Puke Puddle was wearing a dress. Unable to help himself, Dim’s lip curled back into a sneer—it was a reflexive action that was second-nature to him. Perhaps the most noticeable change to Puke Puddle was that she was immaculately clean. Her pelt was reddish, making her look more vulpine than feline. She wore a pink cast that covered her arm from shoulder to wrist, with a bend at the elbow, and a makeshift sling hung from her tiny, fragile neck.

The fingers that emerged from the cast were most certainly reptilian.

Just behind her, Munro hovered, waiting for approval. The young minotaur was fidgety, unable to hold still, and showed more than just a little concern for the tiny goblin that didn’t even reach his knee. Though he would never admit, not even under the pain of torture, Dim was touched by what he saw. His valet, a remarkable creature by any standard, showed genuine kindness for the goblin that he had been made responsible to care for.

For Dim, it was a much-needed reminder that there was good in the world.

“Go on, show him. Do it.” Munro made a gesture with his big, beefy hand.

When these words were said, Puke Puddle became quite bashful—she hemmed and hawed, squirmed, and tried to smooth out her dress with her free hand. After taking a deep breath, she bent both knees, grabbed a hank of her dress in her clawed fingers, and curtseyed. Unsure of how to react, Dim stood stoic, unmoving, his lip still curled back into its customary sneer.

After what felt like two minutes had passed, he said to Munro, “You taught a goblin to curtsey.”

Without even a second passing, Munro replied, “It seemed proper.”

Dim had no response to this, but his cheeks drew tight and his mouth—his mouth almost contorted into a smile. Bowing his head, he bent his neck until he was eye-level with Puke Puddle. “You’ll have to curtsey when you meet the Empress. The Impératrice, if I remember my titles correctly. I’m positive that she’ll be impressed.”

“Dim, you’re bringing a goblin to dinner?” Motte, incredulous, began to shake his head.

“We’re invited to a meal. The goblin is with me.”

Motte snorted, but said nothing else.

Blackbird, unable to remain silent any longer, shoved Dim out of the way as she pushed past him, and then she sat down on the floor in front of Puke Puddle. Reaching down, she adjusted the goblin’s dress, and engaged in other Blackbird-esque activities while saying, “You’re very pretty in that dress. I don’t have a nice dress, but then again, I walk around on all fours. I don’t think I could curtsey to save my life. Now, you remember the stuff that Munro taught you about forks and spoons, don’t you?”

The gobliness offered up a frightened nod.

“She took to using tableware with ease,” Bailey remarked. Then, looking Dim right in the eye, she added, “She doesn’t like being naked. Or dirty. Dim, your goblin has standards.”

Dim’s aristocratic sneer intensified. “As well she should, being my servant. I can’t have her being shabby and disgusting, looking like a vagabond—”

“Yeah, having her look like you would be bad,” Bombay cut in, and in doing so, became the target of Dim’s soul-curdling stare. “When you arrive at dinner, they’re going to introduce you as Prince Raggamuffin.”

“And my loyal feline follower, Lady Guttersnipe, the Back Alley Yowler.”

Bombay’s tail went exclamation point straight, but she said nothing.

Bailey asked, “What does a cutie mark for sarcasm look like?”

Ignoring all of this, Dim returned his attention to the small, helpless, pathetic creature that looked utterly bewildered by everything taking place. “Stay close to me. Remain calm and quiet, and everything will be fine. If anypony says anything derogatory, I’ll rip their aorta out”—here, he made a long, dramatic pause, and when the tension had matured a bit, he added—“through their asshole.”

“Well, the Prince has his loyal retinue, let’s go eat. I wonder where Jolie and Gratin are?”

“Motte, If you have to ask…” Bombay added a dismissive wave of her paw to her words.

It took a moment, but Motte reached a moment of realisation; upon doing so, he smiled. “We did keep poor Gratin away from Jolie.” The grizzled combat engineer chuckled for a bit, finally visibly relaxing, and good cheer returned to his eyes. “Let’s go eat.”

