Chapter 4: Hate Feeds the Flowers
"The mind and the heart have an incredible capacity for good and evil. Lord knows why He gave such fickle creatures as us both." ~Lord Kytax
Sweetie Belle doubled over again as she dry-heaved. The smell of the blood that covered her in clotted blobs was horrendous. After spending a moment trying to scrape off the globules of thick blood from her coat, Sweetie Belle sighed in resignation and began to trot away from the boiling fall of blood. Doing her best to ignore her current situation, Sweetie Belle began to scan her surroundings.
The depressing mists that had been so prevalent in the Maze of Isolation were here too, in the Garden of Anger, but it was not as thick, nor was it as obvious. Nevertheless, it was still present and was still just as depressing as the looming jack-o-lantern sun. There sky was still overcast as well, but it had begun to lightly drizzle blood, soaking her to the skin. The thick stone walls of the Maze of Isolation were gone, and were now replaced by plants that were easily the size of the average apple tree. However, these were not regular plants, like a daisy or a tiger-lily. The plants here were carnivorous. All around her, Sweetie Belle could see a forest of Darlingtonia Californica, Drosera Capensis, Dionaea Muscipula, and Heliamphora Chimantensis. Save for a small tarry cobblestone path that zigzagged before her, Sweetie Belle was completely surrounded by monstrous flesh-eating plants. The smell of blood and rotting meat, and the sickly-sweet aroma of death hung heavy in the air.
Doing her best to trot briskly and cover her nose at the same time, Sweetie Belle shook her head mournfully. "Is everything in this place cursed and twisted?" she sighed out loud.
Her voice echoed throughout the vast forest of carnivorous plants. Sweetie Belle then blanched. Had all of the colossal plants turned in her direction? It was true; the plants had all turned to face her. They were now looming menacingly over her head, as if they were ready to pounce on her. Was it her voice? Was it the smell of the blood that now soaked her to her skin?
She was about to whimper something when a voice on the wind caught her attention. It was faint, but it was most certainly a voice. More than glad for a reason to hurry along, Sweetie Belle stopped covering her nose and began to gallop full speed down the tar-soaked pathway. All of the plants continued to lean in her direction, and soon it seemed like the whole forest was looming over her.
Sweetie Belle ran faster and faster, and the forest loomed in closer and closer. Soon it seemed like the giant carnivorous plants were about to topple upon her. However, she suddenly cleared the forest, and found herself galloping into a small clearing. In the middle was a small cottage that appeared to be made up of nothing but spears, swords, and clubs.
The voice was most certainly coming from the weaponized cottage. As Sweetie Belle drew closer to the building, she could clearly hear the voice. It said, in a sadistically gleeful voice:
"Blood stained eyes gaze upon innocents sleeping form, malevolent intent spoils the promise of blissful slumber. Beauty immeasurable, as naïve eyes twitch with dreams of purity and grace. Seething abhorrence guides twisted hands towards violent deeds. Warm sweet breath exhales from un-kissed lips, wet with remembrance and anticipation of life's wonders yet to be lived. Horror screams from now waken eyes, as an incestuous destruction of one's self is committed. And the very soul of god is ripped from the now ruined vessel of what was once, innocent's sleeping form."
Sweetie Belle faltered as she approached the door as she heard the voice recite those words. What cursed things were in the air now? However, after a moment of indecision, Sweetie Belle steeled herself and knocked on the door, praying to Heaven that no twisted horror was the patron of this macabre house. The door swung open, and Sweetie Belle saw the owner of the sadistic voice: Fluttershy. Or… it looked remarkable like Fluttershy. Just as the Collector looked quite like Rarity, this pony looked quite like Fluttershy. However, just as the Collector had been slightly different, this Fluttershy-look-alike had some terrible changes to her physical appearance. Her long, flowing mane was pink, and her coat was yellow, but that about as similar as it went. Her cutie mark was still three butterflies, but they were shriveled-up and dead. Additionally her mane was streaked with blood, and her body was crisscrossed with thick stitches. Some of her wounds had been sewn up so poorly, in fact, that lifeblood still oozed and dribbled out of some of the openings. Her right eye had a long scar across it, and was milky white… unseeing.
