a winged pony, drew his attention. "Here's a great spot," he said, pointing to the grassy ground beside it. Zelatrix set down the basket, and Flittermouse immediately opened it, pulling out a folded picnic blanket, which he spread out. "So do you think we'll see a ghost? I really want to see a ghost! I never have. I've never had a picnic in a graveyard either. This is so exciting! There have to be ghosts here, right?"
"A graveyard is the place for such," the zebra said at last, her slightly husky voice softly amused, "But do not plan on seeing much. Spirits may abound all night, but can't be seen by common sight."
"But you've got like... an inner eye or something, right? You told me when we met that you worked with spirits. Can you tell me if any ghosts are around? Can you make them appear? I really, really, really want to see a ghost."
"Ah sweet youth! Desire runs deep. I promise naught that I can't keep. I have some power, it is true, yet lightly use it, I will not do."
"I get it. Can't just go messing with the spirit world just for fun, right?"
"As you say true." Zelatrix smiled again. Flittermouse frowned for a moment. Had she forgotten to rhyme? Then he replayed what she'd just said and let out a little giggle. Of course she hadn't forgotten.
"But there are ghosts here?"
"Oh yes, young friend. Ghosts without end. Spirits abound, but make no sound."
"That's too bad. A little creepy ghost wailing would make the perfect backdrop for this meal, I think! But I guess the food itself will have to do. Are you ready to eat?"
"I eagerly anticipate your cooking, it will all be great." Zelatrix's indulgent smile was brightened with a bit of extra enthusiasm. She was not herself much of a cook, but she knew that Flittermouse was training to be a chef, and was likely to have prepared some excellent treats for their evening's outing.
A graveyard picnic was not her usual sort of entertainment, to be honest, but she found she was enjoying it all the same. That seemed to be how everything around Flittermouse went. Her first impression of the young batpony hadn't been especially impressive. Yet somehow here she was, on what practically amounted to a date, though neither of them had said the word.
She remembered the beat of the music on the night they'd met. It pervaded every inch of the club, a deep throbbing that demanded she'd dance. Dancing was why she'd come, her hooves moving in time to that beat, her ears pricked to the minor, even melancholy voice that wrapped itself around the heartbeat bass tones. No bright neon or famous DJs were to be found there, no flashing strobes and vivid color. Nearly everything was black; the lights that throbbed in time with the drumming heartbeat of the music dim and warm.
Zelatrix had barely registered the little cluster of youths watching her dance. But when the song ended and she retired to the bar she couldn't help but see the way they kept glancing at her, laughing and teasing one of their number about something. The next song began softly, so she could just catch snatches of their conversation, and a laughing "Sexy grandma!" told her all she needed to know about why they found her of interest. She was indeed a little older than most here, and certainly much older than the barely-drinking-age clutch of young stallions.
Indeed the one that the others shoved laughingly in her direction looked as though he might have snuck in with a fake ID. Blushing and flicking his ears nervously, he took a seat beside her at the bar and ordered a drink.
She expected a clumsy pickup line, but instead got asked if she knew when the club had been founded. Unexpectedly drawn into a conversation, it was even more unexpected when she found herself still talking to the young bat-pony when the club's bouncers shooed the dwindling crowd away at closing time.
He'd done a lot of the talking, he was a garrulous fellow, and she had to work within the constraints of rhyme, but she'd probably said more to him that evening than in the entire week before it.
"I thought we'd start by opening the wine." Flittermouse retrieved a bottle and a pair of glasses from the bottom of the basket. "I hope you like marelot? It's an '02, so it's not super old, but it's been in bottle five years now which is totally long enough for most marelots. I had one the other day of the same vintage that was drinking really nicely! Here, I'll pour." He had already expertly removed the cork while talking and he poured two glasses with practiced dexterity. He smiled warmly, his fangs just showing as he held one out to Zelatrix.
She smiled in return, and her hoof touched his as she took the glass.
Taking a sip, she rolled the wine around on her tongue for a moment, teasing out the subtle notes of its rich flavor. It was fruity and deep and yet carried a subtle hint of tannic bitterness. A suitable drink for a place like this, pleasant and yet with a lurking darkness. She looked across at Flittermouse, who was sipping his own wine contemplatively, and the image of the fanged thestral drinking the blood-red fluid was also somehow appropriate.