Dim had entered the room expecting a formal affair, but was pleasantly surprised when he realised that this was not meant to be. Pearl Fisher was dressed, but not exquisitely so. She was also their host, a surprising position for an Impératrice to be in. Jolie and Gratin were already seated, and from the looks of things, Jolie was quite pleased with herself.

At one end of the table, Chromium was wearing the body of a unicorn and reading a book.

“Forgive me, but my husband will not be joining us.” Pearl Fisher’s ears dropped into an apologetic position. “The past few days, they have claimed their toll from him. He is spending time with our foals so that he might recover himself, so he be himself once more.”

“Ah, but he is not the beautiful one whose company I sought,” replied Dim.

Ears splaying out, Pearl Fisher’s eyes narrowed. “The Jeebie King is a flatterer. Do make yourself at home. There is wine, as promised.”

With a fine, aristocratic saunter, Dim approached the table and sat down at the end opposite of Chromium, who had not yet looked up from his book. Then, the others began to sit down, and the table became quite crowded. Dim’s companions, all of them, ponies, a hippogriff, a minotaur, an Abyssinian, two dragons, and one goblin all gathered together. As they sat down, he looked at them, feeling a certain odd kinship with them, even those he hardly knew.

With time, he would know them.

“Before we start,” said Jolie as she sat up straight, “we should take a moment to remember the Bard. Let us tip back our glasses and remember him.”

The words struck Dim, and something deep within him shifted, a physical sensation that curdled the bowels. That was the problem: he did remember the Bard. The wounds were still fresh, still raw, so much so that tending to them was unpleasant, a squeamish task subject to procrastination. Suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to be alone.

In a tragic turn of fate, the scent of wine brought no comfort, offered no relief.

Dim watched as his glass was filled and with a sigh, collapsed in upon himself, slouching down. It occurred to him that Puke Puddle never curtseyed for the Impératrice, which only seemed to add to his melancholy. He missed his friend and wondered to himself, had the Bard been properly avenged? Was his death made worthwhile? Dim had no way of knowing, no means to determine if Pâté au Poulet’s loss had been reconciled.

Gasconeigh was in ruins, but could be saved.

He felt weak, tired still, as if he could go back to bed, close his eyes, and lose himself in a slumbersome abyss. It was only now, after his friend was gone, that Dim realised just how important those valued moments were. It was like a precious resource that there was far too little of, and now that it was gone, he was left wanting more.

Loss hurt.

It hurt like nothing else and Dim knew that at any moment, any one of his companions might die. Their lives meant something to him—and this bothered him because he couldn’t bear the concept of loss. It was easier—safer—to have nothing. A lone vizard for hire, life on the road, going from place to place, never to settle in one spot for too long. It felt as though a mistake had been made—yet he could not deny that he was a better pony for having made it.

“The Bard was the best of us,” said Dim whilst raising his glass.

All around the table, others followed his example, even those who did not know the Bard, and this made Dim feel better. Even Chromium had joined in, enigmatic, mysterious Chromium, the silver dragon whose powers rivaled that of any alicorn. Respect and decency were sorely needed things right now, seeings as how the Bard’s homeland had fallen into barbarity. Here they were, sitting together in a high tower, safe from all but the worst of threats.

Alas, others did not share in this great fortune.

When the last glass was raised, Dim drank. The first swallow was bitter, for reasons unknown. It might have been the wine itself, or the memory recalled upon drinking it. But warmth, like a gentle, reassuring dawn spread as that first drink was swallowed, and with warmth came sweetness, fickle though it might be. Tilting his head back, Dim emptied his glass in just a few swallows.

Something was wrong with his eyes; his companions were blurry, indistinct, and try as he might, he could not focus on them. Also, his eyes were curiously moist, a most unpleasant condition that he loathed and despised. He filled his own glass before anypony else could, and then he destroyed it in the most aristocratic way possible.

