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- Jun 7, 2005
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- 955
Pony fic! The dancing apple begs you to read and review. :apple: (Or at least read. 
)
(BTW, if you're bored with MLP collecting because of the Core 7, writing MLP fanfics is a great way to break the ennui and make MLP collecting more interactive and interesting.)
Hidden Depths
Prologue
Long afterwards Sealight remained, hanging motionless except the subtle fin-sweeps that kept her upright and the strands of pink mane that wreathed her, coiling and spreading. Far above the midday sun dazzled through the shallows, but here even the dim blue light hinted at opacity, shading rather than highlighting the leaning pillars, the scarred walls. Here, it was always midnight.
No, she decided. No, not midnight. A twilight, foreshadowing further, deeper darkness. Sealight stared down steadily, then pulled her fins to her sides and drifted downward. The sea supported her descent mutely and a strong current presented the scene through a torn curtain of pink as her mane streamed before her eyes. The ruins were, if not peaceful, at least still.
Something caught her eye, a rearing statue whose more intricate carvings had long ago been obliterated by the sea, leaving a pony-shaped crust of barnacles. The pedestal had half sunk into the sand and the statue tilted backwards as a result. The forelegs seemed frozen in the act of churning towards the surface, one leg outstretched and one bent sharply at the knee. The sea pony wrapped her tail around the statue’s limb to anchor herself as she gazed downward. The long, thin strands of green caught around the crook of the statue's knee streamed and twisted in the waves. Abruptly they came loose, tumbling away from the ancient sculpture. Sealight watched the strands of delicate green hair scud away. As though in imitation, she loosed her tail and soared upward, fins spreading and folding rhythmically.
She did not look back. The sea washed away everything. Blood, ghosts, and regrets.
~*~*~*~
Her reflection stared back at her, superimposed over trailing raindrops and a stormy sky.
"Angel, please.”
“Go away.”
“We miss you so."
“Right."
"Mother would welcome you back, you know. There wouldn't have to be any mention of your . . . sojourn."
"I'm a grown pony, I can make my own decisions."
"That's the attitude that bought you trouble in the first place!" Hooves clopped on the stone floor and the steel grey sky was overlaid with an echo of Crumpet's face, golden as the sun. The reflection as much as the words prompted Angel to swing round, eyes narrowed.
"I am perfectly content here, thank you very much! I have a, a, a fulfilling job, I'm meeting lots of interesting ponies, and I'm saving up to . . ."
"To what? Buy a boat and sail the miserable seas?" Crumpet cried. "How you can stand it, sister! The stink and the damp and the noise and those awful stallions leering on the piers! Come back to us, come back home."
Angel lifted her chin. "The Waylands are considered a bit of a joke here, actually. No king, no queen, cobbled together and freezing cold . . ."
The golden pony made a disdainful sound deep in her throat. "Half the ponies on the street are complaining about their dear queen's decisions. We don't need that nonsense."
Angel privately agreed and so was struggling for another argument when Crumpet continued, "We have weather other than rain, at least. It's not healthy for a pony in your condition."
The blue pony's cheeks flamed. "I'm not in any . . . condition."
Crumpet gave an unladylike snort.
"I’m not!" Angel repeated angrily, stamping a hoof.
"Oh, Angel. Why so worried? Mother won't mind, I don't mind." When no answer came, Crumpet nuzzled her shoulder. "Please, Angel. Tell me all about it."
Angel wanted to rest her nose against Crumpet's cheek, spill out the whole story and believe that her big sister would make it better, but she made herself step away with a sigh, "I can't. You wouldn't understand."
Crumpet's nostrils quivered as her tail plumed proudly. "You're such a . . . a silly little pony, Angel!"
Angel squeezed her eyes to shut out the golden pony. "Get out."
"No! I've come miles and miles to this wretched city and if you think I'm leaving now--"
"Get OUT!" Angel bellowed, green eyes snapping open as she flew at her.
Crumpet gave a squeal of anger or despair as she bolted out the door, then caught hold of her senses. She straightened and shook her mane into place. "I'm not leaving without you, Angel." She smiled as though determined to erase the past few minutes with a display of calm and decorum. "I know life is troublesome right now, but we'll get through it. We're family. And nothing's more important than that." Turning, she walked down the hall.
Angel made sure her hoofbeats had faded away before she burst into tears.
~*~*~*~
Spirit had not lived in Dream Castle for three hundred eighty-nine years, five months, two weeks, three days, nine hours, and thirty-seven minutes.
He had lived there for a time as well, but his three hundred plus years of nonlife in the castle had taught him far more about it . . . for although Spirit was to some extent a pale earthling with washed out lavender eyes, he was mostly a ghost.