They sipped for a moment in silence, the faint chirp of crickets the only sound. It was a still night, peaceful as the grave itself. But then of course the silence was once again broken by Flittermouse, as he reached into the basket.
"I brought some bread and butter as our starter. Yes, I made courses. How could I not! But they're very simple. I think you'll like them." He flashed Zelatrix a toothy smile. "The bread is sourdough, which I baked myself! From my own starter, even. Did you know that keeping a sourdough starter is kind of like keeping a pet? You have to feed the starter every day. You get it in the first place by leaving the right things out in the right conditions, and wild yeast will just turn up. So it's a little creature colony of wild animals, how cool is that? And then you make food from it. Which actually now that I say it like that sounds totally creepy. Making food from your pets! But it doesn't hurt the starter at all, of course. If you just fed it and fed it and never took any out to make bread, it would like... take over everything, just weird bubbly goo filling up the whole place, he he!"
Zelatrix chuckled, but only took another sip of her wine, letting Flittermouse's cheerful chatter fill the night air. He continued to talk as he laid out slices of thick, heavy bread and spread butter from a little crock on them. She accepted the first proffered slice with a silent nod of thanks.
Flittermouse obviously knew what he was doing, all silly chatter aside, for the bread was just what sourdough should be. It was soft yet lightly in the center, with a tang strong enough to make itself known but not so sour as to be overwhelming, and the crust was chewy too, but with a firmer crunch to it, which tore satisfyingly in one's teeth. The butter was excellent as well, rich and generously spread. Zelatrix found herself wondering if Flittermouse had made that as well, but to ask the question would be to break the contemplative silence that now enveloped them both as they at together.
Instead, Zelatrix looked around the cemetery, taking in little details she hadn't noticed earlier. The stones were weathered, most of them quite old. The lettering had worn entirely off of some of them, and they were splotched with lichen. Feeling curious, she focused her power, letting her vision slide into that realm between, where the restless dead wandered. A flicker of purple mist flared across her eyes as she did, but was gone again in a moment.
This view changed nothing, the cemetery still held only herself and her thestral companion, which was a bit unusual. Usually she could see at least a shade or two hanging around any given graveyard. Ghosts haunted places where they'd lived, and places where they'd died, but they also haunted where they'd been laid to rest, so at least a few should have been here. Yet there was no sign of any ghosts at all. She frowned faintly, wondering if there was a reason for that. Perhaps it was as simple as some other spirit worker laying the ghosts here to rest.
"Is the bread not good?" asked Flittermouse, breaking into her thoughts.
Zelatrix banished her frown and flashed the verbose thestral a smile. "Forgive me friend for being rude, I do most surely like your food! My mind but wandered to a thought that likely will amount to naught."
"Oh. That's good then! I hope you like the next course too. This is the main, it's roasted vegetable skewers. They're cold now, of course, though I guess if we really wanted to go crazy we could build a fire and heat them up! But they're actually really good cold. Here, let me get them out." He pulled out a little foil-wrapped packet and began unwrapping it. Inside were a half dozen bamboo skewers, with an assortment of vegetables. Mushrooms nestled next to red bell peppers and slices of zucchini, with sweet vidalia onions spreading their flavor in between. He hoofed one over to Zelatrix, who took it and tried a few curious bites. It was delicious, each of the vegetables complimenting the others, with just enough brown carmelization to add rich flavor without being overcooked.
With her eyes half-closed Zelatrix savored the interacting flavors. It was enough to prompt her to speak. "Your cooking skills are very real, I truly have enjoyed this meal."
Flittermouse made a somewhat undignified little squeaking sound. "You have? I mean, that's great! I hoped you'd like it. The meal isn't over yet, though. You can't have a picnic without dessert! At least I sure don't think so. Here." He rummaged in the basket one more time and came out with a circular packet of waxed paper.
