In the East
By N00813
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Spike stands in a hollow in the middle of the jungle, surrounded by the smell of blood and cooking flesh. Vines threaten to strangle him, and thorns stretch out to try and rip at him. The ground is wet and muddy, covered with decaying vegetation and the ruined corpses of animals.

His stomach rumbles and he feels some drool spill over his jaw as he watches and smells the meat charring amidst the fire. Fear rushes through him. This has never happened before.

The black dragon in front of him looks at him oddly, and Spike glares at it, more to forget the rich scent of meat than to intimidate the much larger being.

It is the kidnapper. It ripped him away from Twilight, from everything he’d ever known. Anger and hate spills into his blood as it matches his gaze, eye-for-eye. He hates it even more so for having killed the creature now blackening over the fire it created.

Spike considers running into the jungle. It is dark and dank, good for hiding in. With his small frame, he is sure he can find a good place. A snake hisses by, and Spike leaps backwards. The black dragon lets a chuckle escape from its elongated maw, a rough sound much like the deep rumbling of thunder. Spike shoots it another glare, but his stomach rumbles too, betraying him. It sounds pathetic and small next to the black dragon’s laugh.

A cooked piece of meat flies through the air, landing a short ways in front of him on a platter of decaying leaves. The black dragon’s eyes glimmer as Spike carefully walks forwards, wary of any trap. Disease will not bother him. His body runs hot enough to burn bacteria. No, it is the unexpected act of ‘kindness’ that puts him on edge.

For the hundredth time, he ponders why the black dragon wants him alive. He’s never seen it before, not even in the dusty, corroded images that spring to mind when he thinks about the Migration.

He thinks about kicking the meat away, just out of spite, and also because he wants those unfamiliar instincts and feelings to disappear. Yet the meat is good. He should eat it – nutrition and good food is hard to come by – but memories stop him. What would Twilight think? Her face swims in his mind, the disappointment in her eyes more painful than any angry shout.

Then his stomach rumbles, and he inhales. The smell overwhelms him – it is wonderful – and he rips it into shreds before stuffing it in his mouth. The meat settles well in his stomach. He grins, and then realises he is grinning. He forces a scowl, and turns away from it.

The black dragon chuckles again.

As the sky brightens, their surroundings change from humid swamp to dry desert. Spike hangs above the sands, caged in the claws of the black dragon. For miles all around, he can see nothing but sand. Dry air whips his scales and worms its way into his mouth, until they feel as cracked as the earth below must be. The heavy, cloying dampness of the jungle feels like heaven in comparison.

The black dragon looks down past Spike, and adjusts its wings. They descend. Spike watches the dry sand rush closer and closer, until he is hanging just a metre above it as the black dragon levels out. Sand and loose grit blow outwards as they rocket along the ground.

They come to a cliff-face. There is a hole in it, right in the middle. There are no handholds down or up, and the fall looks lethal. When they land, Spike instantly moves as far away from the black dragon as he deems safe.

At the precipice, Spike contemplates the sun. It hangs in the distance, glowing pale orange as the Princess drives it towards the ground. How is the Princess? Is she alright? Is Twilight alright? When will they come for him? Their faces swim in his memory.

For a moment, the succulent, rich scent of meat, as he remembers it, becomes as foul as ash. He almost throws up.

He’s betrayed them. What would happen to him if they ever find out? Would he be put in prison? Banished? Both? He looks down at his claws, flexing the fingers. The white points at the tips taunt him with their sharpness.

He turns towards the black dragon, and snarls. The sound is quiet, but feral and primal. The black dragon’s amber eyes regard him coolly. In them, the threat is clear. Spike’s hackles lower automatically, and he looks over the precipice again.

There is that voice, urging him to throw all his caution into the wind and take a leap. He knows the folly of following it. From this height, massive boulders look like grains of sand. And if he ever tries, the black dragon can still catch him. He won’t escape that way.

