By the faint orange glow of the fire, Dim watched as the foals and cubs played with one another. In another life, in other circumstances, in other places, they might have been enemies, but here, in this place, in this fortified and walled-in farmhouse located in the Fancy countryside, these potential foes were the best of friends, vital to one another’s survival.

The griffons, though tiny and playful, were careful with their sharp beaks and claws. Their equine playmates, little earth ponies, were just as careful with their immense strength and hard hooves. Dim realised that playtime was really an exercise in trust—no doubt for every parent involved.

These are good creatures, Dim, Cadance’s pink voice said within his mind.

Dim found himself in disagreement. These creatures were not good, but nor were they evil; they existed and were far too consumed with their labours, the effort to survive, to be good or evil. They were just there, waiting to be exploited by those with either benevolent or malevolent intentions. These creatures were a resource that allowed heroes—or villains—to operate. The old feudalistic contracts made it clear that it took tremendous resources to field a knight or maintain a garrison of soldiers. One needed peasants if one wanted security.

Must you be so cynical?

In response, Dim thought back to the events of the day, and the hippogriffs that had tried to take Blackbird. He recalled every horrid detail of Giselle’s death and the many tears that had spilled down Blackbird’s cheeks. Garrulous’ arrogant boasts and demands were remembered word for word within his mind. With each detail, each memory, he felt Princess Cadance recoiling within his mind, he could feel her mental flinching, and found that he took no pleasure from it, as he expected that he might.

Now, he just felt bad.

Turning his head, Dim glanced in Blackbird’s direction. She was carving something out of a block of soap, using a sharp knife and her own claws. A little filly—no more than a yearling—watched Blackbird shave off curls of soap with intense, expressive eyes. Motte was playing chess with the dignified, grey maned elder of the farm, and Bailey watched the game with great interest. Whole minutes passed with no pieces moved, as any careless action was an invitation for disaster.

There is some good in you, the pink voice within his head said. It hasn’t been completely crushed. Somehow, it has survived, even with everything you’ve seen and done.

Those were kind words, but no mention was made of his moral ambiguity or the darkness that stained his soul—that was left unsaid. Dim had notions of goodness, he supposed, but they did not rule his heart and were typically the furthest thing from his mind when plotting a course of action. Looking back on it, he often thought of those moments as ones of weakness, where his resolve seemed less than ironclad.

Not far from Dim, Munro was cleaning their fresh haul of guns and weapons, a task that the minotaur calf seemed to enjoy a great deal. Where many might be bored with drudgery, or might perform a task with great reluctance, Munro seemed to be in a fine mood and was humming to himself. For the briefest moment, Dim found himself envious of Munro’s happiness, and wished that he had the same.

The calm of the farmhouse was damaged by a howl. Everyone responded in some way, and even Dim found himself unnerved by the sound. His magic sense tingled, discerning something dire, something foul. Blackbird had stopped carving, she sheathed her knife, and reaching down, she lifted the tiny yearling filly. Munro drew his pistol and then sat very still.

Sitting near the fire, the elder mare of the house shivered and said, “Le loup-garou.”

Dim had no idea what she said, but her behaviour and how she said it seemed as though it was something somepony muttered to ward off superstitious nonsense. Even the Bard was disturbed and had retreated into Bombay’s arms. Dim’s perception told him something unnatural, something abominable was close—befouled, diseased magic.

Again the howl could be heard and again, all who heard it reacted. A griffon, a big, burly female, came through the door and then sat down on the floor with the little ones. The elder stallion—trembling with fear—moved his knight, putting on a brave display. Munro lost his nerve and now sat shivering at the table, even though the room was toasty from the fire.

Dim, who hated being afraid of anything, wanted to know what was going on.

“You mustn’t go outside.” The Bard’s voice said many things, more than his words let on. He was scared, terrified maybe, but trying to hide it. “Dim, we’re safe in here. The whitewash is fresh… and what is outside cannot get in. If you go outside, you will not be safe. However powerful you believe yourself to be, you are no match for what lurks outside.”

“But… what is it?” Dim asked while he prepared a spell that would ward the house from magical fear.

“A terrible, diseased creature.” Pâté au Poulet’s eyes darted around the room, reading the different faces present. “Some call it a curse, others say it is a disease, and others still call it cursed disease. None of that matters. They cannot be killed—”

“Nonsense,” Dim said, interrupting while also shaking his head in disbelief.

“Dim… you just don’t know. Please, the less said about them, the better. Please, please, for all of our sakes, do not let your curiousity or your arrogance get the best of you.” The Bard’s eyes locked onto Dim and a silent plea was made.

A younger mare with a freckled face burst into the room, breathless, and she came to a skidding halt near the griffoness watching over the little ones. “Loup-garou.” Her words, a breathless whisper, were laced with outright terror. She sat down on the floor and scooted closer to the big, burly griffoness, perhaps seeking comfort or reassurance. “J'ai fini le dernier de mes corvées et je suis là maintenant.”

You feel that, don’t you Dim… you want to protect these ponies. It wells up within you like some powerful instinct. Luna’s blood runs strong in you. Can’t you feel it? The drive, the compulsion, the incessant need. Let this be the moral compass you seek.