The Fluttershy-look-alike eyed Sweetie Belle truculently. "You would be dead where you stand if you weren't just a filly, little one," she said slowly.
Sweetie Belle blanched. "Um… excuse me… Where am I? And who are you?"
The Fluttershy-look-alike laughed harshly, something the true Fluttershy would never have done. "This place? You are in the Garden of Anger. As for me? I am Scapegoat."
"Scapegoat?" said Sweetie Belle. That was an odd name for a pony.
Scapegoat nodded. "That's right, Scapegoat. I once was the great element bearer of Cruelty, but since The Grief arrived, I have been reduced to this."
"What happened to you?" asked Sweetie Belle timidly, eyeing the rough stiches that crisscrossed the pony's body.
"The Grief happened!" snapped Scapegoat, "When Greif happens, anger comes about after denial! The moment anger happens; somepony needs a scapegoat to take the anger out on for the duration of said anger!"
"Oh," said Sweetie Belle timidly. After an uncomfortable pause, Sweetie Belle murmured, "Could you tell me how to find Mr. Whether?"
Scapegoat's expression suddenly changed. It made a transition from aggressive derisiveness, to interest.
"Tell me," said Scapegoat in a less dangerous tone of voice, "Are you from Isolation?"
Sweetie Belle nodded her head slowly. "I… am…"
Scapegoat nodded, "Then you came from Grief? Are you not ready for the re-emerging of pain of loss?"
Sweetie Belle blinked. What was happening here? Going on instinct, Sweetie Belle slowly nodded her head. "Yes…"
Suddenly Scapegoat took a deep breath, and began to roar:
"Thou fellows hath the Trooblis Marsh,
In thy feverous manus.
But this time it was less guarded so
They came as unknowns commanded.
Beware cantankerous Calabatu, foal
And the horrendous Tuskanassit
But most of all, beware, you foal
The ruinous Halamasabit.
Doth you see it residing there,
Amidst the Trooblis Marsh?
We need the wondrous Gigibis Lord
With her great Zepto-Swords harsh!
Now here she left Isolation,
Looking for the enigmatic sir Whether!
Now she comes flaplipity forward,
Death to Halamasabit together!"
Sweetie Belle just stared. She knew that Madness had stated that everyone was insane equally, but was it possible that some were more equally insane than others?
"You, little foal, are the Gigibis Lord," said Scapegoat promptly.
"The… what?" stuttered Sweetie Belle? She felt faint, and the smell of the blood and rotting meat was really starting to make her light-headed.
"You are the Gigibis Lord!" persisted Scapegoat, "Destined to battle the corrupted Halamasbit!"
"What? That poem you just yelled had nothing to do with that!" squeaked Sweetie Belle.
"Of course it did! If I think it did, then it did!" snorted Scapegoat.
"But… but just because you believe it means that doesn't actually mean that the poem was intended for that!"
"Of course it does! A great deal of ponies believe that the prophecy calls for a battle, and since so many ponies believe it, that must mean it is right! The populace is never wrong! Now you must battle the corrupted Halamasbit!"
Sweetie Belle blanched. "B-b-b-battle?" she stuttered, "I'm positive you have me mistaken for another."
"Don't be ridiculous," snorted Scapegoat, "Another would have sent us a letter, after all she is always prompt on those things, as long as you procrastinate."
Sweetie Belle was about to say something else, but Scapegoat seized one of her hoofs and dragged her along, saying, "Come along! We mustn't kill time! It is the one of the few things we prefer not to murder here."