He collapses despondently onto the cave’s stone floor. For a moment, laughter rings in his ears. High-pitched and infused with joy, he recalls a pink face swirling amidst the smell of sugar. For a moment, he smiles. Sugarcube Corner appears in his mind’s eye, full of ponies grinning and tasty pastry. His friends are all there, also grinning, and he feels his face involuntarily mimic theirs as well.

It’s over all too soon. When he looks up, all he can see is rock, sand, and a black dragon. The laughter, the image and his smile evaporate into the still air like the mirages they are.

They stay there for the night. Spike tries everything. He kicks his legs, paces, and even bites one of his own fingers – but the siren song of sleep is too strong. He stumbles. As he lies prone on the ground, the last thought of the day is spent in contemplation of the distant stars.

Spike sits in his cage of claws, watching the landscape go past. The mighty wings of the black dragon above tear through the air, whipping up a gale that smashes into him. Were it not for the black dragon, he would have long since lost his grip and fallen.

He ponders whether to talk to it. It has not spoken since they first met, about a dozen days ago, when it had smashed through the walls of the library and snatched him from his little cot. It had flown the entire night in silence, ignoring Spike’s feeble breaths of fire and shrill yells for help. By the third day, Spike had learnt the futility of shouting. But there is no harm in trying, right? He is at its mercy – at any moment, it could simply drop him, and he’d turn from a young dragon into a red smear.

Spike shivers involuntarily. A cold feeling sets within him, like he’s eaten one too many scoops of ice cream. It is not exactly unwelcome, but it is uncomfortable, sitting on his heart like a worm on an apple. He looks down, between the claws that trap him and keep him safe, and he sees the world pass by. Perhaps silence is safer. It has not killed him yet.

The coast looms closer. The thin white line of surf separates safe, solid land and the vast blue of the untamed ocean.

Spike stands on the edge.

The seawater retreats from his clawed toes, leaving wet sand behind. The water regroups into a formless mass that, as it rushes forwards, curls over itself. Spike watches on, fascinated. He doesn’t move back as the water looms over him. It smashes into him, leaving him spluttering, trying to shake the itch of salt out of his scales.

By his side, the black dragon’s rumbling chuckles echo over the deserted beach. Spike turns to glare at him, but the next wave hits, and he’s sent stumbling. The black dragon shakes its head. It is still lying at the end of a massive skid mark, in a shallow valley of sand. Spike cannot fault it for doing so. After all, he’d never thought flying across the Eastern Sea was possible.

It occurs to him then; this is the perfect chance to escape. The black dragon is exhausted from the flight, and if he can get far enough, he could find shelter in some nice pony’s home –

No. This isn’t Equestria anymore.

He kicks at the sand, a growl forming deep within his throat, and his hands clench into fists. Hot anger bubbles through him, leaving behind a cold, dawning emptiness. He knows this feeling well, even though he cannot name it.

But it is a chance. It is a chance – nothing more, nothing less.

Spike takes a deep breath, like he’s about to dive into the deep, and then he turns to look inland. The jungle faces him, with all of its knotted vines, murderous animals and baking heat. He shoots a glance at the black dragon. Then, he makes his decision.

The dragon doesn’t do anything more than growl half-heartedly as it watches him go. Spike stops walking. What if it’s a trap? The jungle is alive with danger, but he is free there – or he could go back to the relative safety of the black dragon. Spike still can’t figure out why he was kidnapped, but threats, pleas and questions have yielded nothing from his kidnapper.

Spike walks forwards, straight into the jungle. The howl of the black dragon behind him is soon stifled by the foliage.

He cannot remember much of what happens in between. It’s all a blur of running, ducking and absolute terror. Only the smell of blood stays, freshly etched, in his mind.

Spike stands in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by bodies and the smell of fresh blood. There is so much of it; some splatters drip down from the bark of nearby trees, whilst the rest turns the muddy ground into a reddish swamp. The disgusting lukewarm mix lap against his ankle.

