The train trundled down the tracks on its way to Shepherd’s Shore and Dim stared out the window with a blank stare hidden behind his goggles. Grief bloomed within his breast like a ravenous cancer, devouring him, consuming him; a thousand malignant, conquering tentacles that meandered through his body, leaving disease in their wake. In his head was another unwelcomed visitor, an unwelcomed lone voice that plagued him, spoke to him, remained with him, speaking words he had no desire to hear.

The voice had a distressing pinkness to it, and Dim loathed it.

After enduring yet another sour belch, Dim cursed his unicorn physiology and lamented the fact that even after drinking gallons of red wine, he wasn’t more than somewhat drowsy, and not the least bit drunk. Oh, some unicorns could drink to the point of drunkenness, but he was not one of the lucky ones. No, life had cursed him with unwelcomed, unwanted, undesired sobriety. A shower of pink and amber sparks spurted from his horn, which was the alcohol converted to magic within his body. As the sparks arced out, Dim felt his drowsy-state subsiding.

Come home, Dim, let us help you.

“No,” Dim grumbled, all too aware that he was talking to himself in public, and not caring. “Now, do me a favour and shut up, before I have to dig out my grey matter with a spoon.”

Dim, please, let us help you. Your mother did something awful to you. Let us heal you.

His head resting against the glass window, Dim sighed and felt his innate curiousity get the better of him. So far, he had avoided the temptation, but the pink voice seemed to be wearing down his resolve. Even though he feared the answer, he wanted to know. Needed to know. How many ways had his mother poisoned him?

“What did my mother do to me?” Dim asked, mumbling out the words in a faint, somewhat slurred whisper. The opium coursing through his blood did much to numb the pain, though not enough. Not nearly enough. He felt the voice inside of his head perk, if it could be described as such, and the sensation of pink proliferating through his brain made him nauseous.

It’s complicated, Dim. We don’t know everything that was done to you. Princess Celestia is still trying to discern that. We’re fearful of the eventual outcome though.

Closing his eyes, he tried to broadcast as much of his disappointment as possible, not caring for this answer. It seemed vague, meaningless, a stream of bullshit being poured directly into his brain by some unknown, untrusted outside source. He didn’t know who was in his head, but he resented them and wished they would go. Sometimes, the voice vanished for a time, perhaps needing rest before tormenting him once more.

Dim, you had a great and glorious purpose… you did. Your talent wasn’t the corruption of light, but the creation of light. You were supposed to be able to shine a light in any darkness—there were prophecies yet unfulfilled and your coming was promised. You are one of Princess Luna’s heirs, and as such, you have a purpose, a destiny, there was much required of you.

Dim listened… and did not dismiss what he had been told.

Somehow, your mother knew you were coming. Like so many of Luna’s other heirs, you were supposed to be the redemption of your house—a light that shines in the darkness. Princess Celestia has been waiting for you for a very long time… for a time, it seemed that the promised Element of Magic might come from House Dark, but she was mistaken. Another of Luna’s distant heirs took up that mantle, as promised, as foretold.

Sighing, Dim couldn’t sense that he was being lied to, but that didn’t mean anything.

Like I said though, your mother knew you were coming. We don’t know how she knew, but we have found out that she’s been in contact with Catrina for a very long time. Who Catrina is isn’t important right now, but I promise I’ll tell you more later. For right now, what is important is, somehow, your mother corrupted your purpose, your destiny. Using magics that we don’t yet understand, she warped your very existence. She had enough knowledge of the future to know who you were and what you would be. What you would become. The great threat you would represent to your house and their plans.

That sounded an awful lot like the Dark Desire that he knew, and Dim continued to listen.

Using magics most foul and terrible, she corrupted you, corrupted your very core, and she somehow changed your purpose… your destiny. There are magics that we do not yet understand at work here. We know now that your mother trafficked with demons, trading knowledge with them—

“At what price?” Dim asked aloud, his numbed lips clinging to his teeth in an odd, uncomfortable way. This had piqued his interest far more than it should have, and now, he had to know, even though he feared whatever answers he might be offered.

You were not Desire’s first foal… we broke the geas on a servant. This maid, also a midwife, said that there was a misshapen monster born from your mother. Some kind of six-legged demon-spawn, the maid said. It was a hideous thing, twisted with evil, and it was given back to the demon lord that spawned it within seconds of its birth. Somehow, your mother gained the knowledge required to alter you into what you are now. Princess Celestia is hopeful that she can reverse this… that she can heal you.

