The attuned iron cage resisted Dim’s magical touch and he stood a few paces away, his face an impassive, dispassionate mask of thoughtfulness. Above the cage, the hanging lamp’s witchfire green glow made him feel weak and nauseous if he approached. In the cage, the pair of dragons huddled together, watching him with half-closed eyes, wary with fear and mistrust. Though he was terrible at this sort of thing, he tried to reassure them once more.

“Like I said, I mean you no harm and I plan to get you out. I’m just not sure how. I think I’ll have to come back though, because I need to conserve my magical reserves. I don’t know what fighting still awaits. I want to help you though, I really do.”

For Dim, these sentences held a strange compassion, as he found that he really did want to help them. Seeing them made his heart clench in a most peculiar way, rather like he imagined Blackbird’s poor asshole doing. The very idea of being kept in a cage filled Dim with emotions that he could not identify, except for anger. Only now was not the time for anger, no, he had to keep a level head or he might very well die in the next fight.

These dragons had been abused. Teeth had been extracted. Claws had been torn out from the quick. Scales had been peeled off. All parts that would regrow in time and Dim, having studied alchemy for almost the entirety of his life, understood exactly what was going on. For many applications of alchemical reagents, freshness guaranteed potency. So killing these dragons would represent a loss, but keeping them alive assured a constant, steady supply of necessary, vital components. The idea of such a life left Dim sickened and he blinked while staring up at the lamp that emitted the witchfire glow.

His magical sense told him that living energy had been used to create the lamp—lives had been poured into the crucible that had spawned it. Bound souls could be used to power all means of enchantments, some good, some bad. Some volunteered themselves willingly, while others had their soul essence tortured and twisted in terrible ways. With an internal shudder that failed to disturb his outward calm, Dim thought of the sacrificial altar he had passed.

Frustrated, Dim realised that there was nothing he could do for the dragons, not right now. He could probably open the cage, but doing so would exhaust him and that might prove fatal. Taking a step back, the heaving feeling of nausea left him when the witchfire glow no longer shone down upon him. When he returned, he would free the dragons and whatever bound and tortured souls that existed in the lamp. But for now…

“I give you my word,” Dim said to the pair of dragons, “which is something I rarely give. It is a precious thing. I don’t expect you to understand, but make no mistake, I will return for you. Which means that I have to survive whatever comes next so that I might keep my word, and that might be a tough thing to do.”

One of the dragons, the female, lifted her head to peer at him. She was pale purple and under better circumstances, she might be considered pretty among her own kind. Dim waited, hoping, a curious flame burning within his breast, for he had a sincere desire to reach these creatures, to have them trust him. To have the trust of those so vulnerable, so exposed, so utterly helpless, Dim found that he craved this, his soul itched for it.

When she spoke, the dragon’s voice was raspy and weak. “My name is Prominence. I gave up on anybody helping us.”

“Prominence… Eerie sent me to find you and a dragon named Scalio—”

“Thod,” Prominence said while stroking her companion with a kind, affectionate touch. “You know Eerie? Why didn’t you say so?”

For this, Dim lacked an answer.

“We only wanted to help, and then all of this happened. Thod was chosen because of his smile and he’s kinda simple-minded, so I was supposed to protect him.” Her face made some unknown, but clearly unhappy expression. “I failed.”

“Things happen,” Dim replied, his stoic acceptance manifesting. “For now, endure a little longer and when I am done, I will free you. Eerie would be unhappy with me otherwise.”

“That I trust.” For the first time, Prominence looked hopeful. “Eerie is working with Ember to create a dragon nation. It’ll be glorious. I didn’t think I’d ever get out of here to see it.”

Though it pained him, Dim had to go and while he stood, hesitating, uncertain, he couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel to watch one’s would-be saviour walk away. Especially if they were never seen again. For a time, he considered springing the dragons from their cages, but he just wasn’t sure how. Prominence, drained of vigour, allowed her head to drop once more, and she collapsed with a pained whimper.

It occurred to Dim that he might not be able to just walk away. For the first time in his life, his resolve utterly failed him. He felt some unknown conflict ripping and tearing at his insides, leaving him raw and vulnerable. It was something that he only had some vague notion of understanding because of books, and he was almost certain that he was facing the hero’s dilemma, the moment where the hero was torn asunder between duty and necessity.

Dim had a duty to these poor souls, but necessity dictated that he prepare for a fight.

As a colt, he had always assumed that these moments of internal conflict were just so much unnecessary melodrama, a means to spew letters into a story to expand the space between the covers, but having finally encountered it himself, he struggled to recall how the hero would steel himself to face the dilemma head on. All attempts failed and Dim was left with nothing; he had skimmed over those parts of the story, because all those pathetic emotions were just plain stupid. Who read that drivel?