The black dragon is in front of him. Just before, there had been a group of creatures in its place. One of their heads rolls towards him. It has been severed roughly from the body, and Spike can still see trails of flesh leading down from the neck. The face of a dead stallion looks back at him, fixed in a grimace. The stallion will be scowling until the flesh rots from the bone.

Spike cannot hold it anymore. He vomits, and the green-yellow liquid splashes down next to his clawed feet. He was stupid. Kindness from strangers – what a fool he was. He remembers Twilight’s globe. The memory carries him away, into the library and back to normalcy, and he can almost ignore the stench of viscera wafting up his nostrils. His eyes sting.

He should have known that there was a way the black dragon could find him. Why carry someone across the sea, only to lose him? How had the black dragon found him in Ponyville at all?

He retches again, but there is nothing more to spill out. The black dragon shakes its head, laughing its thunder of a laugh, and plucks him out of the muck. Spike’s claws swing loosely, covered in blood and mud, vomit and tears. He simply hangs on as the black dragon wraps its claws around him, and then, with a mighty shove of leathery wings, they are above the jungle.

Spike looks back. The nameless place where he stood, just a few minutes ago, is now hidden by the branches and leaves of nameless trees. Only a small column of smoke rises out from the smothering green, like a lonely beacon. He sags in the black dragon’s claws.

Several sunrises later, the soldiers come. Only, they are not soldiers.

It is sunset, Spike judges from the orange tint in the sky. The black dragon is beside him. They are both walking. It is not a good idea to waste energy when there is no need.

The only warning Spike gets is the glint of metal in the sky, before a pegasus swoops in, its hoof clad in some weapon. He ducks, instinctively, but then realises that the pegasus is not going for him. Then he sees the rest of them.

They are all armoured, but they are not wearing the same armour. He knows instantly that they are not Guards. Several of them are carrying weapons that resemble crossed wooden sticks infused with mechanisms of iron and steel, and Spike knows instantly that they are more dangerous than they appear on first glance.

The black dragon bellows, and Spike makes a choice. He rushes towards the dragon, his kidnapper. There is a mutual understanding there – the black dragon has had many chances to kill him before. It wants him alive. The soldiers-that-aren’t, however, could be just like the ones in the jungle.

As Spike hides in the shadow of the beast, he can hear the horrible screams of the dying, and sizzle of burning flesh, and the cries of rage and despair. He curls up into a little ball. The sounds are gone, all too soon, but the stench – of fried meat, spilled blood and death – remains in him, even as they slink away.

Dinner can’t come soon enough.

Spike is exhausted and filthy. He can feel the grime rubbing in between the scales, scouring the soft leathery skin beneath. The black dragon is just as dirty – after the short tangle with the group of not-soldiers, blood and dirt cake its claws.

He knows that there is a name for those. They are warriors, but not to a country or a ruler. They fight for themselves. Perhaps the ones in the jungle, a few days ago or a week ago, were the same. Twilight has once called them ‘mercenaries’.

The black dragon tosses a slab of meat. It is rich and undercooked; enough to bring out the flavour, but not too much as to burn the valuable food. He tears into it, cramming chunks of it into his mouth. In the back of his head, he can feel the disapproving gaze of a yellow pegasus from over the sea. He stops, and pauses to look at his bloody hands. Gemstones are rare out here, he reminds himself. Grass just gives him the barest of nutrients. It is the way it is – he is a dragon, and he can’t change that fact. He can only live with it.

The black dragon’s amber gaze suddenly feels a lot heavier, as if it is pressing into him. Spike slowly picks up the chunks of fallen meat, and eats. He knows dragonfire is clean, but the meat suddenly tastes like it is full of soot.

That taste of ash is quickly forgotten.

Time blurs as it passes. Spike doesn’t know when or where it happens, but it happens all the same.