“While there is some truth in what you say, I think it is far more likely that you will imprison me or throw me into an asylum. I have no good reason to trust you. For all I know, you could be manipulating me with half-truths, just like my mother did. My whole family did. I am done being manipulated.”

Dim, please… come home! We have no desire to harm you, we only want to make the hurting stop!

The train lurched and began to slow as it rounded the final corner before Shepherd’s Shore. Ahead was a quaint little town by the seaside, with beam and block construction, thatched roofs, and the serene pastoral splendour that could only exist in such pre-industrial places. The beauty left Dim feeling both hopeful and sickened.

“You know, if I cannot be rid of this annoying voice in my head, perhaps it is high time I throw myself into the sea…”

Shepherd’s Shore was a halcyon little patch of nowhere. It was the blissful, rural idyll picture on a postcard. Under most circumstances, most ponies would be joyful upon their arrival here. Ponies from all over the mainland of the Grittish Isles came here on holiday, the wealthy, privileged ones at least. There was a picture-perfect lighthouse that was made from chalk. Many of the buildings here were made from chalk. The earth ponies that populated this town were especially colourful and cheerful of disposition.

Stepping down from the train, Dim crunched a cube of opium-laced salts between his now chipped and imperfect teeth. He had trouble recalling just how much opium-laced salts he had ingested, and truth be told, he couldn’t be bothered to care. When it felt like too much, he consumed a cube of coca-laced salts and continued on with his life, unconcerned about the consequences.

Beneath his cloak, he was sweating, though it wasn’t just from the sun. He shook and trembled with each step as though he had a palsy, and ponies looked upon him with genuine, sincere concern as he made his way through the crowd. His slender, graceful legs trembled like those of an elderly stallion living out the final years of his life.

Stumbling over to a kiosk that sold newspapers, magazines, and snacks to hungry travellers, Dim asked, “Where might I find a room for rent?”

The rather portly and mustachioed stallion inside the kiosk eyeballed Dim with a look of grave worry. “Hoi, yer looking rather sickly. Are ye a lunger? Have ye consumption?”

Dim stood there, blinking behind the thick black glass of his goggles, feeling both touched and just a little bit annoyed by such well-meaning concern. “I’m fine. It’s nothing that a little sea air won’t fix. Do you know of a place?”

Mustache quivering, the stallion drew in a deep breath and nodded. “Two places. If yer cheap, there’s Scrubber’s hostel. When you step out of the train station, ye’ll see it. It has a common room and that’s about it. If you have coin, there’s the Queen’s Saggin’ Teat and it’s down by the pier. Look for a big chalk building that has a sign that looks like a mare’s backside.”

“Right, thank you.” Dim bowed his head, and then as an afterthought, he added, “I’ll take a newspaper…”

Darling Dark was gone. Sweating, trembling, unable to sleep, unable to escape, Dim was forced to confront this grim fact. Memories—good and bad—tumbled through his mind, fueled by the warring influences of opium and coca-extract he had ingested. Nursery-mate, playmate, schoolmate, sparring partner, lover… sister... she had been everything to him. There would be no replacing her, no forgetting her. There would be no living with himself after what he had done.

He had loved her and hated her in equal measure.

Right now, he loathed her as much as he loathed himself, holding her in contempt for being weak, and he himself, too. Twitching, grinding his teeth, he could hear her laughter, her giggling coming from the corners of his room. It was a joyful sound that filled him with revulsion, and in the corners of his vision, he kept seeing her faint outline, a suggestion of her shadow.

Sitting up in bed, his breathing was ragged, his thin stomach rising and falling with each desperate inhale. The years of inbreeding had left Dim and his family members with too-thin nostrils and nasal passages, which made laboured breathing difficult. At the moment, it almost felt impossible. His sheets had been stiff, a little starchy even, and had a pleasing floral scent. Now, they were soggy, damp, and smelly.

His insides cramped—no doubt too much opium had clogged up his bowels—and it was impossible to tell if he was hungry. When had he eaten last? He couldn’t remember. How many days had it been since he had left Darling’s body in the sparse woods around the standing stones? When he couldn’t remember, when he couldn’t figure it out, the sting of tears blinded him. He had left her for the wolves to eat, to devour. How pathetic he was, that he could not bear to be near her dead body, and he had fled from her.

