The body only got in the way. It was holding me back. I left it behind. Violet collected me and we went home together.

Luna pondered the terrible and terrifying meaning of Rookwood’s words.

Home.

Tartarus.

Is that where Violet went every day when the sun rose?

Home.

Luna began to feel queasy, struggling to take it all in. She felt her gorge rising.

Home.

Violet had taken Rookwood home.

Luna ran to the bathroom, unable to wink, and proceeded to blow chunks. She was sick for a good quarter of an hour, left sore and heaving, lying on her back on the cool tile floor. She rubbed her stomach, taking in deep heaving breaths as she tried to reassert control over herself. Luna failed in her efforts to restore control, and instead began to weep bitterly.

Celestia carefully pondered her sister’s words and everything that Luna had said. The long conversation with Rookwood in the dark. The nature of Rookwood’s deal. The role that Violet had played. Rookwood’s long tortures in the infernal pits. And Luna had babbled frantically a great deal about the word “home.” The entire thing had upset her a great deal.

Celestia thought back to her first impressions of Rookwood and cursed herself.

Rookwood was the very worst sort of lovesick fool. The sort that actually did something truly memorable for their loves. Celestia had lived a long time and had heard many stories about love, and proclamations of love. She had seen all manner of tragedy in her long life. She even knew about a famous painter pony who had cut off his own ear to impress his love, only to have his love spurned.

Rookwood had gone to Tartarus and had made a deal with Death.

Celestia knew that immortal beings were not simply born. They had to ascend. She had done it. Luna had done it. Several beings had ascended into positions of immortality.

Rookwood had descended. Where other beings had rose up, Rookwood had gone down. He allowed himself to be plunged into the depths and be chained to a dreadful fate, all out of a foolish lovesick gesture.

And Celestia felt herself loving him for it. There were romantic gestures, and then there were romantic gestures. For a brief moment, she envied Luna. Celestia shook her head, dispelling the unwanted emotion.

Celestia shifted, trying to settle her body into a more comfortable position, and then rested her head upon Luna’s belly, her ear pressed to Luna’s navel, trying to listen for signs of life. Celestia’s ear flickered, causing Luna to twitch and pull.

“I swear you do that on purpose!” Luna accused.

Celestia said nothing, feeling Luna’s pelt against her cheek.

Rookwood walked slowly forward, Violet by his side.

Here, Rookwood had a body. He had substance and form. And could feel pain. Violet was remarkably solid and study here, with no trace of decay or rot. And Violet never seemed to have any memory of the events that took place here.

His master’s throne was in the distance, at the end of this impossibly large throne room. As Rookwood approached, the guard bowed, all of them horrible shambling creatures, a terrifying collection of body parts and bits of different creatures thrown together and bound with magic.

As Rookwood drew near, he stopped and bowed respectfully, waiting to be called before he dared to approach any further. Violet on the other hoof, had no such compunction and had ran forward, squealing happily.

“Rise. Approach.”

Rookwood did as he was bid.

He looked up at the terrible figure on the throne. A two headed skeletal pony. There were many Lords here, horrifying figures of terrible and frightful power, and this was the Reaper of Ponies. The two heads argued judgment, one was the Accuser, the other, the Defender. Beside him was an enormous set of scales. A pile of bones sat near the throne.

Violet had crawled into the throne with Death and made herself comfortable.

“How goes your efforts?”

Rookwood felt nervous and cleared his throat. “I have finally managed to talk to Luna.”

“This is good. And how were you received?”

“She was terrified,” replied Rookwood, “but she listened. She darkened the room and I was able to project my voice. I was able to touch her. I felt her warmth.”

The Accuser nodded, his bone face somehow seeming pleased. The Defender looked sad somehow, reaching up and scratching at his jawbone. The Accuser reached down and gently stroked Violet, his actions somehow disturbingly loving.

“And how does warmth feel after all this time.?”

“I…” Rookwood fell silent, unable to finish his sentence.

“You desire it, yes?”

Rookwood nodded.

“If you ever take that warmth by force or through coercion, I personally will flay your remains.”

Rookwood nodded.

“Rookwood would never do that. I have been with the tormentors. I have gazed into his soul as it was laid bare and each piece carefully studied and examined. While Rookwood was entirely too willing to violate Nightmare Moon, he is placid and meek towards Luna.” Violet smiled broadly as she spoke, rubbing herself against Death’s bones. “Luna holds his purity. Think about what he has endured for her and what he will endure to be with her.”

The Accuser and the Defender looked at one another, exchanging a glance.

