For the briefest of moments, it almost seemed as though the laws of known reality were suspended. The crystal emitter paused—there was no other way to describe the phenomenon—and did not immediately smash into thousands of tiny fragments. It hovered just above the floor, fighting against the inevitable, and Dim could sense self-preservation imbued into the wretched, abominable artifact. Annoyed by the resistance of an inanimate object, Dim concluded that, if given enough time, the crystal emitter would gain true sapience, it’s own malevolent force of will. It was made of life, stolen lives, and it longed to return to life so that it might express its rage.

As the crystal projector fought to keep itself from being dashed upon the floor, the illusion around Dark Desire fell away, revealing her true form. A rotting skull, mostly bereft of flesh, with eyes like charnel pits. As for the flesh of her neck, there was very little, what remained had dessicated and shrank tight against the vertebrae. Dark Desire had become the antithesis of beauty, and her carrion charms would no longer inflame the wonton lusts of mortals—at least, most of them.

“Damn, you’re a special kind of ugly, Mother,” Dim deadpanned during the moment frozen in time. “I bet you have to sneak up on your reflection in the mirror.”

Dark Desire howled with fury, she bayed like a banshee, a really, really ugly banshee, and while she stood there, impotent with fury, Dim summoned up a burst of magic to smash the crystal projector. When it did strike the floor, there was a terrific thunderclap that echoed through the room, the force of which almost bowled him from his hooves. The crystal, now subjected to the laws of reality once more, exploded.

As reality in the local area began to break down and reassert itself at the same time, Dim discovered that he wasn’t done, no, he had one more waiting within him. His emotion poured out of him in the form of words—the worst of words—even as the explosion began to pierce him with needles of agonising magic. Back arching, muscles tensing, Dim focused his pain into one final insult before the finale, for what else could he do? “I can never play peek-a-boo with you ever again, Mother—first I peeked, then I booed. What a hideous crone you’ve become.”

Tormented spectres lept from the now-shattered crystal. In death, they were grotesque parodies of the forms they had in life, twisted, made violent. Dark Desire joined them in screaming, and her illusory form radiated exquisite agony as the spell broke down. The spectres flew at her, their tormentor, but her body was insubstantial and their fury was for naught. Then, still shrieking, they turned on Dim, for the dead hated the living, because the living had in abundance what the dead did not.

Dim, sensing their desires, their hatred, their pent-up frustration, he projected his own hatred of Dark Desire. When they came for him, when they reached inside of him, reached through him, he did nothing to stop them, because it didn’t feel right to deny them. These were victims, not enemies, and they longed to vent their venom, to protest the great injustice done to them. The spectres, sensing someone sensitive to their plight, relented for a moment.

His thoughts on Chantico, Dim braced himself and offered up his body. Desperate for a reprieve, the spectres descended upon him, and finding no resistance, lept into him. One after another, they situated themselves in the space that Dim’s corporeal body occupied, and so it came to pass that Dim Dark—channeling the dead—committed accidental necromancy. The ravaging spectres piled into him and Dim’s eyes took on a baleful Tartarian glow. Witchfire burned along his flesh, sickly and green, and when his mouth opened, an unearthly scream could be heard.

A thousand different voices all screamed at once, a chorus of the damned. The force of the utterance ripped apart what was left of Dark Desire’s spirit projection, and as the scream continued, the fragments of the crystal projector crumbled into fine dust, consumed in witchfire. Dim, filled with spirits, did nothing to reject them, no, he embraced them with his newfound sense of compassion. A great unfairness had been done to them, they had been robbed of life and then their rightful death had been stolen away from them as well.

What they wanted was a voice to express their anger, grief, and loss; which Dim—without reservation—gave to them. The unearthly keening wail continued, it echoed through the domed room, and Dim did nothing to shut out their pain. No, like a drunkard with an overabundance of wine, he drank it all in, a glutton for their pain, and Dim made it his own. Many had suffered beneath Dark Desire—and by extension, Grogar as well. These poor harvested wretches, starved for mercy and compassion.

All they wanted was one last chance to express emotion, which they did, through Dim.

Somehow, Dim’s frail form survived the system shock, but his mind threatened to unravel. It was only through compassion that he held on to himself and didn’t lose the tiny spark that was Dim in the crowded riot that took place in his mind. As for the spirits, fury made a gradual turn to gratitude, and rather than be weakened, Dim felt himself be strengthened as the spectres imparted some of themselves in him, a token gift for his compassion, his kindness. What had once been torn away from them, they now gave freely.