Dragging Sweetie Belle along, Scapegoat trotted down the tarry road until they reached a hillock. Still with Sweetie Belle's hoof grasped firmly, Scapegoat cantered up the slope. At the very top, Sweetie Belle gasped in surprise, for below her was a breath-taking scene. However, it was more breath-taking in the strangling and gut-punching sense, as opposed to the absolutely awe-inspiring sense. Below her was a massive valley that was alternately blood-soaked and burned to a crisp in a pattern that made it look like a chessboard. Surrounding the valley were the tree-sized carnivorous plants that twisted and intertwined with one another. However, despite the chessboard-like appearance of the valley, there was no such game going on below. The whole valley was simply infested with ponies corrupted by Grief. On the other side of the valley was a massive wall the stretched off to the left and right for eternity. However, it was what was going on in the center of the valley that really caught Sweetie Belle's attention. In the center of the chessboard was a massive monster. It was pitch black, and looked like it was made out of at least a hundred different ponies' limbs sewn together.
"That is the corrupted Halamasbit," said Scapegoat, "It used to be King Irrationality, who ruled over the Garden of Anger and the Trooblis Marsh, but now he has been corrupted by the Grief."
"How does somepony who is irrational get corrupted?" asked Sweetie Belle, genuinely confused.
"It's easy," snorted Scapegoat, "Anyone in the MIND can get corrupted by the Grief. Grief has the ability to blot out everything if strong enough. First goes Reasoning, then everything after that goes down with the ship. Next thing you know – poof! – you are finished."
"And I'm the one who is supposed to take down that monster?" squeaked Sweetie Belle in complete horror.
"Of course you are! It's as simple as one, two, seven!" replied Scapegoat airily.
"I thought it was one, two, THREE," said Sweetie Belle, desperately trying to find a way to stave off her certain doom.
"It doesn't matter, because they are the same thing," snorted Scapegoat.
Hoping to keep the conversation going, Sweetie Belle objected, "No, they are not. One has a seven, and one has a three. They are two different numbers."
"That still doesn't matter. They are the same sort of idiom, you idiot."
"I am not an idiot! And if this was math, you would have failed at it!"
"I would not have, because that is for math, which is objective, and this is for say, which is subjective. Now get along!"
With that, Scapegoat gave Sweetie Belle a hard shove in the rump, which sent her tumbling down the hillock. As she rolled down the burnt and hardened slope, Scapegoat yelled, "When you get to the bottom, find Mister Harshness! I am sure he has a Zepto-Sword or four lying around! From there it's but a hop, skip and a skydive to the Trooblis Marsh! That is the valley you see before you!"
Sweetie Belle would have liked to retort that is was a hop, skip and a JUMP to the Trooblis Marsh, but she was too busy falling down to say anything of consequence other than the occasional grunt and cry of pain.
After at least a minute of tumbling, though, she reached the bottom. Groaning, she straightened up and scrambled to all fours. At this moment, she noticed a pony, off to her left, watching her.
He had an orange coat, with green hair and pink eyes. However, that was not the most unusual part. The most unusual physical attribute of this pony was the fact that there was something of a turbulent displacement of light about his body. This rippling effect made his form harshly contrast with his surroundings. Harshly? This must be the pony Harshness that Scapegoat had told her to find.
"Are you… are you Harshness?" asked Sweetie Belle grogrilly, as she rubbed a swollen bump on the back of her head.
"I suppose one could call me that," sighed the pony dully, "And I suppose one could call me another. However, I really do believe Another would not be too partial too me taking her name. After all, it is a girl's name."
Sweetie Belle blinked. "I never knew Another was a girl's name," she said slowly.
"Ah, but it is! Another is a girl, then Additionally is a boy, then Someone is a boy and a girl," said Harshly, polishing one of his hooves, "It really is complicated. You would understand it more if you spoke Spanish."
Sweetie Belle rolled her eyes. "I suppose so," she muttered. After a pause, she said, "Why is your name Harshness?"