“We find ourselves in an interesting position.”

Rookwood looked up, daring to look his master in the eye.

The Accuser and the Defender both glared down at him. “Such defiance, even after all of your lessons…” Both heads shook together in unison. “No matter, it pleases us. We wish for a willful streak and some defiance to remain. We find ourselves curious and we desire to see the outcome of your service. Perhaps love can sustain what fear has failed to keep subservient. There have been many masters of the nightmare realms. All of them monsters. You are quite unlike all those who have come before you. You chose service, not to lord over others, but to serve another. Come forward.”

Rookwood did as he was bid, carefully coming forward, his head low, taking each step up towards the throne slowly. He passed close to a pile of bones and paused, turning to look at them, regarding them carefully. He had spent some time as a bonepile, thinking about what he had done. He turned to look up at Death, and respectfully approached the throne.

He kneeled at Death’s hooves.

There was a clank and clatter of bones moving, and Death leaned forward, reaching down. Rookwood did not dare flinch of pull away. To do so would be folly, the punishment severe. He felt something burning cold touching his head, flooding his mind with terrible pain. Not he worst pain the had experienced, but it was unpleasant. With the pain, there came new understanding, new insight, and a faint throb of new power.

“Rise. Kneel no longer.”

Rookwood struggled to rise, his legs wobbling like a newborn foal, but he dared not disobey, not after just what had happened. His brain burned with images, new images, a new sense of vision.

“Fetch me that skull.” The Accuser demanded.

Rookwood turned, seeing the skull indicated, a pony skull, a unicorn skull. He touched it with shadow, lifting it easily, holding it aloft, holding it out to Death.

“Place it upon the scale.” The Defender commanded.

Rookwood did not argue. This was unthinkable. In all of his time here, no one had ever placed anything on the scale but Death. He felt a faint prickle of fear.

Rookwood lowered the skull upon the scale. It landed with a thump and a clank. The scale did not move, it did not sway from side to side. It stayed level.

Death made a gesture and the skull became a pony. A unicorn pony. He stood frozen, unable to move, eyes wide with terror, his face in a rictus of fear.

“We are in agreement.” Both of Death’s heads said to one another, looking at each other, exchanging an eyeless glance. “Rookwood, this unicorn falls under your dominion. Judge him. And then cast him to his fate.”

“I have never done this before.” Rookwood said nervously, fearing punishment for not obeying right away. He cowered.

No punishment seemed forthcoming.

“Rookwood, the process is simple. We shall guide you through it. You will know as it happens. You are now my mantle and an extension of my will. Now do as I have commanded.”

Rookwood turned and faced the paralysed unicorn, regarding him carefully. Rookwood’s mind began to flood with images. He began to know things. Suddenly, Rookwood knew terrible things.

“Who you were in life is not important,” said Rookwood, “only what you have done matters now. Do you wish to confess your sins and relieve your burdens, or shall I flay your secrets from you? I already know what you have done, but you WILL confess them with your lips.”

The unicorn trembled, but was unable to do anything but tremble. A low pleading whimper escaped from his throat. His eyes darted to Violet.

“I am not a patient pony.” Rookwood announced. “But I do have all the time in the world.”

“I was part of the cult known as the Shroud of Nightmares.” The unicorn whimpered, his eyes growing wide and filled with panic. “We worked to give Nightmare Moon power. I did awful things.”

Rookwood sighed. “I have no time for generalities.” As he spoke, a tendril of shadow drifted from his body and traveled up the unicorn’s nose.

The unicorn began to scream, his eyes rolling back into his head, his body convulsing but locked into place.

“Do you wish to confess and plead for mercy or not?” Rookwood demanded, the tendril of shadow still in place.

“Mercy,” the unicorn pleaded, “I desire mercy. I was a member of the Shroud of Nightmares and we worked to do the will of Nightmare Moon. I kidnapped her from her parents and prepared her for Nightmare Moon using forbidden rituals involving the black art of necromancy.” The unicorn’s eyes were locked on Violet.

Rookwood felt a surprisingly brief surge of anger, followed by a feeling of pity.

“I did things with her body, stealing away her fillyhood, corrupting her and stealing her innocence so she would be a better vessel for Nightmare Moon, who attempted to corrupt her soul.” The unicorn was panting with panic now, terror visible on his face.

Violet looked angry, scowling, her eyes narrowed, her muzzle scrunched. Her tiny nostrils flared.

Rookwood’s pity vanished and was replaced with sorrow.

“How could you?” Violet asked.

The unicorn began to sob pitifully, unable to answer.