This time, there is no warning. A crossbow bolt whistles out of the treeline. Spike dodges. The bolt smashes into the ground a hair away from him. He curses his short legs as he rushes for the safety of the big black dragon.

Spike winces as he sees a particularly hefty round crunch into the black dragon’s scales, cracking it. The bolt stops, having lost most of its energy on impact, and Spike grins internally as he recalls one of Twilight’s lectures. It’s gone when a hail of bolts whisper out of the tree, and he dives under the black dragon’s frame with a bolt pinning the ground between his legs. They crack against the black dragon.

From his position, he can’t see much but the shifting muscles under the scale-bound torso of his kidnapper. A roar is accompanied by heat. Through the gap in between the black dragon’s torso and the ground, he can see the trees burning around them, like the tips of matchsticks. Thick draconic blood trickles down from overhead.

As with before, the fight is over both too quickly and far too slowly. He blinks as he crawls out from beneath the black dragon. A drop of blood lands on his head, trickling down the head-fin and painting it blood-black. Shaking, he looks up.

The black dragon’s scales are pockmarked with cracks, and a carpet of metal bolts is at its feet. Its throat is nicked by a swung blade. Blood bubbles out of the small wound, trickling down the scales like a miniature brook. Spike diverts his attention away after the black dragon meets his stare with its own, but even as he looks at the heat-blackened ground and the glow of burning trees reflected in the discarded crossbow bolts, the smell of blood doesn’t leave.

There are heavy footfalls behind him, and Spike turns to see the black dragon hobble towards… towards wherever it wants to go. Spike watches. Soon, he is alone in the fading light, with only the dying fires of burning trees left to guide his way. The moon hangs alone, shining weakly overhead. It will not help him tonight.

Spike follows the trail of blood that the black dragon leaves.

They raid a village.

Spike is fully aware of the hostility they will face. Perhaps it is why the black dragon is being hunted. It needs healing, however, and there are gems in the nearby pony town. Spike knows from experience that gems are, in essence, trapped magic. The healing process has taken a toll out of the black dragon, and it is a debt that can lead to its death.

The townsfolk hide in their houses. Spike trails along, looking at the stone surrounding him on either side. The black dragon simply snarls as it stomps its way through the village’s central street, and when his ears stop ringing, Spike can hear quiet sobs coming from the houses that begin to look like tombs.

Spike isn’t stupid. He knows what they are about to do. He wishes he doesn’t have to, but he recognises the symptoms. He’s a growing dragon. The last gems he’d eaten had been dug up in Equestria, and although his body is adapting to the shortage, he knows it cannot last. A rabbit may eat less, but it still has to eat.

The village militia show up. Spike can smell their fear. Some of them have even lost control of their bodies. Even when he averts his eyes, he cannot close his nose. He knows the pattern now; hide behind the black dragon and ignore the screams.

They pass a shop with a sign. It depicts a folded scroll, sealed with red wax. Spike stares at it, trying to think, and then it clicks – his dragonfire teleportation! He grins, and makes for the door. The black dragon stops, craning its neck around, and the tension in the street grows ten times thicker.

“Paper!” Spike screams. His voice is hoarse from disuse.

The postal office’s window opens, and a piece of paper slowly flutters down. Spike grabs it, before he realises that he has nothing to write with – not even information. He doesn’t even know where he is. No matter. The Princess must have an ability to trace it, or something.

Spike asks for ink. An entire ink bottle pops out of that same window, and falls to the earth. Miraculously, it doesn’t shatter. Spike wets a claw in black in, writes his name on the paper, and tries to remember the physical mnemonic that activates the magic. It’s wonky, but he’s sure it’s right. Grinning, Spike blows flame onto the paper.

Even as the militia shout in surprise, Spike watches the letter turn into sparkling dust… and then dissolve into ashes. They fall around his feet, taunting him. He’s just as surprised. The spell failed! Then he remembers the spell’s limiters.

It’s too far away. He doubts he can send even a grain of dust to the Princess. With that, he crumples. His last hopes waft away, grey ashes that disappear into a grey sky.