One by one, they winked out of existence, and the scream pouring from Dim’s mouth began to fade. Pale forms came pouring out, carried upon the eddies of the shriek, which existed for only but a moment before departing. With the worst now past, the baleful witchfire flames flickered, faded, and turned pink. Dim stood within the cleansing flame, twitching, his eyes little more than pink inferno pools, and the last of the scream trailed off into nothingness.

When he blinked, the last of the fires extinguished from his eyes and Dim struggled to recover his senses. He felt strong and weak, exhausted and revived, spent and replenished. His brain itched and there was a peculiar sensation in his very soul. His first thoughts were moral ones; he had committed necromancy—he had trafficked with spirits—but he wanted to believe that his motivations were pure and that he had done so for the right reasons. Could there ever be a good reason for necromancy? He doubted it and it was with great sadness that he knew that his soul had been made a little blacker. One more unforgivable act, lost among his many misdeeds.

Yet, it was only through the foul act that Dim understood the suffering of souls in slavery. This was the fate of the world beneath Grogar’s rule, shackled souls denied eternal rest. Servitude and slavery without ending, without reprieve. The best outcome would be to serve Grogar willingly, but in the end, that mattered little, because all would be made to serve. Shivering, Dim did nothing to push the thoughts away, but he made himself drown in them. Now, he understood what was at stake and this knowledge left him feeling small and rather insignificant.

Alone, without companions, his heart heavy, Dim murmured a prayer to Chantico…

Body aching, left both weakened and strengthened, Dim approached the alicorn archway. His frail body had reached the very ends of the abuse it could endure, and yet, somehow, he continued. A curtain of magic hung from the archway formed by the alicorn wings and when he approached, he saw a spider on the other side of the curtain. For a time, he studied the spider, saying nothing, and observed that it had no eyes, not a one.

Curious, he rounded one of the alicorns to view the curtain from the other side, only to find that the spider had moved with his perspective. The spider was still on the other side of the curtain opposite to him, and Dim knew that whichever side he stood on, the spider would always appear on the far side of the curtain. This was a dimensional prison, far more clever than mere petrification. Again, he shuffled around one of the alicorns so that he could observe the shifting perspective of where the eyeless spider was located.

Hearing a laugh, he paused, and while he stood there watching, the bloated, distended abdomen of the spider split open. It parted to reveal a jaundiced yellow eye, which rolled about for a time before focusing on Dim. Well, this was quite fascinating, as Dim had never seen a spider with a gigantic eyeball in its abdomen before. This spider could only see behind it, and it turned about on some invisible, unknowable surface to have a better look at its visitor.

“Dim Dark,” the spider said in a rather androgynous voice that was every bit as alluring as it was disturbing. “I’ve been watching you ever since you stepped into my web. It has been a long, long time since I have met a kindred spirit. Of course, you have no reason to trust me, but I assure you, I mean you no harm. You’ve been a source of much amusement to me, not to mention that you have rid me of a major annoyance. For this, you have my gratitude.”

Wearing his stoicism like rigid platemail, Dim nodded, a silent, but polite gesture.

“I would imagine that you have questions.” The spider scurried right up to the edge of the curtain, and seemed to press its yellowed eyeball right up against the shimmering barrier. “These will be answered with all of the painful truth I can muster, my necromancer friend.”

Hearing this, Dim scowled, because the truth could be quite awful.

“You have the stink of Thrennog’s magic about you,” the spider remarked while studying Dim.

Eerie had mentioned Thrennog, and Dim knew nothing about him except for that he was a demon, and perhaps a bit of an asshole. It was frustrating, when others seemed to know more about you than you did, but he contained his emotion. Wearing a deadpan expression, he gave his host an impassive, leaden stare.

“Thrennog the Flesh Warper, since you obviously don’t know. He’s a sculptor of sorts, works with a living medium, and fancies himself as quite an artist. Your family learned some of his craft, your rude, demanding mother in particular. She got a lot of practice by shaping rats as a hobby. To each their own, I suppose.”

“You’re in league with Duc Truffe?” Dim asked, hoping that he didn’t seem too interested in Thrennog, but fearing that his host could read him like a well-worn book.