When he unfolded the paper it revealed a pear and hazelnut tart, with the rounded forms of pear halves peeking out from amid a golden hazelnut filling, all encased in a shortbread crust. A whiff of rich, buttery, fruit scent wafted from it to Zelatrix's nostrils as Flittermouse took a small knife and cut the pastry in half. It wasn't huge, the whole if it was only a little wider than her hoof, but when she took her half-circle from him and bit into it, it was so rich that she knew the portion would be more than enough.
She ate it slowly, in small bites, taking her time and enjoying every single one. Flittermouse ate his with a bit more speed, but perhaps he valued it less, since he could make one for himself any time he pleased.
With his mouth empty again he started up his chatter. Zelatrix smiled in between bites as he babbled on about whatever thought floated through his head. Looking around the graveyard again as she thoughtfully chewed, she felt that the juxtapositions here were fascinating. The dark night, somberly full of sleeping dead. The bright chatter of her companion. The richness of the food, an indulgence that practically shouted of the goodness of life, of being alive, eaten amid those who were beyond tasting, beyond knowing such things. Could those who slept here speak, would they beg for a morsel? But of course no active shades watched the feasting, the graveyard was still empty, even to her sight. The dead here had moved on, hopefully to a place where they might smell and taste and feel as she did now.
When Zelatrix was finished eating, Flittermouse tidied the now-empty wine bottle and everything else back into the basket, then darted to his hooves. "Let's look around! I want to see who's buried here, and read some inscriptions, see what weird things people wanted to say about the dead."
She rose also, with a smile, and gave him a nod. They set out to explore the graveyard further. It wasn't a huge space, but it was crowded, nearly every possible nook and cranny holding a headstone or a statue or some other memorial. Flittermouse darted from one to another, peering at their inscriptions, calling out whenever he found one of interest.
"This one says 'I was somebody' under his name. That's pretty weird. Everyone is somebody." He took to the air in a bounding leap and dropped down next to another stone. "Ha! Look at this one! 'The shell is here, but the nut is gone.' Somebody had a sense of humor. Or I guess whoever buried her did. I think it's a her. Merry Berry, that sounds like a mare's name."
Zelatrix chuckled, but Flittermouse was zooming off again long before she could catch up.
"Oh wow. The dates on this say the guy was exactly a hundred years old when he died. That's amazing. Lotta these people died really young. There are a bunch of babies, even. It’s weird to think about having a tombstone for a baby." His voice echoed from out of sight. He came back close to where she stood a moment later, peering at another stone. "I can't read half of these, though, they're all so old."
"If we had but planned ahead, we could have read more of these dead. Rubbings are the thing, I hear, when stone inscriptions are not clear."
"Ah, right! I've heard about that. I wish I'd brought some things to do rubbings, yeah. That'd be fun. Maybe another time." He frowned at the nearest stone, peering at the faded letters. There was a sudden chill in the air, and frost blossomed over the words, obscuring them further. Flittermouse jumped back, letting out a startled squeak.
Zelatrix whipped her head around, looking for a sign of the shade that must be near to cause such an effect, but though the frost swiftly spread out over the stone until it was entirely encased in a tracery of white tendrils, she could see nothing.
After a long moment, when nothing else happened, Flittermouse said, "Wow. That was weird."
Zelatrix nodded.
The thestral suddenly grinned, showing his fangs. In an exaggerated whisper he said, "You won't believe this, but I think this graveyard might be haunted!"
Zelatrix smiled a bit at his obvious enthusiasm, but couldn't quite summon a matching cheer. A ghost that could affect the physical world was a powerful spirit indeed, especially at a distance. A spirit's chill normally came from its touch, but nothing had been touching the headstone. And a powerful ghost was often a dangerous ghost. So she stayed alert as they continued to explore.
"Hey, you'll like this one! It says, 'We all must die, there is no doubt. Your glass is running, mine is out.' See, it rhymes!"
With a chuckle Zelatrix walked over and regarded the simple stone. No frost formed on it as Flittermouse darted off to find more.