Suddenly, he’s tired. He just wants to go home. He’s sick of the killing, the fighting. Maybe even death would be better.

But Twilight’s face swims into his mind, a sweet, innocent grin on her face, and he pushes himself to his feet. He’d do anything to find her. They’d never leave each other, he knew. She would find him.

With that, Spike shoots a glare at the dragon. He surprises even himself when he notices how much venom is behind it.

When they find the rock farm, the black dragon goes for the barn. The militia pull the hysterical family back from the farmhouse. Spike looks at them out of the corner of an eye, spotting a mother and a father and two sisters. The youngest, he guesses, is only Apple Bloom’s age.

With a crash and a hail of splinters, the barn door bursts open. Spike’s head whips around, and his eyes instantly focus on the piles of gems. In the blink of an eye, his brain shoves his worries away, and he takes a step forwards before he’s even conscious of what he’s doing.

He comes back to himself as he looks away, and his eyes inadvertently focus on the family again. The siblings are distraught, mouths agape as they behold the destruction. The mother and father weep into one another’s necks, whilst one of the militia-ponies stands nearby as a comforting presence.

Spike mutters a quiet “Sorry” and picks up the first gem. It’s a ruby, and it glints blood-red in the murky sunlight.

Some time later, Spike collapses in the middle of a forest clearing, amidst time-worn evergreens and the gurgling of brookwater. In the haze of post-consumption bliss, the memory of the farm’s destruction is just a blemish in the back of Spike’s mind. He feels a twitch beneath his scales.

Then, it turns into discomfort. Itches spark beneath his scales, and Spike resists the urge to claw them off. He remembers a purple face staring down at him, blurred with time – but that same face holds him still, even as he feels his muscles begin to bundle together.

It takes four hours of scratching, groaning and rubbing before the itch wears off, and Spike looks down at his new form. Gorging himself on the gems had done wonders for his physique. The agonising itches as his muscles grew themselves beneath his shifting scales are quickly forgotten as Spike gives himself a quick once-over. A pond nearby provides a chance to see his own reflection.

The black dragon looms behind him, ready for anything. Spike ignores it, for once. Even it can’t dampen his spirits.

The still water depicts a dragon. Purple scales cover his back, and green belly-scales line his body from neck to abdomen. The green spikes atop his head, once so oversized compared to his body, now look sharp and lethal. He raises a clawed hand to brush at them. They are still soft, however. The nose has been stretched into a proper snout, and sharp teeth jut out of the newly made gums. His eyes have stayed pretty much the same size throughout his transformation – but compared to the rest of his body, they seem much more beady, set under an overhang of scales.

Spike stares at himself. He raises a claw, and the reflection does so as well. The dragon is him.

The black dragon coughs a huff. Spike has heard that often enough to recognise the annoyance wrapped around the breaths. He pulls back from the pond, stumbling as he does so. The black dragon simply looks at him coolly, before walking off.

Spike looks down at himself. He is still growing, but by no means is he able to take down another band of mercenaries. He doubts he can even hunt for himself. He is far away from home, far away from help, and his only source of safety is his kidnapper – however ironic that may be.

Spike follows the black dragon’s footsteps. In minutes, ancient, ingrained instincts catch up to his brain, and he lopes along as if he has been in that body since his birth.

The next time they fight, Spike does not hide.

The memory of the rock farm pushes to the forefront of his mind. That will not happen again.

This time, the mercenaries are not as well trained. They wear hodgepodge armour, cobbled together from what appears to be scrap metal as well as leather. Two at the back fling steel bolts at him, whilst the bigger ones lead the charge.

Spike dodges under the swing of a sword, summoning fire in his maw. With one of their own in the way, the mercs with their crossbows can only focus on the black dragon. Spike knows that he should care – his source of safety is in danger – but under the rush of blood pounding in his head and the brilliant, burning sharpness of everything he can see, he can’t find anything more than an iota of disappointment. There is only excitement, bloodlust, and in the darkest corner of his mind, a little hint of fear.

