Running through the dark, panting, his heart beating so hard in his chest.

Clip-clop, clip-clop.

His dark blue eyes, normally set in a calm, inquisitive expression of polite interest, are now stretched wide with terror, his pupils dilated so far as to be barely visible. They dart left, right; it makes little difference, for the only thing to see is an endless expanse of blackness, punctuated here and there by dim silhouettes. He doesn't care about the indistinct shapes. He can tell at a glance (although he isn't sure how) that they're not going to chase him, and he has no concentration to waste on them.

Clip-clop, clip-clop.

He can hear his own ragged panting, the sound—just slightly out of time—of his hooves beating against the ground. He has no idea what he is running on, other than that it is cold and smooth and glassy, and he doesn't spare a thought for it. All he cares about is fleeing, all he can feel is deep, stark, gibbering fear.

Clip-clop, clip-clop.

His wings are folded tightly to his sides; he doesn't think to fly, and somehow he knows that it won't make a difference to try. He can't hear it, can no longer feel its searing, freezing, scouring breath on his flank, and somehow he knows that it must be far, far behind him, but he knows it is hunting him; and it fills some deep, irrational part of him with an awful dread to know that it is taking its time, waiting for him to tire, somewhere in that black, silent void.

Silent but for the sound of his panting, and the occasional sob, and the sound of his hoofbeats, always a split-second too late.

Clip-clop, clip-clop.

He doesn't have any idea what's going on. He has vague, foggy memories of a bright, beautiful, winding city built into a mountain; he thinks he remembers a job, stamping and carrying papers through a crowded, lively building with large windows, ponies of all sizes, shapes and species milling about through the cheerful chaos.

He thinks he remembers a face. Dark gray coat, delicate features, pale green eyes. He feels scraps of memory, vestiges of emotion and friendship associated with that face. Maybe he could remember more, if he tried. In this place, however, all that exists is the running, and the darkness, and the gnawing, aching fear.

Clip-clop, clip-clop.

He runs, and runs, he doesn't know how long. And then, when he thinks that he can run no longer, he feels a deep, echoing shiver through the void, and he knows that it has come for him.

Adrenaline renews its assault on his exhausted body as the terror that has been driving him reaches new heights. He lets out a whinny, although he knows he should save his breath; the sound is swallowed up before it reaches his ears. Even the telltale vibrations in his jaw and throat are silenced. He speeds along, faster than he would have ever thought possible, the screams of his abused muscles drowned out by the screams of his instinct to run.

Clip-clop, clip-clop.

It's getting closer. He doesn't look over his shoulder; he doesn't need to. He can feel its malice, hear its breathing in some deeper part of him than his ears. It's catching up to him, and he can't keep on this way. The wings fear has lent to his hooves begin to fade (some irrational, disconnected part of his mind thinks that that's hardly fair, as his own wings aren't working), and he begins to lag.

He thinks that he probably would have run himself to death if he hadn't tripped over his own hooves, one tangling in front of the other and sending him crashing to the cold, hard floor. He is carried another foot or two by his own momentum across the smooth, glossy-feeling surface, before sliding to a halt.

The creature is standing over him. Lying on his side,unable to move any further, his flanks heaving and glistening with sweat, he sees it out of the corner of his eye. The light, such as there is, is dim and strange, and he can't make out much; but what he sees is horrible. The misshapen silhouette of a head, covered with gruesome-looking spikes that seem strange to his eye, a mass of feathers rising up behind it. Its eyes glitter with a dim light of their own, and although he can't seem to focus on them, he knows that there is something horribly wrong with those eyes.

It looks at him, and speaks in a voice that whispers and moans and shakes the entire void around him. He doesn't understand it, and yet he has the strangest feeling that he should be able to. He stammers something, or tries to; once again, the sound is silenced. The creature seems amused. It tilts its head and looks at him for a little bit longer. Then, without warning, it picks him up—he doesn't feel a touch, so it must be magic—and turns him abruptly over on his face. More deep, mournful whispering, increasing in volume as it goes on. It becomes louder and louder, until he feels as if it is shaking his very bones to shards. Light begins to glow, a strange, sickly light that is quickly absorbed into the blackness, which begins to pulse. His fear begins to take over again, and he starts to struggle—

–And screams, long and loud, as a horrible, sickening pain rips into his back. His silent cries are soaked into the darkness, strengthening it as much as the light does. He feels something give, and tear, and come away from his shoulders, and he nearly passes out then and there. The light and the whispering continue, growing more and more intense as he screams and screams, and he can feel his mind beginning to be drawn into it.

And then, suddenly, it stops. It takes a minute for the light to fade from his vision, which is quickly filling with black spots. When it does, the void and the monster and the sad, vague silhouettes are nowhere to be seen. He is lying on a hill, beneath a tree, surrounded by moonlit grass swaying in a gentle wind, the scent of flowers heavy in the air around him. It is beautiful.

He doesn't care. He wants to get away from this place, even if he doesn't know where it is. This is a place of danger, and he knows it. Everywhere is a place of danger. He can tell, because there is blood all around him, and what safe place is covered in blood?

Slowly, he staggers to his hooves, nearly passing out from pain and fear and blood-loss. Yes, that's what he should do. It worked for a while, didn't it?

He laughs once, a wet, sick, shaky laugh.

And then, he starts to run.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the void, the beast stands perfectly still.

He doesn't know what happened. All was going well, and then the colt had just… vanished. Ponies tend to vanish in this realm, of course, to shift from one place to another. But not this place. This is his place, his lair, and others don't simply leave against his will.

It is a dangerous thing, whatever it is that has happened. His realm is tied to him, and he can feel the raw power still coursing through it, looking for a victim. He needs to do something with it, or else he might begin to lose control. And that would never do.

He stares into the darkness, and the silence, and the shadowy forms in the distance.

Then, he turns, and makes his way further into the void, to prepare.

Clip-clop, clip-clop.