“The Bard was a fine fuck.” Jolie’s words stunned all present and many heads turned to look at her. “No, he was a magnificent fuck, as is befitting the one who might have been the Alicorn of Love. He was a giver, he was gentle, but also a randy little shit who was into some kinky deviance. The world is a lesser place without him.” Then, holding her glass in her fetlock, the tiny mare raised it high in salute. “The world has a shortage of fine fucks and we mourn every precious one lost.”

“Here here,” said Bailey, also raising her glass.

After pouring more wine, Dim raised his as well.

Following Jolie’s lead, together, they drank. Dim emptied yet another glass and he was feeling better now, well enough to eat. A pot of cheese bubbled in front of him, there was a platter of bread, fruit, and vegetables, as well as a collection of long-handled forks. Then, without realising the danger of doing so, Dim glanced over to check on Puke Puddle to see how she was doing.

She clutched a tiny doll-sized cup that had been thoughtfully placed out for her.

He was forced to close his eyes, because the moment was too much to bear. His emotions roiled, churned by the heartwarming sight. She was mourning somepony that she did not know, and her weird, almost vulpine face had been so solemn during that brief moment when he had looked at her. Now, it was said that goblins were brutish, unfeeling creatures, and just now, he had witnessed otherwise.

Of course, it was also said that he was a brutish, unfeeling creature.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Blackbird looking at him. Her eyes were two brilliant green jewels lost in a swirling, shimmering, glossy void of darkness. She was easily the blackest shade of black that he had ever laid eyes on. Perhaps it was the wine, but Blackbird was quite pleasant to look at right now, beautiful, a feast for the eyes.

Blinking caused a trick of the eyes, and for a moment, he saw Darling Dark superimposed over Blackbird. More blinking fixed this, but the memory, once summoned, would not go away. The dull claws of melancholy did not make clean cuts as they raked through his mind, but rather shredded and mutilated his grey matter. His magic faltered—so much so that he was forced to switch streams and his telekinesis alternated between the two colours of his mismatched eyes.

Ears pricking, Dim could almost hear Darling singing.

“The Jeebie King keeps company with haints.” Pearl Fisher’s patois was thick with concern and she stared at Dim with piercing, knowing eyes. “You be lost in the company of the living, Jeebie King. Come away from those haints and be with us warm ones.”

“How…” Dim gulped, but could not swallow the lump in his throat. “How is it that you know?”

“I sense what cannot be seen,” was Pearl Fisher’s cryptic response. “A moment ago, I felt the cold. It feels like a grating on the bones.”

Not caring about what he was saying, or what others might think of what they heard, Dim spilled his heart out to Pearl Fisher. “Before she died, she saw a pale pony, and he was surrounded by shadows. She’s haunted me ever since. I keep seeing her face and sometimes I can hear her singing.”

“You not crazy, if that what you think. It real. Real enough, anyway.” Pearl Fisher poured more wine for Dim, her eyes warm with concern. “Eat. Drink. Spend time with us living. Don’t give the dead a reason to go a-hainting. They can’t go where life is strong.”

Wary, Dim wasn’t sure if he believed this, but he said nothing aloud. For now, perhaps it was better to let the issue drop. If they couldn’t go where life was strong, how could he have seen Darling just a moment ago? Perhaps it was him, the outsider, alone in a crowd. This thought was unsettling, disturbing, unpleasant.

Here he was, remembering those departed. In remembering the Bard, Darling had come to call. If Pearl Fisher was to be believed, it was more than just a trick of the mind. It unnerved Dim that Pearl Fisher seemed to know. Just how had a unicorn learned zebra spirit-magics? Such a thing was possible, the evidence for it was right in front of him.

Chromium, his silver hide shimmering, scillilating in mesmerising ways, cleared his throat and said, “The dead are not welcome here. That’s enough of that.” A flash of light burst from the tip of his horn and the room filled with a life-affirming warmth.

Right away, Dim felt the difference. His thoughts calmed, his heart slowed, and he almost felt at ease again. Though it trembled, he raised his glass, placed it to his lips, and emptied it in just a few swallows. Then, after he set his glass down, he decided that he much preferred the company of the living.

Author's Notes:

Now, off to work on something else...