“In league?” There was a titter like the scurrying of thousands of tiny hairy legs. “I convinced Duc Truffe to release me… this is all his doing. I lied to him. Told him that if he released me, I would be bound to do his bidding. Which of course, isn’t true at all. He fancies himself as Emperor of Fancy. I was planning on eating him the moment I got out, because I bet his arrogance is all fatty and delicious. I am only half-demon, and I really can’t be bound. Which is how I ended up here. I doublecrossed some centaurs and some alicorns. Live and learn, and all that drivel.”

“So you promised Duc Truffe absolute power, I suppose,” Dim said while his thoughts remained on Thrennog. “And given enough time and blood sacrifices, you could free yourself from your prison?”

“Yes, and your mother came here with an eye on my release… and enslavement. I might’ve doublecrossed Grogar once or twice or thrice times in the past.”

Unable to stifle his reaction, Dim chuckled, a throaty, raspy sound.

“You and I are of like minds, Dim Dark,” the spider said, it’s voice becoming more feminine. “We’re both selfish, out for our own ends, for ourselves. I’ve peered into your heart, Dark One, and it was like looking into a mirror. Good and evil matter little to us, and we are no slaves to order. We follow our own whims. We’ve moved beyond black and white.”

Mindful of honeyed words, Dim guarded his thoughts, though he could not help but listen.

“You don’t understand,” the spider continued, “but that’s okay. I find myself enamoured with your charming naiveté. Your mind is still trapped in black and white thinking. Good and evil. Chaos and harmony. I left all of that behind eons ago, and now I live to serve my own whims. I am loyal to those who are good to me, and vindictive to those who would exploit me. Tell me, Dark One, do you understand the difference between freedom and liberty?”

“There is a difference?” Against his own better judgment, Dim found himself intrigued.

“Indeed.” The spider seemed to have settled upon a polite feminine voice for the time being, and she blinked a few times while studying Dim. “Liberty is the freedom allowed through the rigid enforcement of law. Don’t do bad things to others and bad things won’t be done to you. Obey the social contracts, and you’ll be as free as the law allows.”

“And freedom?” he asked, unable to help himself.

“The absence of law. Nothing is forbidden. Do as you please without consequences.”

Lips pressed together, Dim gave careful consideration to these words.

“I dictate the terms of liberty with all those who would have dealings with me,” the spider explained, her words weaving a charming web. “So long as my laws are obeyed, liberty prevails. I will maintain a social contract with you and not eat you. But violate my laws, and you are free to die. You are not so different, Dark One. You are fair in your dealings with others, I have seen this with my many eyes, and you are ruthless to those most deserving. This is why I’ve chosen to help you. I wish to see you evolve, to grow. There is nothing I want from you in return, and you will not be beholden to me, Dark One.”

Squinting, suspicious, Dim studied his host, but what emotion, what feeling could be discerned from a spider? Her words held a ring of truth to them, which made them incredibly dangerous. As she had stated, she doled out sadistic truth, as painful as it was profound. The last thing he expected was for this queen of spiders to help him, which was why he was so wary.

“It is good you are paranoid, Dark one.” Scuttling in place, the spider tittered once more, an obscene sound not good for one’s sanity. “I have stood in your place, unsure and uncertain of my future. My father”—she paused for a time and her eight legs jittered—“was a no good spider-fucker. Demons get bored, and I can’t blame him for seeking out some means to while away his dreary existence. But I found no acceptance, being neither demon nor common creature. And if I am to be completely honest, my heart is moved to pity for you. As Thrennog’s creation, you are not what your outsides suggest you are. Be good to those who accept you, Dark One, and be fantastically cruel to those who would hurt or otherwise exploit you. There is no morality except for what you make.”

These words gave Dim some grave concerns, as there was a ring of truth to him, as well as elements of what he so longed to hear. Try as he might, he could not dismiss them as false, but nor he could he accept them at face value. He was being fucked with, but gently perhaps. Or maybe not. It was impossible to tell.

“You don’t think I’m evil?” Dim asked, taking a risk and baring his soul.

“What is good?” she replied, her thorax and abdomen wiggling. “What is evil? Alicorns enforce the will of Harmony upon others and Grogar seeks to bring about world peace, an end to conflict. Harmony has made slaves of the most powerful race of mystics to have ever existed and Grogar seeks to upend that tyranny. You and I, we’re caught in the middle, torn between two tyrants who seek to impose their wills upon us. What choice do we have? The best that you and I can hope for is to cut a bloody swath through our enemies until at last we are left alone.”