Spirit never understood exactly why he haunted Dream Castle. He hadn't been murdered. He hadn't been betrayed. He hadn't left any soul-consuming yet unfinished tasks. He'd simply gone swimming alone, knocked his head on a rock, and drowned. Maybe his symbol, a wailing ghost, had tempted fate, but then Juniper's symbol had been an evergreen bush and she hadn't sprouted pine needles after her unfortunate topiary accident. More to the point, there'd been plenty of ponies with supernatural markings through the millennia, but he was the only ghost in the castle. Odd, considering its long and bloody history. Sometimes he thought there must be some great, strange destiny laid upon him. But most of the time, he considered his condition an inconvenient fluke.
Centuries ago, when Dream Castle still mourned his passing (though without many tears, as he'd been both quiet and unimportant,) Spirit had believed in his ghostly obligations and had done his best to properly haunt the castle. He'd wailed. He'd moaned. He'd marched straight through the rosy-pink labyrinth of inner walls. But no one ever heard his lamentations, and as for drifting through the walls--well, after walking in on a few situations that made the nonexistent blood rush to his nonexistent cheeks, he'd vowed that he would never invade private bedchambers again, especially at night.
For a time, he'd focused on moving about inanimate objects instead. But it required vast amounts of concentration to move even insignificant items and he soon discovered that ponies believed more readily in a slanting desk than a poltergeist, even after the crow quill pens rolled to the floor for the third or fourth time. Even flying silverware and a suit of armor which, after many hours of minute shifts, overbalanced and toppled to the floor did little to impress ponies who lived with telekinetic unicorns day in and day out.
Finally Spirit had given up, partly because the cacophony of the armor clanging against the tiled floor had unnerved him more than anyone, but mostly because he couldn't see any point in continuing. And so he'd retired to the half-forgotten spires of the castle, an unseen figure drifting down the narrow halls.
Thus Spirit faced death as he had life . . . with no ambitions.
On this particular night (edging towards morning) almost three hundred ninety years after his death, Spirit sat in a long-forgotten attic of the southwest tower, watching the raindrops crawl down the cracked windowpanes. He couldn't feel the drafts that rattled the supporting timbers and stirred the dust, but the night stared in at him through the window, cold and oppressive, and he was feeling lonely.
That was why he wandered, for a change, down the long spiral of steps leading to the main part of the castle.
)(BTW, if you're bored with MLP collecting because of the Core 7, writing MLP fanfics is a great way to break the ennui and make MLP collecting more interactive and interesting.)
Hidden Depths
Prologue
Long afterwards Sealight remained, hanging motionless except the subtle fin-sweeps that kept her upright and the strands of pink mane that wreathed her, coiling and spreading. Far above the midday sun dazzled through the shallows, but here even the dim blue light hinted at opacity, shading rather than highlighting the leaning pillars, the scarred walls. Here, it was always midnight.
No, she decided. No, not midnight. A twilight, foreshadowing further, deeper darkness. Sealight stared down steadily, then pulled her fins to her sides and drifted downward. The sea supported her descent mutely and a strong current presented the scene through a torn curtain of pink as her mane streamed before her eyes. The ruins were, if not peaceful, at least still.
Something caught her eye, a rearing statue whose more intricate carvings had long ago been obliterated by the sea, leaving a pony-shaped crust of barnacles. The pedestal had half sunk into the sand and the statue tilted backwards as a result. The forelegs seemed frozen in the act of churning towards the surface, one leg outstretched and one bent sharply at the knee. The sea pony wrapped her tail around the statue’s limb to anchor herself as she gazed downward. The long, thin strands of green caught around the crook of the statue's knee streamed and twisted in the waves. Abruptly they came loose, tumbling away from the ancient sculpture. Sealight watched the strands of delicate green hair scud away. As though in imitation, she loosed her tail and soared upward, fins spreading and folding rhythmically.
She did not look back. The sea washed away everything. Blood, ghosts, and regrets.
~*~*~*~
Her reflection stared back at her, superimposed over trailing raindrops and a stormy sky.
"Angel, please.”
“Go away.”
“We miss you so."
“Right."
"Mother would welcome you back, you know. There wouldn't have to be any mention of your . . . sojourn."
"I'm a grown pony, I can make my own decisions."
"That's the attitude that bought you trouble in the first place!" Hooves clopped on the stone floor and the steel grey sky was overlaid with an echo of Crumpet's face, golden as the sun. The reflection as much as the words prompted Angel to swing round, eyes narrowed.
"I am perfectly content here, thank you very much! I have a, a, a fulfilling job, I'm meeting lots of interesting ponies, and I'm saving up to . . ."
