Until the Darkness Does Recede - Chapter 1 - sappystrawberries (2024)

Chapter Text

Night had fallen by the time Fiddleford sat down to take a peak at the latest entries in Stanley’s sketchbook.

It had been a slow, easy sort of day—tourist season hadn’t truly started up yet, but there had been a few odd carfuls of curious folks, as families and the like on March-break trips passed on through. Fiddleford had spent most of the day tinkering with some of the latest animatronics he’d been creating, hoping to get a jump on preparations for when peak season did arrive—today, a partly-taxidermy coyote with mechanical bat wings, that Stanley had called a ‘flyote’. Fiddleford reckoned he could get it to actually take off without hurting anything, if he managed to get the coding just so.

Stanley had left not long ago for a much needed grocery run—between the two of them, Dan Corduroy, and the various creatures what came knocking who Fiddleford argued deserved a home-cooked meal now and again (not that Stanley disagreed, mind you—his grouching wasn’t at all convincing, particularly when he was sat crisscross-applesauce to feed Scout the scampfire whole bags of marshmallows at a time), they were running through ingredients and leftovers alike faster than Mercury orbiting close in the sweet, yet arms-length, embrace of the sun.

It was very sweet, actually—the rapport he and Stanley had built with a few of the forest folks, that is. The first time Testosteraur came through the house had caused something of a fright for Fiddleford (never mind the tourists), but it had turned out that he and a few of the other manotaurs had a rotating schedule set up with Dan, to make sure Stan wasn’t pulling at his shoulder scar too much with all the lifting and welding they were up to as weather turned colder. They had even helped Fiddleford make and mount a pin-board for his room, so that he could put up and arrange memos with memories as he got them back—organize them, contextualize them. Very kind, the bunch of them. Fiddleford suspected Stanley was none the wiser, of course—just accepted whoever came into his space when they did. Getting that man to see how much folks cared about him was a process slower than molasses in permafrost. Fiddleford would most certainly know.

Sitting down at his desk, shoving various notes and papers and books (though mindful of his computer) out of the way enough to set the sketchbook down, Fiddleford carefully flipped it open to the more recent entries about two thirds of the way back.

The sketchbook itself had been a gift he’d gotten Stanley a few months ago, shortly after they’d started working through the portal nittygritty together. He’d never forget the way Stan had looked, on either occasion—the day he’d given the sketchbook to him, or the day Fiddleford had told him that he had been working on it on his own.

It had taken Fiddleford a few weeks to work up the nerve to do the latter—he’d wanted to be sure he was truly alright with it, before he gave Stanley any false hope. And for the most part, ithad been alright—he’d gotten a few flashes of memory, here and there, and more days than not now were spent feeling like something mighty was building up behind his temples, but Fiddleford, with everyone’s help, was getting through it. He had sat Stanley down the same day he finished building himself a portable computer to run models and calculations and projections. The way his voice had broken, shock in every sweet line of his sweet face, before the tears had taken over and he’d clung to Fiddleford like the most wonderful barnacle to have ever graced a ship, had only solidified Fiddleford’s sense that he’d made a choice he could truly pat himself on the back for. Stanley’s immediate insistence that he could back away at any time, the very instant anything became distressing, emphasized it yet further.

The sketchbook had come a few days later, when Fiddleford had walked past the little shop on his way back from the grocers. It had been a bit of a spontaneous thing—he and Stanley were at their wits end brainstorming ideas to help their communicating about the technical bits. Stanley was brilliant, and quicker than just about anyone he’d ever met to pick up concepts and practical knowledge, but jargon seemed to be a language he could read and not speak for now. Fiddleford himself had never been much better, preferring to create and define terms for himself when he drafted blueprints. There could only be so many usages of the word “doohickey” between the two of them before Stanley connected the wrong bits on accident and blew the whole Mystery Shack sky high. They were considering a camera, but they were awful pricey these days, never mind the film quality of the instant kind, or the hassle of getting something higher quality developed. A sketchbook seemed like as good an idea as any to try.