Ignoring the distracting thoughts, Dim cast a powerful, complex spell, a ward against terror. Normally, he would cast this upon himself, but this one had a broad area of effect and his efforts left him trembling with fatigue. Swimmy headed, Dim closed his eyes for a moment and tried to regain his senses as best he could.

The Bard lifted his head and said to everyone present, “Reste calme, Dim est un sorcier de grande puissance. Sa magie ne te fera pas de mal. Se détendre.”

For so long, you’ve only cast magic for yourself and your own ends. This exhaustion… Dim… this is the price of protecting others. You’ve protected a farmhouse. Luna strives to protect a nation. But you feel it, don’t you? Satisfaction. You know that you’ve accomplished something meaningful—

“Yes,” Dim said aloud, which caused a number of those present to turn and look at him. “Forgive me, that was more taxing than I expected. I need rest.” This was no lie—he could feel a tightness around his heart, a constriction that he had not felt since the day of the massacre at Shepherd’s Shore. Cadance’s words echoed within his head as the feebleness spread through his body.

Was but one single casting enough to undo him?

With but a thought, Dim dismissed that notion. He had done other things this day. His magical experiments, a great deal of rapid-fire winking, killing arrogant hippogriffs, and extinguishing fires—putting fires out was always more difficult than starting them. For the first time, Dim questioned his approach to magic, his utilitarian, minimalist, low-effort approach. If he was going to have to exist in a group, if he had to protect others, he was going to need to flex his magical muscles more often so that his magical endurance could be bolstered. This was untenable and the way he felt right now—this weakness—was too much to bear.

“I need rest,” Dim said as the tightness deep within his fragile ribs grew unendurable.

The young mare, while holding a squirming colt said to Dim, “Je vous remercie.”

“Also, I need food…”—he had to pause for a moment to stave off his progressing lightheadedness—“and then rest. It has been a long day.”

The earthenware bowl was misshapen, its paint was splotchy, and the glaze had been applied in an uneven, haphazard sort of way. It was a huge bowl, not really intended for one pony, but Dim was eating alone. Here, in this place, it was common practice to share a bowl with somepony, or, one big bowl for a whole mob of foals.

Using a spoon—his own spoon, a silver one—he fished out an enormous dumpling and sighed with satisfaction. The vegetable and dumpling stew was fit for royalty, it was a divine, savoury dish that might be one of the best meals he had ever eaten, and it wasn’t just his hunger compelling him to think that. No doubt, the leftovers would be served at breakfast, or maybe lunch, but Dim hoped there would be more at breakfast.

Blackbird moved through the door, into the kitchen, and came to the table where Dim was sitting. She sat down on the floor, scooted closer to the table, and hunched down to be a little more eye-to-eye with Dim. He looked up at her, chewing, she looked down at him, and he felt other appetites within himself when he gazed upon her face. A desire for closeness, for togetherness, a need to just be in her glorious presence.

“That spell you cast worked, Dim. Everypony is calm now. The fear has passed and the little ones are being put to bed. I guess it took a lot out of you?”

After swallowing, he replied, “It did. You know, Blackbird, it has occured to me that I am going to have to change my approach to magic. If I am going to cast spells to keep all of you safe, I am going to have to be far more conservative than I was previously. Every spell cast will matter more now. My offense will suffer.”

Hearing this, Blackbird’s mouth pressed into a tight line, and her eyes glittered with keen intelligence in the faint light of the lone candle on the kitchen table. Her right talons came to rest upon the table and then she began drumming her claws against the worn, polished wood. Slumping over even more, her bulk shifted and she let out a heavy sigh that made the candle sputter.

“I don’t think… I don’t think I could’ve dealt with all of this if I was still addled with opium and coca-laced salts. The cravings are still there”—he was surprised by his own confession but felt no overpowering compulsion welling up from within him—“but they are different now. More of a mental thing. Since meeting Chantico, the physical need has mostly gone away. It has affected my magic use though… I can’t use coca-laced salts to fend off thaumaturgical fatigue.”

“You’ll have to depend on us,” Blackbird whispered.

Dim found his response to be far more honest than he liked: “That scares me.”

“My mother had to learn how to depend on others. My dad, he had to teach her how to trust. He had to school her on simple, basic decency. He told me stories, stories that made my mother squawk and get all embarrassed. She didn’t trust herself, you know. She thought she was too far gone. After she had me, she was scared of me, scared of hurting me, and she wouldn’t even touch me unless my dad was there to watch over her. She got better, of course.”

After digging around with his spoon, Dim found another pillowy dumpling, which he ate.

“I’m falling for you, Dim…” Blackbird’s eyes darted away and flitted about the room, looking everywhere but at the pony in front of her. “Because of my mother and father, I have this weird notion that loving you is the only way to make you better. And make no mistake, I want you better. I want you to be able to depend on somepony. Eerie told me that I might not ever make you good, and she said I’d be a fool to try it, but she said that I could make you better. I’ve spent a lot of our trip so far thinking about the things she said.”