He shreds his opponent’s armour with a flick of the wrist, the claws going through leather, flesh and bone, before hopping back and roasting his target alive with a burst of green flame. There are screams, of rage, fear and defiance, but Spike already knows that it is futile. His opponent will die.

Another of the close-combat mercenaries rounds on him from the side with a scream. Spike realises too late that he’s overreached, but he twists around, claws at the ready. It’s too late. A dagger plunges into, and down the length of his upper forearm with enough force to drag him down with it. Twin bursts of fire, one green and one deep orange, burn the attacker into a crisp.

Spike roars in agony as the adrenaline wears off. He crumples onto the dirt, watching as his life-blood spills out onto the hungry soil. In the distance, he can spot the great black dragon, roaring with anger, burning the last two mercenaries alive.

Spike lies in the middle of a clearing that stinks of blood, surrounded by bodies and ash, and closes his eyes. He is tired. He looks at the wound, still pouring his blood into the dirt, and the sight stirs his stomach. Nausea almost overwhelms him. Instead, he turns to the sky, letting the pale sunlight wash his bloody body.

There’s a shadow. Spike cannot be bothered to open his eyes once more. Why does it matter who it is? He’ll die, anyways. The dagger has cut into a major vessel, and even though his body is stringing the rent flesh together, he knows that it can’t last. He’s lost too much blood.

A sound like gargling, a retch, and Spike feels something warm on his chest. Even in his death throes, nature can’t stop to give him some space. He blinks his eyes open, blearily trying to glare at the one responsible.

Instead, he finds a pile of gems on his chest. They are covered in saliva; the magical, flammable type that allows fire to spread from a dragon’s inner flame to the outside world. These gems… will give him enough energy to rejuvenate.

The only thing is: Spike isn’t sure he wants to rejuvenate. It certainly feels easier to simply slip away. Why fight? Why pick yourself up, only to face a stronger enemy, fall, and suffer once more? Death is at least merciful, even if the source of it isn’t.

As he closes his eyes, a sunbeam falls on his face. Spots appear in his eyes, and he remembers Twilight’s face, drawn and pale with sorrow, and Celestia’s. He looks at the gems again.

One more go, he thinks, wrapping a claw around the largest one. It dissolves easily in his mouth. Spike groans as his wounds burn, his inner fire flaring into an inferno. The tissue is stitching together, but not fast enough for his taste. He eats another ruby, feeling the jolt of energy run through him. It is nowhere near as much as he’d expected, though.

The black dragon looks on as he picks another one to consume.

Spike isn’t sure how long it has been since he was kidnapped. It only feels like a month, but all the days have blurred together. It could have been ten or twenty times that, or only a couple of weeks. The days are getting shorter, though, and everything is colder now.

His body is strong now, capable of holding its own against the bolt of a regular crossbow. The scales will crack and the muscle underneath will bruise, but he will not suffer a mortal wound like he had before. This he knows from experience. But he is nowhere near the size of the black dragon. He will have no chance by himself.

Staying alive is only half the battle. He has to find a way of getting back. The mercenaries come at them like termites out of woodwork, and Spike knows that he will fall eventually, even if it is under the weight of all the bodies he has eviscerated.

He pushes the bloody thoughts out of his mind. It was just business. Nothing personal. Looking down at his claws, Spike can see the gullies in the claw tips, where blood runs down to help bleed out his opponent. They are stained red; the blood has worked itself into the tissue.

He cannot hold a quill now. He has attempted to hold a stick in the same manner has he would once have held a quill, but the thin rod of wood had simply snapped once he began to apply pressure.

There is an odd buzzing in his head, too, like a bee that keeps hovering around his ear-fins. Fuzziness covers his brain like a soft blanket, only felt when he’s actively searching for it. Whenever he tries to concentrate, the buzzing gets louder, until it is like an entire hive has moved into his head. He shakes it, but the buzzing only disappears when he doesn’t notice it. Which means that it is there all the time when he does.