Overwhelmed, Dim lacked a response.

“The centaurs… the centaurs tinkered with the alicorns. These natural mystics, these planeswalkers, and they tried to improve upon Harmony’s design. Tried to make it better, they did. They poked around and rewrote the tiny scrolls that hold the blueprint of living things. Unable to leave well enough alone, the centaurs created the ultimate race of tyrants… and these tyrants became slaves. Now, the centaurs are all gone. My guess is, Harmony wiped them out. Because let’s face it, the alterations to the alicorns wasn’t exactly harmonious, was it?”

“No…” Dim shook his head, distracted. “I suppose it wasn’t.”

“The centaurs had this plan,” the spider continued in a soft, sweet voice, “to unleash a massive army of alicorns upon the universe. They would go forth and reclaim dead worlds. Restore life. Bring order. This army would go and push back the darkness. That was the plan… but what is light without darkness? What is life without death? These dark places… these dead worlds, they all exist for a reason, but the centaurs were blinded by their zeal.”

Turning away, Dim focused upon the dusty, cobwebby floor, and gave careful consideration to what had been said. It might be the truth, or a partial-truth. Of course, it could very well be a lie said in such a way that it appeared truthful, or it might just be what his host earnestly believed was true. Whatever was being said, it was dangerous, and Dim began to understand why this creature had been sealed away in a prison. Such words were far too volatile for most to be hearing, the thoughts far too damaging.

Might the same be done with him?

“There is a vault down here with me,” the spider said to Dim, her eight legs tapping. “It can only be opened with royal blood—”

“Wait.” Dim’s head swiveled to face the spider. “Why is it that you think I could open it and not Dreadful Dark?”

Gleeful, the spider did a little dance while the putrid pupil of her eye shrunk down to a pinprick. “By virtue of what you are and what you were intended to be, had things been different. I assure you, the door will open for you, and within, you will find things most useful to you. I want you to have them, so that you might secure a place for yourself in the world. Artifacts locked away by the Moochick himself, when last he paid a visit with his retinue of lackeys. He was a fool, and far too trusting of the centaurs’ infalible magics. Only those with royal blood can open this lock, which in general, means an alicorn. Knowing the danger, they would leave the vault alone. But you…”

Dim saw malice in the spider’s jaundiced eye.

“My hatred isn’t for you, Dark One, but for the world.” The yellowed eye narrowed and the pupil took on a vague skull-shape. “I was truthful in what I said, about feeling pity for you. We are kindred spirits, you and I. You will leave this prison and I understand the way of things. I will be buried and forgotten about for a time. For this, I bear you no grudge. I merely wish to help a like-minded soul, so that maybe you don’t slip into despair and hopelessness as I once did.” She gestured with her legs, indicating everything around her. “Mistakes were made, Dark One.”

There was a dangerous amount of truth in these words, a terrifying surplus of truth, and Dim could sense no dishonesty. This left him untrusting, but also hopeful, two very different and conflicting feelings. His leaden gaze lingered upon his host, trying to read her somehow, but she had no facial features, no expression, just a hairy spider abdomen that housed a diseased, yellow eye with a shapeshifting pupil.

“Someone has to champion the grey.” The pupil shifted, changing shape until it resembled something like a set of scales that swung from side to side, a shifting inkblot of meaning. “I ask nothing of you. I only wish to give you the means to choose your path. That is all. The vault is beyond the door with the horn lock in the middle. So that you can choose your way, I will be going now. Good luck with whatever you choose.”

Before Dim could say anything, his host was gone. Oh, he was sure she was still in her prison, but she was unable to be seen at the moment. She had left him with a mind heavy with thoughts, and he had no doubts that these thoughts would turn into questions. This would leave him troubled for a long, long time. Which was, perhaps, the point. Almost frozen in place, unmoving, Dim tried to recall a time when somebody had messed with him so thoroughly by telling him the truth. Was this the truth? Hard to tell… harder to say… but it had a ring of honesty to it.

Saddlebags slapping against his sides, Dim shuffled off to have himself a look at the vault door.

Author's Notes:

We need burn cream...