Stanley had welled up the second Fiddleford had, shy as anything, put it into his hands. It had been working mighty well for them both since, too—it even seemed to help Stanley catch his own mistakes without Fiddleford’s input, half the time. Something deep within Fiddleford’s chest stirred when he first saw Stanley doodling little comics in the margins, right alongside his equations.

Today’s most recent entries involved sketches of the main lines of circuitry Stanley had been working on—what the connections were looking like, as well as a little cartoonified manotaur (who looked suspiciously like Young Beardy) dropping a heavy piece of plating on his own hoof, swearing up a storm. Fiddleford smiled to himself, huffing a little laugh through his nose.

After double-checking that everything Stan had been working on looked good, and it did, he flipped his computer back open to check in on the latest projections he’d been working through. Much of this work felt like piecing together a puzzle someone had thrown out the lid and completed picture to, as math he remembered combined with math he and Stanley solved for presently. A few days ago, he’d gotten some rather large chunks back, and had leaped at the opportunity to test their combined work. They had to be extremely, extremely close on the theoretical and design sides of things, if not just exactly on the nose, by now.

The computer gave several warning beeps as the screen blinked to life.

Well, that was more than a little alarming. Maybe not so close, then?

As he input his password and clicked into the model, Fiddleford felt the blood drain from his face as he looked it over, and read through the results.

It was only meant to be a proof of concept—had he plugged something in wrong? He could have sworn he’d triple checked it, and everything had come from somewhere concrete—either his own recollection, Stanley’s and his calculations, the blueprints Stanley had dug up, or Stanford’s journal itself...

As he clicked around further, hoping to find some fatal flaw he’d input and overlooked, Fiddleford felt his stomach drop.

Oh,gods.

The now sickening, familiar hot press from behind his eyes was screaming. There was just one flash, this time—his own voice, desperate and horrified.Where are these ideas coming from? Who are you working for?!As Fiddleford continued reading, he realized with dawning, overwhelming dread and certainty that he’d read this all before.

He’d run this projection set before.

He’d sat, petrified and ill, in front of this math, and these results, before.

And Stanford hadn’t listened.

Oh, gods.

What had he done? What hadtheydone?

Fiddleford could only stare in abject horror, trying valiantly to tame his nausea, as the computer confirmed again what he must have figured out the first time around, far too late.

The machine wasdesignedto tear, to destroy—it was designed torip, not just puncture, not ‘create a bridge’—it was designed to weaken and damage their dimension’s boundaries progressively as it reached full strength, and it was designed to break itself the unholy hell apart when it was done.Just as it already had.

It was never designed to withstand the force of its supposed intended usage, never designed for repeated nor evensafeusage, nor repair any of the damage it created when it reached full power.

This portal was designed tofail.

Just what the hell had theydone?

Distantly, Fiddleford heard the front door open, and a voice call out to him.

Oh, oh no.Stanley.

Tears spilled down Fiddleford’s face as Stan’s peaked through his open door, hand raised as if to knock—easy smile dropping instantly as he took Fiddleford in.

“... Fidds? H-hey, what’s—what’s wrong?”

Fiddleford hurried anxiously alongside Scout as Stanley, grim determination plain on his face, marched just ahead of them through the enchanted part of the forest.

They’d both had a hell of a night, after Fiddleford managed to relay what he’d discovered. They’d worked out a new understanding of what exactly might have happened when Stanford was sucked in—the portal, having likely been completely shut down prior to Stanford and Stanley’s fight, almost certainly hadn’t managed to reach its final stages. According to Stan’s account, there hadn’t been any gravitational anomalies outside of the safety line, and it was beyond unlikely that a machine of this nature running at full capacity wouldn’t have caused half the town to float if it did. It likely would have reached full power, however, had the distortions caused by Stanford’s physical body not disrupted its startup functions and resulted in the short that broke it. Fiddleford theorized that this was because the limiter, at first glance operational and meant to keep the portal running at a safe level and terminate if it wasn’t, was actually designed to blow in such a way that it wouldn’t correctly short or shut anything down, once the machine reached a certain threshold. The machine was designed to purposefully keep running with exponentially increasing energetic output beyond its capacity, until it destroyed itself entirely.

