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Touched
Most ponies think us monsters, creatures for campfire stories, haunts which lurk in shadowed forests and abandoned castles waiting to feast upon the unwary. A few romanticize us, thinking us creatures of immortal passion, unaging and mysterious. Most of the latter are fillies just experiencing the first blossoms of maturity, who long for a passion at once dangerous yet sublime.
And a few...a very few ponies know the truth. That we are worse than all the tales say. That we revel in suffering, delight in agony, amuse ourselves with the tortured twitchings, the sobs of despair, the impotent horror as life is drained away. The greatest pleasure was found in the sweet shock of betrayal, of seeing one’s once friends, family, one’s mate confronted by the truth. What could equal the keening wail of a broken spirit? What sight could compare to the moment where a soul shattered? I can see him still as I stood over the body of our foal and leered at him with my ghastly, sanguine grin.
Some of those ponies are survivors. They were briefly tasted by the darkness when it came for them. Through luck, willpower, or unexpected salvation, they avoided being devoured. Most fled shivering to whatever sanctuary they could find, there to live out their days trying to deny, to forget, anything that did not require them to face the truth.
The rarest? They were those who would defy the darkness. Spit in the face of it. I was one such mare. I fought back. I found others, those who would serve beneath the Sun herself and bring her light into the deepest shadow, to let its cleansing rays burn away that which could only wither beneath its light.
It was not to last. I was cocky, arrogant, and I let myself be lured into an ambush. I acquitted myself well, yet in the end I was subdued. Worse...I was turned. I know I could say what awoke that night was not me, was some demon in my flesh, but the words taste bitter. I cannot help but feel I should have been stronger. I should have resisted. I should have retained myself amidst the siren song calling to me amidst my suffering. It promised that once I gave in, the sweetest pleasure would be known to me, the darkness would lift, the suffering would end, and all I had to do was say yes.
Perhaps there is a pony out there who resisted. One who was Turned, yet remained true to themselves. I was not. It was only through the grace of another that I regained myself, and even that will not last. Her last spell...I wish I knew what it was. I wish she had been faster. I wish she had been able to complete it, that it had been more than the last gasp of a dying mare. Already, I can feel the tendrils of darkness slithering from within the black stains upon my soul, waiting to wrap me in their embrace once more. For now, I sit here cradling her body. I am determined to honor her sacrifice.
Her gift to me will not last forever. It does not need to. The time draws near, now. Celestia will wake soon, and with her comes the dawn. I will welcome it, bask in the sun’s embrace for the first time in years, and when that moment comes, I will be free. These last few moments, I wait, and I remember. Freedom is just over the horizon.
And a few...a very few ponies know the truth. That we are worse than all the tales say. That we revel in suffering, delight in agony, amuse ourselves with the tortured twitchings, the sobs of despair, the impotent horror as life is drained away. The greatest pleasure was found in the sweet shock of betrayal, of seeing one’s once friends, family, one’s mate confronted by the truth. What could equal the keening wail of a broken spirit? What sight could compare to the moment where a soul shattered? I can see him still as I stood over the body of our foal and leered at him with my ghastly, sanguine grin.
Some of those ponies are survivors. They were briefly tasted by the darkness when it came for them. Through luck, willpower, or unexpected salvation, they avoided being devoured. Most fled shivering to whatever sanctuary they could find, there to live out their days trying to deny, to forget, anything that did not require them to face the truth.
The rarest? They were those who would defy the darkness. Spit in the face of it. I was one such mare. I fought back. I found others, those who would serve beneath the Sun herself and bring her light into the deepest shadow, to let its cleansing rays burn away that which could only wither beneath its light.
It was not to last. I was cocky, arrogant, and I let myself be lured into an ambush. I acquitted myself well, yet in the end I was subdued. Worse...I was turned. I know I could say what awoke that night was not me, was some demon in my flesh, but the words taste bitter. I cannot help but feel I should have been stronger. I should have resisted. I should have retained myself amidst the siren song calling to me amidst my suffering. It promised that once I gave in, the sweetest pleasure would be known to me, the darkness would lift, the suffering would end, and all I had to do was say yes.
Perhaps there is a pony out there who resisted. One who was Turned, yet remained true to themselves. I was not. It was only through the grace of another that I regained myself, and even that will not last. Her last spell...I wish I knew what it was. I wish she had been faster. I wish she had been able to complete it, that it had been more than the last gasp of a dying mare. Already, I can feel the tendrils of darkness slithering from within the black stains upon my soul, waiting to wrap me in their embrace once more. For now, I sit here cradling her body. I am determined to honor her sacrifice.
Her gift to me will not last forever. It does not need to. The time draws near, now. Celestia will wake soon, and with her comes the dawn. I will welcome it, bask in the sun’s embrace for the first time in years, and when that moment comes, I will be free. These last few moments, I wait, and I remember. Freedom is just over the horizon.