Never one to say goodbye, Dim left.

While Dim made his way down the darkened passage, heading for whatever fate awaited him, his mind seized upon the idea that he was the hero. Alone, he had ventured into some madness inducing mine, he had already killed one unspeakable evil, and he had faced the hero’s dilemma. Now, with each step of his sore, stiff legs, he was creeping towards some unknown future, some unknowable outcome, and he had a good idea of what—and who—awaited him.

How would he survive this? He didn’t know, but he had given his word to Prominence and Thod to free them. Failure meant breaking his word, which was somehow worse to him than death. Dying was easy, but keeping one’s word was hard. Harsh Winters had an ironclad reputation for keeping his word. There was a pony whose word was his bond. That name, Harsh Winters, had weight to it, and mentioning it was enough to secure him almost any job. Harsh Winters was a thorough completionist, and he was known for keeping his word.

But Dim hadn’t given his word as Harsh Winters to the dragons, no.

No charades, no illusions, no deception… he had given his word as Dim Dark.

Thinking about it was agonising like little else.

The passage opened up into a massive round room with a domed ceiling. Two enormous stone alicorns dominated the room; they stood apart from one another with their wings spread to form a natural arch that had a shimmering curtain of magic hanging from it. Near the center of the room was a crystal spire that blazed with witchfire, and a lone ghostly figure was projected from the crystalline apparatus.

“Dimmy… I’ve been expecting you.” Dark Desire’s projected spectral form flickered while she turned about to face him. “While you were playing with those dreadful bandits last night, I was here, claiming the real prize. You came a little late to the party, Dimmy… all that’s left now is the clean up.”

“Does this make you the serving wench left to clean up after the guests have departed?” he asked in stoic deadpan. Having asked his question, he felt a rampaging swarm of warm fuzzies go clambering through his guts when his mother’s face contorted with rage. “A good servant should neither be seen nor heard. Begone, ye stench-ridden, flyblown scullery maid, and mind your betters.”

Above, the domed ceiling was a ballroom floor for dancing shadows that paid no mind to trivial things like up and down. His mother’s illusionary image trembled with homicidal fury and Dim, well, Dim felt pretty good about himself, all things considered. Dark Desire was never one to hide her emotions very well, she was passionate, volatile, and given to distracted fits or flights of fancy. Why, his mother couldn’t even respond, and her illusion was gnawing her lip while enduring her apoplectic fit of choler.

“I killed Uncle Dreadful,” he announced, his deadpan pouring like bitter liquid from the fount of his smug, aristocratic sneer. “And I regret to inform you that departed Uncle Dreadful will not be turning into a lich as was planned.” When his mother’s eyes narrowed into slits, he was almost giddy with glee at the sight of her displeasure. She was nothing more than a projection, and could do nothing to him. There would be no rebuke, no swift punishment for his devastating snark.

“We took those false alicorns—”

“What a pyrrhic victory,” Dim remarked, interrupting, his deadpan smashing through his mother’s words like a wrought iron wrecking ball. “All it cost you was Dreadful, which I am sure was a significant investment of resources. Uncle Dreadful, I’m certain, was a sure thing, while these pseudo-alicorns remain an unknown outcome. Was it worth it?”

Again, his mother’s fury spoke volumes, and he revelled in her umbrage, drinking it down like a fine, aged wine. Why, it was just the sort of vintage that he liked, strong, with heady notes of arrogance. Even the acidic bitterness suited him and he savoured this moment while giving his mother the haughtiest stare he could muster—and being Dim Dark, that was saying something. Few could match the sheer, unmitigated haughtiness that Dim could muster when he was in a mood, for he was the pinnacle of haughty breeding, haughtiness evolved and perfected.

“I think I have a knack for killing Darks,” he continued whilst approaching the crystal emitter. “Not bad, seeing as how I was the weak one. I fit the Dark ideal, but only just barely. I suppose it didn’t matter though, did it, seeing as how I was just a vessel, a means to an end. It was my body that was important, and I suppose that if I had gone along with the plan, I’d be the recipient of unspeakable, unfathomable power. Alas, in my adolescence, I developed a rebellious, contrary nature, and I was given to willful, insolent fits. I see that you didn’t plan for that, did you, Mother?” His mother was almost beside herself right now, and it was all Dim could do not to cackle with glee.

After grinding her teeth for a time, Dark Desire made herself respond to her son’s baited words. “There are still contingencies in place. We’ll see about the outcome. For now, it seems, I must suffer your insolence.”