And took out as much of the boundaries of their dimension as possible with it.

(It was also... entirely possible that the so-called portal had never been designed to actually transport physical matter to research to begin with—almost as ifthe tearwere the purpose. Fiddleford didn’t dare think on it deeper than that.)

What had followed was a truly nasty set of fortnights for them both. Stanley had barely eaten, and Fiddleford could barely sleep. They’d both blown through their respective stashes of tobacco products, and then some. They’d argued. They’d apologized. They’d broken down in each other’s arms more times than Fiddleford could count.

At long last, it was Stanley who’d finally had the breakthrough.

“Okay, so. Obviously, we’re gonna have to make those hugeass mechanical changes you were talking about to make sure this thing doesn’t actually blow the fuck up.” He’d began. “There’s gonna need to be an actual limiter that will short as a failsafe, and something before that that will keep it running but not sprinting. We just need to worry about the tears and shit after that, right? Figuring out what the damage already is, and how to stop the damn thing from causing more? Oh, and finding some way to keep shit we don't want from coming through while the wormhole is open? That cover it?” Stanley had asked, flipping rapidly through his brother’s journal. Fiddleford hummed in confirmation.

“Okay, so—you tell me if this is way off, I guess. There’s a spell in here, says it ‘creates a nearly impenetrable barrier to anything not originating in the dimension the spell was cast in, and/or beings that seek to bring the caster(s) harm’. What if we add that to the portal? That way, only Ford can actually come through,” Stanley asked, putting the journal with the relevant pages open down on the table as Fiddleford’s eyes widened, “and can we—I dunno, tweak it or whatever maybe to fill in whatever holes the fucking thing already probably made, and will make, since it’s creating a barrier anyway? Could that work?” He asked unconfidently, rubbing the back of his neck, as if he wasn’t one of the most creative and brilliant people Fiddleford had ever met.

“Golly, Stanley, I—I reckon it just might,” Fiddleford said, looking it over. “I don’t rightly know how the magic will interact with the mathmechanics, but once we figure that out—it might be just like making patches you would for clothes, only new barriers in place of fabric scraps,” he puzzled out slowly. “I still reckon we ought to make some more mechanical changes firstly to minimize the tearing to begin with...” Fiddleford had trailed off, scribbling frantically in his notebooks. He looked back up at Stanley, awe surely painted plainly all over his face. “This is a bonafide stroke of genius, Stanley.” Stanley had ducked his head, hand still on the nape of his neck, grumbling minimizations. When they weren’t so consumed with fixing up mistakes past, Fiddleford was going to absolutely drown that man in praise, he vowed, until Stanley got so damn used to it he wouldn’t think twice to accept it.

There had been just one catch. There always wassomething, wasn’t there?

“It says here that unicorns only give up their hair to ‘the pure of heart’,” Stanley had said, face hardening as he read through just how strict and rigid and ‘frustrating’ the unicorns could be. Apparently, Stanford had never actually managed to get the hair himself. “Well, asking for it? That’s Poindexter’s route. You don’t have to come, Fidds, but I will kill a fucking horse if I have’ta to get it.”

And so here they were.

Fiddleford had suggested asking the friendly folks in the forest if they knew anything first—the manotaurs had only grimaced, and wished them luck. Worth a shot, at least, he reckoned, but golly, was that foreboding.