"Why wouldn't it be?" asked Harshness, "It is only common sense. When I was born of my mother's womb, she looked at me and said, 'this youngling is quite harsh on the eyes… I shall call him Harshness!' And thus, I was named who I was. Rather interesting, don't you think? Being named something, only to find out that you were that name all along? Now here is an even more interesting idea: do you become your name, or does your name become you?"
"I think it is horrid," said Sweetie Belle, "Your very own mother naming you Harshness, just because you looked like that."
"Well? It only makes sense! It would make even more sense if you spoke Hebrew. I will elaborate: what is your name?" said Harshness, still polishing his hooves.
"Sweetie Belle," said Sweetie Belle, eyeing Harshness warily.
Harshness stopped polishing his hooves and looked at Sweetie Belle in astonishment. "Sweetie Belle?" he sputtered, "What kind of name is Sweetie Belle? What does that even mean?"
"Must it mean something?" asked Sweetie Belle timidly.
Harshness stomped one of his polished hooves in the tarry and blood-soaked ground. "Of COURSE it must! I mean, verily, my name means me! But with a name like yours, goodness, your name means you could be anything! What are you, exactly?"
"I am a filly," sighed Sweetie Belle. The more she said that, the more she felt less like the innocent foal she had once been, and more like a cold-hearted horror, a creation of this realm.
"A filly… What a strange name too! What mother would call her child 'filly?'" exclaimed Harshness, quite put out by this whole ordeal.
"Please," pleaded Sweetie Belle, very much for changing the subject now, "Could you tell me how to get out of here?"
"I am deeply sorry," said Harshness, not sounding sorry at all, "But you need to stay here and fight the Halamasabit. I shall seize for you, your inglorious Zepto-Sword." With that, he trotted off behind a very large Venus Flytrap.
Sweetie Belle paled, her legs begin to wobble, and she felt her bladder weakening. The thought of fighting terrified her. She had no training, she had no skill, and she most certainly did not have any interest in ending another sentient being's life. However, it had been quite easy to slay the corrupted Repudiation… Maybe this was just as easy… Sweetie Belle shook her head vigorously, clearing her head of those thoughts. She couldn't let them cloud her judgment. She was a little filly; and she would not, could not end another being's life.
At this point, Harshness returned, carrying what looked like a colossal needle. It was so large, in fact that it looked almost like a rapier, but with less balance, and more menace.
"THAT'S the Zepto-Sword?" asked Sweetie Belle.
"But of course! What did you think a Zepto-Sword was? A cross-hilted Flammard? Heavens no!" snorted Harshness harshly, as if the very idea was insulting his intelligence.
Sweetie Belle flattened her ears against her skull and started to back away, only to find that she was already back up to the "trunk" of a humongous Pitcher Plant. Harshness shoved the Zepto-Sword in her hooves and said, "Off you go!"
"Wait!" squeaked Sweetie Belle, desperately trying to distract Harshness, just like she had tried to distract Scapegoat, "Why are you named Harshness again? I forgot."
"Isn't it obvious? I am Harshness! A descendant of Harshness must always be present in the Garden of Anger, because it makes Anger grow! Off you go!" snorted Harshness, obviously annoyed by Sweetie Belle's apparent ignorance.
"I don't want to go!" wailed Sweetie Belle, now simply terrified, "I don't want to!"
"You have to!" shouted Harshness, "The prophecy said so! But I suppose that isn't truly detailed, after all, what would a prophecy be without peer pressure? They're both needed! In fact, a prophecy is pretty much just a trigger for the norm to pressure someone, regardless if that prophecy was a premonition or not."
With that, Harshness shoved Sweetie Belle forward, and suddenly huge thorns erupted from the ground between her and Harshness, blocking any escape route. The only thing Sweetie Belle could do now was press forward and hope that she did not get killed in the process.