“I am rather enjoying my insolence.” Dim’s ears stood up and the corners of his mouth pulled back, revealing his teeth in something that was almost, sort of, but not entirely a smile. “Tell me, Mother… what will happen if I smash this crystal? How valuable it must be… I can’t even imagine the magical resources required to construct such a complex creation. Given my knowledge of such things, I’d say this took months of work, not to mention all of the lives consumed to create a necromantic projector.”

His mother’s baleful stare was his only reply.

“I see that the illusion that you project is rather fleshed out… the appearance of living. Unhappy with lichdom, Mother? Does the dessicated, dried out mummy look not suit you? Your once sodden, dripping cunt probably feels like rubbing two sheets of parchment together when you walk now, if I hazarded a guess.”

“There are no words found in any language, in any existence, adequate enough to express my hatred of you.” Dark Desire’s projected spirit flickered as her livid expression intensified.

“Oh, I assure you, the feeling is mutual, Mummy Cunt.”

The sound of Dark Desire grinding her teeth could be heard coming from the projection.

Ignoring the sound of his mother’s fury, Dim studied the crystal emitter. Within, trapped souls swam through an aethereal ocean, it was a device powered by misery. As for the crystal itself, it sat secured in a copper and bronze stand that was practical and functional, but not artistic or beautiful. No doubt, Uncle Dreadful had set it up in here, and with Uncle Dreadful gone, no one else was around to clean up this mess. Truly, Dim resented having to clean up his family’s messes, but somepony had to do it.

“I worry for you, Dimmy. All this weakness you’ve cultivated. I thought I raised you better.”

Pausing, Dim turned to focus upon his mother once more.

“Your friends and this growing compassion of yours… ‘tis a volatile combination, Dim. Just imagine the pain your heart will feel when Blackbird is killed, violated, and revived as one of Grogar’s Harbingers. What will you do then? You’ve made yourself so weak and vulnerable.”

Though angered, Dim gave no outward sign of it, and he maintained his stoic armor. He wanted to dash the crystal upon the floor right here and now, to give himself into his fury, to maybe even throw a smashy-smashy tantrum, but since leaving home, he had changed. Grown. He’d adapted to a hostile, uncaring, unfeeling world that was indifferent to his needs. Rather than feel anger, Dim chose to feel hope, because his mother’s words had a ring of truth to them.

Perhaps she didn’t realise what she had said, about his growing compassion. Did he have compassion? It seemed he did—enough so that it caused his mother some degree of alarm. If he had compassion… perhaps his damnation wasn’t quite as assured. What could change the nature of a pony?

“You’ve already lost one, Dimmy.” His mother’s voice had a sepulchral chill to it now. “Soon, the others will fall as well. Death will claim them, one by one. It would be a mercy for you to die first, to spare yourself the pain of what’s to come. But you have my assurances, you will die last. And only after you’ve watched their agonising ends and seen them revived to do His will. See, that’s the thing, Dim. Death is our victory and your loss. And death… death is inevitable.”

“Remember those words well, Mummy Cunt, because I plan to make you eat them when I down your revived corpse.” Dim’s icy stoicism was a near-perfect counter to his mother’s impassioned, emotion-evoking threats. He had changed, and the full awareness of it began to percolate through his grey matter. Thing was, he hadn’t changed on his own, no, it was his friends who had changed him, Blackbird most of all, but the others had probably done more than he gave them credit for. The Bard’s death had changed him profoundly, and Dim could not nor would not dismiss that. Grief and pain surfaced, almost shattering his stoic platemail, but rather than push those feelings away, he let them wash over him in a flood.

Though it didn’t feel good, it most certainly felt right.

Perhaps haunted by Pâté au Poulet’s memory, Dim felt inspired, for that was the Bard’s magic. He could almost see his friend’s face in his mind’s eye, and in some weird way, the pain of loss and grief shielded Dim from the agony of his mother’s cruel words. This was a meaningful, profound pain, and he embraced it. Grief shielded his heart and Dim was able to look upon his mother without reservation, fear, or doubt.

There was no further need to exchange words. His mother was an empty vessel full of empty threats. Should his friends fall in battle—which was most certainly a potential outcome—it would not weaken him. No, it would strengthen him and his resolve. Rather than break him, Dim knew that loss would motivate him. Perhaps not to do right, but to do whatever was necessary so that others would not know this loss.

In compassion, Dim found strength, and the light of hope flickered bright within him.

Turning away from his mother, he reached out with one hoof and gave the crystal emitter a hard shove.

Author's Notes:

Next: Speaker for the Dead.