Stanley marched like a man out to war, fidgeting with his brass knuckles already, until they reached the right part of the forest. Of the two of them, Stanley unquestionably had the deeper voice, so it was up to him to perform the summoning chants. If Fiddleford wasn’t so worried for him and the doomed situation they were all certainly walking into, he’d’ve had to take a breather after hearing that.Damn, was Stanley’s voice attractive.

Before their very eyes, the landscape around them transformed, as massive walls of stone rose out from the damp earth. A golden door came last, handle glinting enticingly (unnervingly) in the weak April sunlight. At their feet, Scout sniffed the air, and growled.

Stanley wasted no time busting through. Fiddleford followed closely, mindful of Scout, and closed the door behind the three of them.

The sheer saturation of colours in the place was nearly blinding, never mind the glitter, rainbows, and glowing mushrooms. It stunk pretty, like someone had emptied an entire barrel of fruity perfume into the little waterfall what stood near the far set of walls. On a set of stones, beneath the rainbow and framed by sparkling mist, was a creature Fiddleford’s youngest sister would absolutely have doneanythingto have met.

The unicorn looked up as they approached, horn lighting up as she let out a majestic whinny.

“Hark, visitors to my enchanted realm! I am Celestabellebethabelle, last of my kind. Come in, come in—just take off your shoes. Always hated the nasty things,” she said, staring doe-eyed at them. Fiddleford hesitated a minute, before bending down and complying. He looked up at Stan to see him standing with his arms crossed, making no move to do the same. They locked eyes, Fiddleford putting on a pleading face, before Stanley slipped his boots off too with a gravelly sigh.

“Now, then—what brings you two to my magical abode? Why have you called upon me?”

Fiddleford cut in before Stanley finished opening his mouth. “We come seeking your aid, ma’am. We’re trying mighty hard to save a family member without bringing about the end of the world, and we believe we need a lock of your hair to help us do that,” Fiddleford said, polite as anything.

“Ah, but of—actually, thatisa new one. Huh. Anyways. Very well! Step forth, if you believe you are Pure of Heart, to receive my blessing!” She finished dramatically.

Fiddleford took a steadying breath, braced for the inevitable, and made a small step forward.

The unicorn pointed her (sharp, terrifyingly sharp) horn at his chest, where a small golden love-heart (as opposed to the anatomical kind, curious—) became visible, and promptly recoiled in disgust.

“Neigh, neigh! What sins you have committed! What horrors! You are not pure of heart at all! Just looking—it brings tears to my eyes!”

“Look, ma’am—I know my heart ain’t pure, I expected as much, but our intentions surely are—”

“Neigh! Your intentions are surely not, for your heart is so tainted! Come back when you are pure of heart!”

Fiddleford grimaced, sweating nervously. He was afraid she’d say that. He looked over at a far too quiet Stanley, finding, to Fiddleford’s surprise, that instead of looking ready to fight, Stan’s eyes were narrowed in suspicion.

“What sins has he committed, exactly?” Stanley asked, cutting off Celestabelle’s dismayed whinnying and insistences that they take their shoes with them.

“Wh—too many to possibly recount! We’d be here all day!” She replied, nose in the air.

“Was it that time he cheated on his math test in high school? I could see that putting it over the edge,” Stan hedged. Math test? What in heavens was he on about? Fiddlefordlovedmath, always had—was that not clear?

“Yes, yes! Among other things! But that one is pretty heinous, you agree!” The unicorn nodded quickly.

“Oh yeah, sure. Or—how about that time he dumped water on a scampfire? Where’s that rank?” Stanley continued casually.

“Oh, my! How horrid! Very high ranked sin! Yes, yes of course I saw that too—his heart is stained, so impure! Yours must be too, if he would give his to you! Metaphorically. So you must both leave! Obviously!” The glorified horse replied, fixing Stan with watery pink eyes. Fiddleford’s eyes flicked down to Scout, ember-glow barely visible from inside of Stanley’s boot.

Now, wasn’t that interesting?