Eyes wide with terror, Sweetie Belle pressed herself close to the ground and began to crawl forward. Centimeter by centimeter, hour by hour, Sweetie Belle dragged herself across the ground. Every once and a while, some pony wandered out of the Garden of Anger and get trapped in the Trooblis Marsh by the wall of thorns. Sweetie Belle then would stop and watch at the poor pony was accosted by the nearest corrupted ponies. They would tear into the unfortunate soul. Some of the corrupted ponies would rip open the pony's bodies and hurl their organs about like toys, as others raped the victim. In the end, the target would be nothing but a grotesque husk, lying in a puddle of lifeblood.
Fortunately for Sweetie Belle, she was so small that she was overlooked by the corrupted. (Now isn't that an interesting thought? Corrupted powers overlooking those who are smaller than them; where has such events as that cropped up before?)
She went unnoticed for about three hours. But over the course of those three hours, a terrible cramp was building up in the back of her neck. Originally she thought that, since she had endured so much already, she could easily resist this new type of pain; but soon, it was too much to fight against. Suddenly one of her hoofs flew up to massage the back of her neck as if it had a mind of its own… and she was spotted.
It was only by one corrupted pony, but that still was enough to terrify any sane pony. (And perhaps that shines hope on our hero, if she was scared, does that mean she was sane? Are the two related in any way, then?) The pitch-black pony was horribly disfigured, with three extra limbs, growing out of its back and rump, that stuck in the air and waved like antenna. Its eyes were gouged out, and dark blood was pumping out of it like a faucet. Its muzzle had been sewn shut, and black spikes were jutting out of where its lips had once been. The moment it noticed Sweetie Belle, it stumbled forward, forcing air out of its tightly sewn lips in an attempt to give out a gurgling shriek.
Sweetie Belle's bladder emptied. Then, closing her eyes tight, she thrust forward her inglorious Zepto-Sword. By sheer luck… it struck its target and ran the corrupted pony through the neck. Still burbling, the corrupted pony shoved itself along the length of the colossal needle until it was almost to Sweetie Belle's face. But just before it could ram its needle-lips into Sweetie Belle's fair, yet blood-covered, face it died.
Giving a shaking sob, Sweetie Belle pulled the Zepto-Sword out of the corrupted pony's throat and looked around wildly. After a few shaking breaths, Sweetie Belle got her emotions under control. Fortunately she had only wetted herself, and not thrown up as well. After another minute of silence and heavy breathing, Sweetie Belle began to push forward once more. As she continued to crawl, it struck her: She had murdered another being.
Had it really been that bad? It had been swift and clean, and she had only been defending herself. Anypony would have done the same in her place, right? Right? Sweetie Bell shook her head; she could not let herself think about those things. She needed to keep moving. In another hour, she made it the center of the Trooblis Marsh, where the Halamasabit resided. From a distance, the Halamasabit had looked like a colossal, grotesque, bloated creature made up of hundreds of sewn-together bodies, but now that she drew nearer; she realized the Halamasabit was nothing of the sort. It was actually a house… made up of corpses.
Sweetie Belle would have remarked on the profanely curious nature of the building, but her mind had basically become numb to everything. (Now that is curious, is it not? Is this one of the two options of the state of mind in the aftermath of war? Go insane or become numb? If so, which of the two are better?) She dragged herself up to the Halamasabit and inspected it closely. It was definitely a type of structure, with the dead bodies of both regular and corrupted ponies stacked like Lincoln Logs to form a cabin. At this moment, Sweetie Belle noticed an opening that was probably meant to be a door. She crawled up to it, and, after a moment of hesitation, went inside. The sickly-sweet smell of death was heavy in the air, and the ceiling was leaking gore. After a moment of complete revulsion, in which Sweetie Belle was sure she would black out, her stout little mind pulled herself together once more, and she chose not to faint.
"Ah, you were considering whether or not to faint, and you chose the latter, I am quite pleased," said a voice.
Sweetie Belle levitated her Zepto-Sword in front of her, and peered into the darkness. In the corner, lying down with legs askew was a pony. It was Mr. Whether. It was obvious every bone in his whole body was broken by the way he lay there, head lolled to one side.