This time, Dim didn’t look into his bowl and dug out an enormous pale-yellow carrot.

“Eerie had a lot to say, Dim… she has a lot of regrets. Being a Dark is troubling, I guess. She’s scared that if I knew the whole truth about you… she begged me to stay, but she also told me a lot of stuff. I think she felt conflicted asking me for help. I wish I knew what to say right now, ‘cause this feels awkward.” Now, her eyes locked on Dim with a keen predatory gaze and the flickering flame from the candle could be seen reflecting in them.

Ravenous, Dim crammed even more food into his slavering maw, his fine manners all but forgotten.

“That poor hippogriff, Dim… I shot her and she died. Killing stuff… I don’t like it, Dim. When I kill stuff, it always happens in the worst way. I point my gun and KERPOW! No neat, clean deaths at my talons, no. I always make these awful lucky shots. Somehow, I strike arteries, or vital spots, or something, and I cause the most horrific injuries. This is why I don’t like killing, Dim. I feel so bad, Dim… say something to make me feel better, will ya?”

The pink presence in Dim’s mind vanished, leaving him high and dry. Creamy white sauce dribbled down his chin and he wished that Princess Cadance was still here. She had left him—no—she had abandoned him just when he was in need of her useful input. Resentful, Dim chewed on his food and tried to think of something clever, something witty. When he swallowed, he realised that his frogs felt sweaty.

Blackbird awaited.

Left to his own devices, the most foalish thing ever came out of Dim’s mouth: “Will you be my special somepony?”

At first, Blackbird’s eyes bulged and she jerked her head backwards. Then, her eyes narrowed, and she squinted while her head bobbed forwards in some vaguely feline way. Her ears made a ridiculous number of pivots and repositions, all while the most befuddled expression settled over her face.

“Did I say something wrong?” Dim asked.

“Well, no, Dim… it’s just that… we’re sleeping together. We’re very close.”

“Our sleeping arrangements are chaste.” Dim stirred his food with his silver spoon in an absent-minded sort of way. “There is an implied agreement things will only progress once certain conditions are met. I am, for the most part, a pony of my word. Our relationship is strange to me, because the last girl I was involved with was given to me as a gift. I killed her.”

“You know, Dim, saying something like that would make most girls run away.”

“You’re not most girls,” Dim said to Blackbird, “I think you’d shoot me and I find that arousing.”

“Again, Dim, most girls would be running away with all haste right now.”

“You’re not most girls.”

“No, I’m not.” Blackbird’s talons drummed on the table, making a rhythmic sound. “You and I… we’re like two peas in a pod, Dim. The little gross black ones that nopony wants, but two peas in a pod nonetheless.”

“I feel that, if we have arranged for conditional coitus, we should have our relationship status sorted out.”

“Conditional coitus, eh?” Blackbird rolled her eyes and snorted. “You have a way with words, Dim. All that education, all those words, but no idea how to say them to another pony. Or hippogriff, in my case. So… romantic, Dim. Every girl dreams of the day when circumstances are met and conditional coitus can commence.”

For a moment, Dim began to panic, but then Blackbird chortled and his anxiety turned to confusion. She found this funny? He was trying to be serious, to sort out and establish the boundaries of their relationship, so his humour was accidental, unintentional. Talking to other ponies, other creatures, was indeed, problematic; he had spent far too much of his life in conversation with other Darks. It could be argued that the Darks might not be ponies any longer, but this was too distracting to think about right now.

“I have very specific relationship needs,” Dim said while Blackbird continued her snortle-chortles. “I have fantasies about sphinxes—”

“Oh! You bastard!” Sitting up tall and straight, Blackbird now loomed over Dim, more than twice his height sitting down. “Fine, then. Riddle me this, Dim: I come in a lot of different sizes. Sometimes, I drip or dribble a little. I smell. If you blow me, it feels really good. What am I?”

“A dick?” Dim replied, stating the obvious answer.

In the faint candlelight, Blackbird blushed. “No, you pervert. A nose. Since you failed to answer, now I have to eat you.”

“I am not adverse to that.” Dim almost started to grin, but his face cramped and he was forced to abandon the attempt.

“Fine, since you begged, I’ll give you another chance.” Blackbird leaned forwards and her pointy canine teeth could be seen in the flickering light. “You stick your pole inside of me. I must be tied down for you to get me up. I get wet with you tucked inside of me. What am I?”

“A sphinx-like creature that spends too much time thinking about perverted riddles, obviously.” A yawn threatened to break free and Dim had to struggle to hold it back. “You called me a pervert, but these riddles of yours are obscene.”

“Wrong again,” Blackbird said to Dim. “The right answer is a tent.”

Blackbird had a talent—a horrible, terrible, awful, no good talent—and Dim found himself stricken by her clever wit. What had started as an attempt at a joke had turned into something perverse and beautiful. He tore into his food once more because he needed to finish eating before he fell asleep at the table—a real possibility at the moment.

“Finish up, Dim… from the looks of things, it’s time to take you to bed…”

Author's Notes:

KERPOW!

(By the way, this is a link.)