"This one's a rhyme too! I guess old time ponies really liked to put rhymes on graves. 'Creosote Rich has passed away, while owing more than he could pay.' I wonder if that means he owed money to the guy who made the stone? Oh hey, this one's really weird, look! It has a name, and a birth date, but no death date. Somebody got their stone all ready beforehoof. The birthdate's... about thirty years ago? So yeah, I bet Mr. or Mrs. Sweet Potato—is that a mare's name? Sweet kinda sounds like, but nobody would name a mare Potato, right? Anyhow, whoever it is there is still walking around somewhere, probably. That's so cool. I should do that, and then I could come and visit my own grave!"
As Flittermouse rattled on about inscriptions, Zelatrix thought she caught a hint of movement from the corner of one eye. She spun, her senses straining to see into the beyond, but still saw nothing but the comparatively mundane scene of headstones and thestral before her. She flicked her ears in irritation and continued following Flittermouse as he exclaimed over interesting headstones.
"Aww, this one is sad. A mare and a colt, it sounds like, and they died on the same day, but it's also the same day the colt was born. So it's his mom and him, buried together, because she died having him."
"It sadly was a common woe," said Zelatrix, feeling the urge to speak finally, "but modern times make it less so."
"I'm glad. Like... I really love old times and old things, but modern medicine and magic are pretty great too. I'm glad I didn't die as a baby. I want to live as long as that guy who was a hundred, that'd be pretty awesome."
Zelatrix smiled and nodded. "We all wish to live yet know, as your stone said, we all must go."
"Yeah. Oh hey! Look at this, this isn't sad, this is super neat!" He took wing yet again and veered suddenly off, towards a looming dark form. It was a mausoleum, a low building, partly set into the ground, no doubt containing some particular family's entire lineage buried within. Three steps descended to a door, which had an iron grate across it. Beyond, in the darkness, a narrow corridor lined with plaques could just be glimpsed.
As the thestral flew towards it, the wind suddenly gusted, tugging him around in the air and then swirling into a whirlwind that spun leaves and twigs and other bits of debris up into the air in front of the mausoleum's dark mouth. It whirled towards Flittermouse and then exploded in all directions, sending leaves flying into his face. He wobbled in the air, nearly losing control, and came to a very rough landing just at the top of the three steps that led down to the gated door.
"Woah. That was intense! It really is haunted. I bet the ghost lives in there." He went down the steps and peered inside. As he brushed against the gate, it swung inwards. "Oh hey, it's open."
Zelatrix was galloping towards him, the train of her dress flying out behind her, but she knew she wouldn't get there in time. She called out, "Flittermouse, please take care, I feel you should not go in there!"
"I just want to see who's buried there. And how could I visit a haunted mausoleum and not go inside?" Flittermouse danced in place just a bit in excitement, then darted through the open gate. "I'll only be just a second."
"No, you shall remain for eternity," said a new voice, one that was hollow and distant, yet booming and immediate at the same time.
Flittermouse let out a yelp of surprise and jumped almost enough to hit the low ceiling of the mausoleum, his wings flared out as if to take flight, even though he couldn't in that small space. He spun around, looking for the speaker. "Who said that? Are you a ghost?"
There was no reply, but the gate swung itself shut with a loud clang. Only a moment later Zealtrix arrived, but it was too late, the gate had not only shut but locked, and her tugging couldn't budge it.
"Luna's stars and Grogar's scars!" snapped Zelatrix, spitting out the rhyming curse in frustration. Flittermouse was locked in.
Flittermouse blinked at her through the bars. "It's okay. I'm sure I can get out of here somehow. And ghosts can't actually hurt people, can they?"
"This spirit spoke, and moved this gate. It surely can affect your fate."
"Oh. Oh dear. Uhm." Flittermouse gave a sudden shiver. Frost was forming around his hooves. "It's getting cold. Really cold."
Zelatrix focused, seeking to see the unseen, and this time there was indeed something to see. A ghostly stallion was standing behind Flittermouse. He was a pegasus, but far removed from his living days, for his body was nearly skeletal, clothed in shifting rags of intangible flesh that wavered and twisted about his body. His mane was thin and lank, his tail nearly bald, and all of him, bone and flesh and scant hair, was colored in patchy shades of pale gray, rotting green, and sickly yellow. His wings were distorted too, improbably bent and stretched forward to enfold the young thestral now trapped with him. His eyes were empty sockets, but an uneven green glow flickered somewhere deep within.