Rookwood flexed his will, making the shadowy tendril come to life. The unicorn writhed in place, his body convulsing, and his flesh looked as though snakes crawled just under the surface of his skin.

“You will answer her.” Rookwood commanded. “Or I will become wrathful.”

The unicorn gibbered for several minutes, uttering wordless cries, until Rookwood gave a faint tug on the tendril going up his nose. The unicorn mewled with pain one final time and spoke: “I was a nobody in life… Nightmare Moon promised me power. When I took your innocence I lost my own. I’d never been with anypony before. I was desperate to know female flesh.” The unicorn broke down into more frightful cries.

“And that excuses you?” Violet demanded.

Death lifted the filly into his forelegs and began to comfort her, stroking her side and trying to sooth her obvious hurt.

“When you jammed yourself into me it hurt me. I felt you tear through my insides. I was too little to take all of you in and yet you did not relent. You continued until things inside of me tore open. And as if that wasn’t enough, you tossed me into the dream realm to be violated by her. You crushed my face into the floor and then stood upon my ear while you satisfied your sick needs.” Violet’s voice was an accusing screech, her eyes wide, spittle flew from her mouth as she spoke.

“I am sorry!” The unicorn cried.

“No,” replied Rookwood, “you are not sorry. Not yet. But you will be. There will come a day that you will plead for her forgiveness and you will mean it, pathetic creature.”

The unicorn fell silent, his legs collapsing beneath him. The scales tipped, one side crashing downward, and Violet squirmed in Death’s embrace.

“I have no council.” Death offered, both heads speaking as one.

“One hundred years in the pit, followed by another one hundred years as a bonepile.” Rookwood said, causing the scales to tilt. They did not level however.

“This does not seem to be a punishment equal to his sins.” Death announced.

“Am I to have my judgments questioned?” Rookwood inquired, daring to be defiant.

“No,” Death responded, “I am not questioning your judgments, but I do call into question your mercy. What he did to Violet was heinous. How can you not seek vengeance?”

“It is not my place to seek vengeance. I question my place to pass judgment. I am hesitant to give punishment, knowing of my own sins. I fear becoming a hypocrite.” Rookwood said. “I am to the Lord of Nightmares, not the Lord of Vengeance. “

Death nodded slowly.

Violet calmed upon hearing Rookwood’s words. She looked up at Death, gazing at him intently, her mouth drawn into a pinched line.

Rookwood pulled his tendril from the unicorn’s nose and stepped backwards away from the scales, moving out of the way of the tormentor coming to claim the unicorn. Rookwood closed his eyes, unable to look at the terrible abomination. He heard the unicorn scream, his terrified howls filling the throne room. And then, the screams were gone. And so was the unicorn and his tormentor.

“We are pleased with your reasoning Rookwood. It seems our interest in you will be rewarded.”

Rookwood bowed, kneeling down on both of his front knees, his nose touching the ground.

“Rise. And do not bow again unless I specifically command you to do so. I send you into the world as my sinister left hoof and an extension of my will. Nightmare Moon and all those who serve her are now in your dominion, you will hunt them down, you will seek them out, you will take them, you will pull them into true darkness, and you will bring them here. And once here, you will cast them upon the scales and determine what is to be done with them. Do you understand?”

“Yes my master.” Rookwood answered.

“And you are never to call me master again, unless of course you fail me and are dragged before me as a traitor to my whims. You will address me as Death and nothing else.”

“Yes Death.” Rookwood replied, rising.

Death gently set Violet down before his throne, stroking her neck one final time with his skeletal foreleg, his touch gentle and genuinely caring. The Accuser looked at Rookwood, while the Defender looked at Violet. A small silver chain appeared, a hobble. One end clamped around Rookwood’s rear fetlock, the leg that he had broken in his final hours of life, the other end locked around Violet’s tiny leg. Death continued to study them both for quite some time.

“What is this?” Rookwood asked, his face full of concern.

“Violet is now yours. She is your psychopomp. Your messenger. An extension of your will. Her soul is now bound to your own. Should you ever fail me, know that as you are tormented, she will feel every horrible thing that will happen to you, as you once felt her torments.”

Rookwood nodded, accepting his fate stoically, knowing that no amount of protest would fix it.

Violet looked up at him, her eyes wide and unblinking. “I am not afraid. I know you wouldn’t allow me to be hurt. I have seen your soul.”

Rookwood felt a warm rush of gratitude as Violet hugged his foreleg.

Author's Notes:

Still with me?

Good. There is still quite a tale to tell. If you are still reading, let me know. Tell me what you think.