Cowardice did not become him; were he a braver pony, he might lie in a warm bath for a time and open a vein. Throwing himself into the sea was an option; he was in a convenient location to do so, but there was the dreadful matter of a long and undignified fall. He couldn’t stop thinking of Darling’s end, how she had seen the pale pony and a host of shadows. What end might await him? What awful afterlife was he bound for? Perhaps the misery of living was a suitable alternative.

Sweating, shivering, both freezing and burning up, Dim decided that he needed food. He couldn’t be certain, but kebabs might have been his last meal. With his current mental state, it was impossible to tell. The Queen’s Saggin’ Teat had a kitchen and served food. Perhaps they had bhang.

Looking quite fragile, Dim sat beneath the heavy awning of a pleasant patio that had half-height shrubberies as short walls. It was well shaded, though still too well lit for Dim, and there was a delightful, salt-scented breeze blowing in off of the ocean. He was eating, but it was a slow process. His body, as it turned out, needed food, but each bite forced him to do battle with nausea.

Some of the other patrons were watching him, staring at him, they had frightened looks of concern. Or did they? Dim was having a hard time figuring out what was real. He was almost certain that when he looked away, those soft looks of concern became sneering expressions of ridicule. Drenched in sweat, wearing his goggles, and chugging down Grittish gin by the quart, Dim had no idea what sort of tragic figure he presented to others.

The sound of laughter still plagued him and he couldn’t tell if it was the ponies around him or Darling. She was being a poor sport, Darling. She was dead, as dead as dead could be, and it was dirty pool to be laughing at him, undoing his nerves. He hadn’t wanted this to happen and he hadn’t wanted it to end the way it had. The flapping of wings made his head jerk, and his blurry eyes tried to focus on the sound. Was it real?

Flapping wings and metal. Not a good sound. Had they come for him, after all this time? Wardens. Wardens would be the worst. Oh, he might be able to fight one, or maybe two or three if he was lucky, but fighting the Wardens was a tricky business. Draconic, magic-resistant, and possessing their own unique magic, Dim wasn’t sure how to even go about battling a Warden. They drank strange alchemical concoctions that made them even more magic-resistant. It was said they drank poisons from an early age, granting them immunity to most anything toxic.

Blinking, his ears straining, Dim heard the sound of feathers, or thought he did.

“Citizens of Shepherd’s Shore! Each of you are guilty for treason against the Crowns of the Grittish Empire! No taxes have been paid, and after repeated requests, your refusal can no longer be ignored! All of you are to gather in a calm and orderly manner near the train station! A prison train is coming so that you might be rounded up and processed for trial. Cooperation means living, but if you resist, it will mean your life!”

Dim shivered when he began to hear panicked screams from all around him. Overhead, he heard more feathers and metal. He took a swig of gin, kept going, and emptied the bottle. His stomach lurched, and for a brief second, he wasn’t sure if he was going to freeze to death or spontaneously combust.

Soldiers wouldn’t do this… no… it couldn’t be. These were good ponies, ponies who had been concerned for him. These ponies, disgusting primitives though they were, were kind, generous sorts. No soldier would ever do this… no soldier would ever obey an order this callous, this cruel, no soldier would ever commit this act of betrayal against the citizenry they were sworn to defend.

No…

No.

Nein.

These were bandits, come to raid the town. These were bandits disguised as soldiers. And somepony had to do something. Somepony had to defend these poor, defenseless ponies. This could not be allowed to happen. Bandits couldn’t just run roughshod over the populace. Reaching into his saddlebags, Dim pulled out not one, but two cubes of coca-laced salts and popped them into his mouth. Grimacing, he began to chew, and his saliva turned into white crusts in the corners of his thin mouth.

He was a wizard. No, he was a vizard, and as such, it was his sworn duty to make bandits pay. His vision snapped into hyper-focus and Dim rose up to his hooves. Yes, it was time to be vizard… Zauberer. Maybe… if he was lucky… he could find redemption in Princess Luna’s eyes if he saved the town from bandits. He was… Kind des Krieges, a distant foal of the War Maiden, the Night Lady, and he had fallen far, far from her glory.

Grief became murderous rage of equal measure, and Dim Dark prepared to do battle…

Author's Notes:

The next chapter will be taxing to write. I hope I have it in me. This story has been a drain on me thus far. It leaves a lot of mental fatigue in its wake.