A thread of golden light curled around Flittermouse's body beneath the enfolding ghostly wings, and it pulsed like a heartbeat as power slid along it from the thestral to the spirit. The ghost was draining his life energy, and if allowed to continue might sicken or even kill him.
Flittermouse gave another shiver. "How is it so much colder all the sudden?" He looked around, expecting to see frost forming everywhere again, but there was none. The chill was no longer from the air, it was from the life being sucked out of him, though he didn't know it. He stamped his hooves as if to warm himself, but the motion did nothing to alleviate the sudden chill.
Zelatrix narrowed her eyes, staring through the bars at the spirit, her mind racing. She had to act, and swiftly. The ghost's empty sockets couldn't meet her gaze, but it seemed to look at her somehow all the same, and its mouth gaped open, baring long, unnatural teeth. It began to laugh, a deep, booming sound. Flittermouse jumped again, looking around, yet the ghost's bizarrely stretched wings stayed wrapped around him, still draining him no matter how he moved.
"You are trapped, little bat. You are mine until dawn, should you live so long," said the ghost.
"Ah, that seems kind of unreasonable. Why me?" Flittermouse's voice was still calm and even curious. He knew he was cold, but he didn't know why, and fear wasn't often a part of the youthful thestral's buoyant nature.
"Because you live! You live and I am dead! But soon you will join me. Be glad. Be glad to be free of life and all its suffering, little bat."
Zelatrix wasn't simply standing and listening while the ghost and the thestral spoke. She began to invoke her runes, drawing on power bought long ago in blood, for the runes were scars, hidden beneath her dress, for the most part. Blood had paid for the power, and the shape of those long-ago rune-shaped cuts had set it, and now she bore that power with her always. It raced over her, drawing the physical and the non-physical together, knitting her soul and body even tighter, while it pulled that body into a bridge, into something that rested across both worlds, letting her living soul reach away from all that was safe and sane and comfortable, and into the realm she normally only saw, but which she now entered, stepping forward through the bars to face the ghost on its own plane.
From Flittermouse's point of view, dark power suddenly poured from Zelatrix's eyes like smoke and her body began to waver and fray, pulling apart into nothingness bit by bit, yet somehow still always present. She was nearly translucent in places, solid in others, and it shifted and flowed in a way that was somehow disturbing.
"Wow." He blinked at her, then shivered again. It seemed to be getting colder and colder, and for some reason he was starting to feel tired. He hadn't really done that much this evening, why should he feel so tired? The pace of the golden pulses that were invisible to his eyes, though they were his own life, increased slightly, and a tracery of frost started to form on his coat.
Zelatrix advanced on the ghost, her eyes blazing with power. Flittermouse's attention snapped to her as she moved. Seeing her blazing-eyed, wavering, bizzare form seeming to advance on him, he couldn't help but back away a few steps, she was frankly rather terrifying in that moment. Power blazed along the zebra's runes too, shining through her dress, and flowed from them down to her hooves. She ignored the shivering and somewhat confused thestral, stalking past him to the spirit that still hovered behind him.
She used the power that rushed over her hid in the simplest way possible, by rearing up and punching the ghost with a magic-laden blow.
It wailed and reeled back, yet its wings remained wrapped around Flittermouse. The pace of that golden pulsing slowed somewhat, though. "You think you can win by inflicting pain on me, zebra? Life is pain, death is pain! Pain is my existence!"
Flittermouse, who could see only half of the sudden battle, but who could still hear the ghost, tilted his head curiously, tasseled ears pricked towards the sounds of the ghost's voice. "Does being dead hurt then?" That innocent curiosity, all oblivious to how much danger he was in, was still in his voice.
"Pain! Pain is all I know! Envy and hate and pain. The living feel breezes, taste food, have lover's trysts, and I can touch none of it! Yes it is pain! All my life before was pain, all my life now is pain! Pain!"
He gave that last shouted cry as Zelatrix again hit him, harder, magic blazing from her hooves as she sought to drive him off of Flittermouse.
"That sounds pretty awful. Life can be really bad though, I know what you mean. It's bleak and depressing and the people around you always hurt you, even the ones you love."