"Are you Mr. Whether?" asked Sweetie Belle, her eyes widening in horror when he realized he couldn't move an inch due to his state.
Mr. Whether winked. "Oh, I suppose that is an important question. After all it is quite vital to know whether I am Mr. Whether, as opposed to if I am Mr. Whether."
This was absolute nonsense, of course, but Sweetie Belle felt inclined to overlook it due to this pony's physical state.
"What happened to you?" asked Sweetie Belle, her eyes still wide.
"Oh, I was in the Garden of Anger, feeling angry about the loss of my partner Doctor Reasoning Ed.D. and wondering if whether or not I should be minding my own business, when the Grief comes along with an army of corrupted fellows. You see, Grief doesn't take too kindly to choices, so it locked Mrs. Which away in the Maze of Isolation, and tried to do away with me. Grief always wants just one available option: Grief, so it can't have upstarts like me, myself, and I, all running about and looking at several possible choices."
"My goodness! That's terrible! What happened?"
"Well, I decided whether or not I should try to fight. I chose the former. So I grabbed my contemptible Weather Blade and made a stand here, in the Trooblis Marsh. I manage to un-alive most of them, and eventually the rest left me alone as the Grief moved on to the Tower of Bargaining. That leads me to the next question, are you that little filly everypony has been talking about? Are you here to collect my living key?"
Sweetie Belle blanched. He knew about the atrocities that Madness had told her to commit. She shook her head, backed away, and stuttered, "No! I mean yes… but I really don't have any idea how to…"
"Oh, it is not a problem," said Mr. Whether, fairly jocund for some reason, "You must now just decide whether or not you want to travel on. Generally this is a question Doctor Reasoning and I would be deciding in Expectations, but since your Expectations are rather gloomy, I suppose the crepuscule of Anger will have to do. So, what will it be?"
Sweetie Belle broke down crying. "I want to go home!" she sobbed brokenly, her mind dissolving, "I just want to go home!"
"Well then!" shouted Mr. Whether loudly and cheerfully, "I suppose you need to collect the living keys. Without the keys you cannot have knowledge, and without knowledge the passageway of the MIND will be far too narrow for you to escape! Come, grab my Weather Blade."
Tears streaming down her face, Sweetie Belle picked up the Weather Blade.
Mr. Whether winked at her. "Do you know why it is called a Weather Blade?"
Sweetie Belle shook her head wordlessly as she gazed at her own reflection the stared back at her through the shiny steel. She was not even a shadow of the sweet little Cutie Mark Crusader she had once been. The pony looking at her now was an insane mare, with red-rimmed eyes and a blood-stained face. "Is it because it can control the weather?" asked Sweetie Belle slowly, entranced by the horror of her accelerated mental and emotional maturation.
"Oh no, controlling the weather is never very useful. Instead, it determines whether or not there will be weather," stated Mr. Whether.
Suddenly the sword began to glow and an eerie male voice echoed in Sweetie Belle's head.
"Overcast, blood drizzle, no sun," echoed the voice.
Suddenly the jack-o-lantern sun went dark as the clouds thickened, and the drizzling blood began to intensify.
"Ah, it looks like the Grief is getting worse, anger tends be proportional to the strength of Grief at this stage. Come, you must cut out my heart and get to the Tower of Bargaining before Anger causes self-mutilation to this land. No doubt Scapegoat is already dead as a result of the Anger."
Sweetie Belle stared wildly at Mr. Whether, "CUT OUT YOUR HEART?!" she shrieked, "NO!"
"Of course you can, my dear! Really it should be a question of if you MAY. CAN is obvious, you are holding the Weather Blade in your hand. However, you need to have permission first. Yes, you MAY cut out my heart. Now that you may, you must decide whether or not you want to kill me."
Sweetie Belle's eyes were wild as her brain thrashed about in her skull. Could she kill this pony? Did she truly value her sanity and her life above his? She slowly sank to the ground as she began to cry like an infant. The weight of the choice was too great. On one side of the coin, she wanted very badly to go home, and putting this pony down would be a mercy considering the state he was in at the moment. On the other side of the same coin was the fact that it was morally wrong.