Catching on, Fiddleford jumped in, “Well, then, fine lady—please, tell me how I might become pure of heart? What need I do to earn your favour?” He pleaded, hands clasped in front of him.

“I—I can’t tell you that! Of course not. You—you must discover it for yourself! By leaving! And taking your shoes!” Celestabellebethabelle answered, hoof dusting at the ground impatiently.

“Really? Cuz it sounds to me like maybe there ain’t a way at all, is there? And maybe... nothing's wrong with his heart to begin with? I know that trick. You giving us the runaround, doll?” Stanley intoned, hands now in his pockets. Fiddleford let out a relieved breath. Looks like it might not come to blows, after all.

“Whaaat? Of course not. I am simply refusing to give my aid to those who have committed such heinous crimes, the likes of whichyoubrought up, might I add—”

Scout chose that moment to pop her head of Stan’s boot with an offended bark. They all paused, just a moment.

It was at least a little funny, Fiddleford supposed, to see a unicorn swear.

“Fine,fine! You’re right! I can’t actually see your heart, we just say that to get tourists to leave us alone. We have more hair than we know what to do with, and don’t give it out to make tourists mad. Are you happy now?” she huffed.

“Hey, no need to get all puffed up at me—I get where you’re coming from! We’re running a kinda reverse operation than you’ve got going on here—we try to get them to come, so I can steal their cash—but tourists are tourists. They’re the worst,” Stanley drawled, sauntering closer to her and Fiddleford, Scout nipping at his heels. “This one time, this gigantic family came through—forget family tree, I’m talking whole familyforest, by thebus-load. Had to be like 30 kids between them. By the time they left,without buying anything,not a single exhibit or display stand was left standing. Took a week to get shit back together, meaning I losteven moremoney. Bunch of jerks,” Stanley continued, scowling. Fiddleford shuddered. He remembered that dark day all too well. It was all he could do to keep the rugrats from bursting into the house proper, anddamn, did they try.

“Oh, tell me about it!” Celestebelle replied, throwing her head back in agitation. “There was this one bigfoot child just last moon who came in, unbathed, holding an entire faery. They barf like faucets when they’re upset, did you know that? It took weeks to even begin ridding this place of the smell!” She said in outrage.

“Oh, don’t get me started onfluids,” Stanley said with a shudder. “You point to the outhouse every five minutes, put huge signs in front of it, and people STILL find a way to be disgusting! And forget about boots in winter—it’s like no one knows how to use a doormat these days!”

“Finally, someone gets it!” The unicorn cried.

Fiddleford could only stare at Stanley in awe, once again, as he and Celestebelle commiserated animatedly and at length.

In the end, Celestebellebethabelle agreed to a trade—“I admit it! I have a secret fondness for tacky little tchotchkes that completely ruin the aesthetic of the glade! Swear you’ll tell no one—especially Alastorossaaronaross! I’ll never hear the end of it, neigh!”

Stan, ever one to keep the most random assortment of junk in his coat pockets known to man, happily handed over a ‘Mr. Mystery’ prototype bobblehead in exchange for a sizeable hunk of hairbrush leftovers.

“Pleasure doing business, neigh! Come back with more trinkets any time!”

And with that, some mercury, some moonstone powder, and a few concerningly easy to acquire books on magic from the library, Stanley added a barrier around the mouth of the portal. There would be so, so very much work ahead of them—but it was a huge start. Unspeakably huge, even. Fiddleford felt a weight he didn’t know the shape of lift from his shoulders.

It wasn’t until late at night that Fiddleford processed just exactly what all Celestebellebethabelle had said about his heart. Any redder, and a farmer might pluck his at face thinking it were a tomato, goodlords. He could only hope that Stanley had missed that.

Elsewhere, a dapper triangle zooming around the dead space between dimensions, entirely focused on his hunt, was none the wiser as critical pieces of his plans began sealing up, and sealing him out.

Until the Darkness Does Recede - Chapter 1 - sappystrawberries (2024)

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