"Yes. Yes, love is the worst pain..." The ghost's grip on Flittermouse loosened ever so slightly and the golden pulsing of Flittermouse's life energy being drained slowed further. Zelatrix almost went in for another attack, but acting on sudden impulse she held her blow for a moment, simply listening as spirit and youth spoke.
"The ones you love hurt you the most of all, yeah. It's definitely the worst. Life sucks. It sounds like death sucks too." Flittermouse rubbed his wings along his sides, trying to warm the spots where the frost was silvering his fur, but his eyes were still warm with sympathy and curiosity.
"Death is torment unending! You will know it soon!" The ghostly wings wrapped tighter again as the spirit wailed, and Zelatrix almost moved to attack again, but she held herself back. The opening she wanted wasn't here... yet.
"Yeah, everyone dies eventually. I'm sorry you've suffered so much. If I were you, I think it would be good to rest for a while and not suffer."
"No!" The ghost was suddenly grabbing Flittermouse even more tightly, frost blooming across the thestral's dark coat, and its twisted, skeletal face grew even more distorted, its mouth stretched open in a scream of pure rage. "No! To rest is to cease, to go, to be no longer be!"
Flittermouse's teeth were chattering now with the cold, but he gritted them and managed to get enough control to keep speaking. "That sounds really scary, yeah. But I don't know, if existence is nothing more than pain, maybe not existing would be okay. You can't suffer if you don't exist. Is it really worth clinging to life if it hurts all the time?"
"It must be. I must be. I cannot... rest..." But the ghost's voice was uncertain, wavering. It wasn't sure, its will wavered also, and for a spirit the will was all. In that moment Zelatrix struck, lashing out with both forehoves, every bit of power she could channel blazing through them into the ghost. It let out a shriek, but its grip—not just on Flittermouse but on its own existence—had weakened just enough. Zealtrix's power tore it from its anchor in the spirit world and in one blinding flash of energy that even Flittermouse could see, it swirled elsewhere, fraying out of being in a spiral, like water rushing down a drain, a despairing wail trailing after it.
Zelatrix released her magic and came free of the spirit world also, but unlike the ghost, she was a living being, so without that anchor she simply popped entirely back into the real world, the strange effects vanishing to be replaced by simple, solid flesh standing next to Flittermouse on the mausoleum's stone floor.
The pair stood, blinking at each other, for a long moment of silence. Flittermouse, of course, was the one to break it. "Wow. That was intense," he said. He shook himself, and bits of water from where the frost had almost instantly melted off of his coat went flying.
Zelatrix nodded, sinking down tiredly to her haunches.
Flittermouse looked around the mausoleum, at the ranks of plaques set into the walls, each marking a coffin sealed away in its niche. "I wonder which of these ponies it was? No way to know, I guess." He looked around again, then trotted over to the gate and tugged on it.
It was still locked.
"Bother." Glancing at Zelatrix, he said, "Can you do that spooky half-vanishing thing again and go get somebody to open it or... something?"
She shook her head again. "Alas my pow'r is all but gone, we both are stuck until the dawn."
"Shoot. Well, I guess there's worse problems to have. Uhm. Got a deck of cards or anything? It's going to get kinda boring. I can only read the names of dead ponies so many times."
Zelatrix chuckled but shook her head again. Flittermouse noticed, as she did, that her eyes were still red, and stained with faint wisps of dark magic. He frowned for a moment, puzzled as he tried to figure out why she might have lied. If she had magic left, then she didn’t have to stay stuck here. That implied she wanted to be trapped all night with him. But why...
Flittermouse suddenly smiled, and there was a hint of slyness in it as he looked over at her again. "Well... How do you feel about all-night makeout sessions?"
A slow, equally sly smile spread across the zebra's face. "My magic may be spent and scattered, my body is another matter."
Spirits all laid to rest, the graveyard rested also. The moon shone down gibbous from the sky, and once more the soft nighttime sounds of trees rustling in the wind and crickets chirping filled the peaceful air above the graveyard. But before long, moans and cries began to echo among the headstones and monuments, almost as if the place was still haunted.