Suddenly, the voice of Madness whispered in her ear: "When has insanity ever been connected to morality and principles? Get home, and then reclaim your mind from madness. That is what is being taught here, you know."
Sweetie Belle looked at Mr. Whether, who was humming to himself, while lying limply on the ground. "I'm so sorry!" she wailed.
With a scream, she plunged the sword in his chest, just above his heart. Mr. Whether immediately passed out from the pain. Tears and blood streaming down her face, Sweetie Belle outlined a box above Mr. Whether's faintly beating heart. With a squishy, wet noise, Sweetie Belle pried the flap of skin from his body. Yellow blobs of fat and clots of blood stuck to her hoofs as she tossed the skin away. Sweetie Belle vomited heavily, but continued to work. With a sharp jab of the sword, she cut a deep groove in the ribs above the heart. Vomiting heavily once more, Sweetie Belle thrust the sword again, cutting the rips away. Then closing her eyes, she reached into the cavity is his chest, seized his heart, and pulled with all her might. With a sharp noise of strings ripping, the thing tore out, and blood spewed everywhere. Sweetie Belle passed out.
Probably an hour later, she was brought back to consciousness by a firmly shaking hoof. Sweetie Belle opened an eye, and was not surprised to see Madness standing over her in his overcoat and Bowler hat.
"My God, filly," he whispered with a huge grin on his face, "You ARE madness!"
With that, he took off his bowler hat and placed it on her head, just behind her little unicorn horn. Sweetie Belle closed her eyes and whimpered, "Can you please put the heart in the bag? I can't look at it."
"With pleasure," said Madness in hushed tones. With that, he took the bloody mass and placed it in the bag with the heart of Mrs. Which.
"The Trooblis Marsh is still crawling with corruption," murmured Madness, "But they are disoriented because the Grief has moved on to the Tower of Bargaining. Since it is there, you, too, must move on."
After a pause, Madness suddenly said, "Interesting. The ponies here put their faith in a prophecy that they falsely interpreted. There is no Gigibis Lord, and the Trooblis Marsh will never be clean. Now the question is who was foolish enough to try and interpret it in the first place? True premonitions are very rare there days, and proper interpretations are even rarer. There is only one true way."
Sweetie Belle slowly got on all fours. Her head was pounding, and she felt like a soulless corpse. She smelled like one too.
"I just want to get home," she sighed.
"Don't we all?" asked Madness in hushed tone, "But another important question is where is home? And will it still be your home when you finally get home?"
Sweetie Belle shook her head. She did not want to think about that. "How do I get to the end of the Garden of Anger?" she asked.
"Oh," whispered Madness, "The Garden of Anger comes to an end when the world's anger comes to an end. Just trot off in any direction for forever, and then turn left. You will find the city of No Anger there. That is how you get to the end."
"I don't HAVE forever!" cried Sweetie Belle, "I want to get home NOW!" In her frame of mind, her brain had been reduced to figurative ashes.
"Oh, in that case, just get that feeling of vulnerability that you feel after a bout of anger, and get ready for a bargain. Then look outside."
Sweetie Belle glanced out of the opening in the house of bodies. Out of nowhere, looming before her was a massive clockwork gate mode of bronze, copper, and chromium. Two lines of words were carved in the archway of the clockwork gate.
The first line read: "If Only… If Only… If Only…"
The second line read: "Enter into the Tower of Bargaining."
There was no explanation for the suddenly appearance of the gate, but there never was a need for an explanation. Sweetie Belle was ready to move on, and when she was, it was. Now that is curious, is it not? Do you get ready for unexpected events, or do they get ready for you?
Blood is drawn. You slay a pawn by moving your own pawn diagonally from E4 to D5. The Unknown is furious. They return fire and kill your pawn heartlessly by moving their knight from F6 to D5.