In the earliest mornings and the deepest nights, he’d often tried to justify what he’d done. He couldn’t. It was an entirely selfish enterprise, driven only by his desire to go home. A noble intention, yes, but the way he went about doing it? Spike racks his brain for a proper word, before giving up.

He looks at the black dragon, sleeping in the clearing. It reminds him of something, something that had happened a long time ago. Spike curls up, in the exact same way the black dragon does, and goes to sleep.

Surrounded by the glitter of gold and gems, Spike tries to remember through the fog in his mind. All he gets are vague, murky, blurred images and sounds distorted as if he is underwater. Glimpses of a past life, snatched away before they can be fully formed.

There are shouts from outside, but they seem as hazy as the walls of the room at that moment. Only the gold is crystal-clear and bright, as radiant as a princess’s smile. He huffs. Remembering is difficult, so he stops trying for the moment.

The black dragon sticks its head into a nearby pile of gems and begins to guzzle them down. Spike watches on, dazed, before coming back to what is left of his senses and starts to cram some blood-red rubies into his maw.

He barely gets through half the pile before reinforcements show up. They are heavily armed and armoured, covered in enchanted steel to protect the fragile flesh beneath. Many have metal shields bolted to their breastplates, swung out in front to conceal half of their faces. These are real soldiers, real guards. Not all are ponies, though.

Two jets of flame blast out of the vault. The guards’ shields glow, a thin blue shell surrounding each one. In the sudden, thick calm as the superheated air spreads over the ceiling, the black dragon and Spike both run for the exit.

They make it out of the city, but not without cost. The chunks torn from his chest and back were already scabbing over by the time they were out in the sands. The black dragon had lost an eye. That did not heal.

They do not sleep. This, in itself, is worrying.

The black dragon shoulders its way through the dark forest. Short bursts of orange flame from its mouth cast their shadows in sharp relief. Something is wrong, Spike knows, but he knows not what it is. He can only follow.

As Spike muscles through the charred remnants of trees, he thinks back to the city. There was a picture at the bulletin board on their way in. It showed a picture of a black dragon and a purple one – like them. There was something about it, he knew. It was important.

He was on the poster as well, and that was the important bit. Why, though? Spike racks his brain, only to crash into the fuzziness surrounding it, and physically almost crashes into a tree. He shakes the mystery away, to puzzle over later.

They reach the border of the forest. A mountain looms over them. Twin trails of ice and snow carve their way from the bottom of the mountain to the peak. It is almost as if the mountain is crying.

By the time he clambers to the top, the black dragon is already waiting patiently in front of a cave.

They deposit their stolen loads inside the cave on the mountaintop. Gold is piled upon gold, metres high, whilst gems shore up the rear of the cave. By the looks of it, Spike guesses that the cave has had a previous occupant. Scratches are seen at the mouth, on the walls and the stone floor, but they are covered in a thin layer of dust.

For a moment, Spike recalls a forest, a green dragon, panic and then relief. He shakes his head. Old memories, to be thought about later. The gold takes centre position.

The sun has barely risen before shouts drift by in the wind. The black dragon’s remaining eye widens, and then sets. Spike can sense the resignation running through it. Something is wrong, he knows.

His tongue is too thick to form Equestrian words anymore. With the draconic language, he asks what the black dragon thinks. Again, the language comes instinctively to him. It hums on his tongue like electricity.

The black dragon simply responds with an order: “Stay and be safe.” Instantly, Spike knows that it is female. The words, the pattern, the tone all fit.

So Spike stays at the back of the cave, watching as golden forms appear at the mouth in the slivers of light that reach past the black dragon’s body.

There are shouts, massive heat, screams, roars, flashes of brilliant light like the rainbow.

And then silence.

And the familiar scent of blood.