"To what? Buy a boat and sail the miserable seas?" Crumpet cried. "How you can stand it, sister! The stink and the damp and the noise and those awful stallions leering on the piers! Come back to us, come back home."
Angel lifted her chin. "The Waylands are considered a bit of a joke here, actually. No king, no queen, cobbled together and freezing cold . . ."
The golden pony made a disdainful sound deep in her throat. "Half the ponies on the street are complaining about their dear queen's decisions. We don't need that nonsense."
Angel privately agreed and so was struggling for another argument when Crumpet continued, "We have weather other than rain, at least. It's not healthy for a pony in your condition."
The blue pony's cheeks flamed. "I'm not in any . . . condition."
Crumpet gave an unladylike snort.
"I’m not!" Angel repeated angrily, stamping a hoof.
"Oh, Angel. Why so worried? Mother won't mind, I don't mind." When no answer came, Crumpet nuzzled her shoulder. "Please, Angel. Tell me all about it."
Angel wanted to rest her nose against Crumpet's cheek, spill out the whole story and believe that her big sister would make it better, but she made herself step away with a sigh, "I can't. You wouldn't understand."
Crumpet's nostrils quivered as her tail plumed proudly. "You're such a . . . a silly little pony, Angel!"
Angel squeezed her eyes to shut out the golden pony. "Get out."
"No! I've come miles and miles to this wretched city and if you think I'm leaving now--"
"Get OUT!" Angel bellowed, green eyes snapping open as she flew at her.
Crumpet gave a squeal of anger or despair as she bolted out the door, then caught hold of her senses. She straightened and shook her mane into place. "I'm not leaving without you, Angel." She smiled as though determined to erase the past few minutes with a display of calm and decorum. "I know life is troublesome right now, but we'll get through it. We're family. And nothing's more important than that." Turning, she walked down the hall.
Angel made sure her hoofbeats had faded away before she burst into tears.
~*~*~*~
Spirit had not lived in Dream Castle for three hundred eighty-nine years, five months, two weeks, three days, nine hours, and thirty-seven minutes.
He had lived there for a time as well, but his three hundred plus years of nonlife in the castle had taught him far more about it . . . for although Spirit was to some extent a pale earthling with washed out lavender eyes, he was mostly a ghost.
Spirit never understood exactly why he haunted Dream Castle. He hadn't been murdered. He hadn't been betrayed. He hadn't left any soul-consuming yet unfinished tasks. He'd simply gone swimming alone, knocked his head on a rock, and drowned. Maybe his symbol, a wailing ghost, had tempted fate, but then Juniper's symbol had been an evergreen bush and she hadn't sprouted pine needles after her unfortunate topiary accident. More to the point, there'd been plenty of ponies with supernatural markings through the millennia, but he was the only ghost in the castle. Odd, considering its long and bloody history. Sometimes he thought there must be some great, strange destiny laid upon him. But most of the time, he considered his condition an inconvenient fluke.
Centuries ago, when Dream Castle still mourned his passing (though without many tears, as he'd been both quiet and unimportant,) Spirit had believed in his ghostly obligations and had done his best to properly haunt the castle. He'd wailed. He'd moaned. He'd marched straight through the rosy-pink labyrinth of inner walls. But no one ever heard his lamentations, and as for drifting through the walls--well, after walking in on a few situations that made the nonexistent blood rush to his nonexistent cheeks, he'd vowed that he would never invade private bedchambers again, especially at night.
For a time, he'd focused on moving about inanimate objects instead. But it required vast amounts of concentration to move even insignificant items and he soon discovered that ponies believed more readily in a slanting desk than a poltergeist, even after the crow quill pens rolled to the floor for the third or fourth time. Even flying silverware and a suit of armor which, after many hours of minute shifts, overbalanced and toppled to the floor did little to impress ponies who lived with telekinetic unicorns day in and day out.
Finally Spirit had given up, partly because the cacophony of the armor clanging against the tiled floor had unnerved him more than anyone, but mostly because he couldn't see any point in continuing. And so he'd retired to the half-forgotten spires of the castle, an unseen figure drifting down the narrow halls.
Thus Spirit faced death as he had life . . . with no ambitions.
On this particular night (edging towards morning) almost three hundred ninety years after his death, Spirit sat in a long-forgotten attic of the southwest tower, watching the raindrops crawl down the cracked windowpanes. He couldn't feel the drafts that rattled the supporting timbers and stirred the dust, but the night stared in at him through the window, cold and oppressive, and he was feeling lonely.
That was why he wandered, for a change, down the long spiral of steps leading to the main part of the castle.
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