Introns

This humble tale serves to, one:

Capture history so that

it may ne’er be lost.

Serves to, two:

Capture the courage of

our Queen Siderae

that it may ne’er be lost.

Serves to, three:

Acclaim her deeds so

that they may ne’er be lost.

Glory be to her Queen-ship:

the chosen of the origin

of this dust-worn,

flame-basked,

flood-drenched earth.

Glory be to her Queen-ship:

conqueror of time,

soldier of fortune,

wisest of ponies,

first of the alicorn,

founder of the Golden Kingdom.

Praise be to Canterliope!

To you i owe these words,

to you i owe this page,

to you i owe my mind,

and unto you i give my soul,

praying to be enlightened

Your fortune unmatchable,

glorified by the piteous tales

that only scratch the surface

of the infinite page you allow

us mortals to carve.

Should our chisel cut deeper,

we tear the fabric rather than

glimpse your soul.

Canterliope, give me your hoof.

Give me your star-speckled

words and the strength to

turn life into ink.

Pour in me the inspiration plucked

from the heavens and the

will to make the unimaginable

feats tangible to we poor ponies.

Hear my plea, oh Muse,

Grant my request so that

my tale may laud your name.

Partition the second

--

Siderae the Mighty stumbled

beneath the monstrous force

of Behemoth’s ancient breath.

Gasping for air, her hooves sank

in the swirling sands, her fur

was scoured by the stinging fury

of the sharp granules thrown

askew by the gale.

Her teeth clenched tightly

around Constantine, her god-blessed

blade, she rose against

the roar of the ageless monster.

Soundless, deafening, her

cry of defiance was sharper

than her sword, sharper than

the red glow of Behemoth’s

eyes through the scathing

veil of dust. Leaping forth,

her mane was grazed by Behemoth’s

stony claws, and they slammed the

fluid earth with tidal force.

Like a serpent, the pulse rose from

the sands, hissing with the sound

of a thousand stirred stones.

In the sandstorm, Behemoth bellowed:

“My blood is yours, I gave you life;

My breath is yours, I gave you will;

Your flesh is my stone ground to

dust and cast across the void

of space. The earth you tread is mine,

and the blood you spill is your own.

Father and daughter, earth and air.

You shall suffer your insolence, child,

or rise above this plain upon my

corpse!”

The air boomed and throbbed with

every word crashing from his

tremendous lungs that have inhaled

air before air itself. A titan, a monolith;

Behemoth, Beast-God of Earth shattered

the pillars of stone that dotted the

dunes of blood-stained sands.

Its pillar-like legs a hundred fold the span

of Siderae, it swept a craggy paw in vain to

strike the furious white gnat that was the

valiant pony.

Rising upon the wave of sand that

the ageless God invoked, Siderae ascended rapidly,

blinded by the shrieking gales of earth and,

at the pinnacle of height, threw herself skyward.

Constantine flashed, seizing the shards

of light that dared slice the tumultuous

skies violated by the uprising earth.

Letting her blade spin freely above her,

and as the force of the ground took her

back from whence she came, she screamed:

“Gods end where legends are born, and my heart

shall not scream in pain as I pierce yours.

Mortal folds have no place for Gods;

our lives are too short for their likes.

Now fall to me, Father and Creator,

fall so that we may rise and live!”

Partition the Third

--

The Third Age, born in the dusk

of the Second, whence our world was

seared and purged of Them, the race

that precedes us, for their raping

of Nature and their blasphemy towards

the Gods. Their black arts that stained the

sky, poisoned the earth, and tarnished

the seas have passed and left unto us,

their replacements on this world, the

beauty which they once destroyed.

Now once again they sleep, three Gods almighty.

I invoke their names, and shiver;

Would my words rouse them from their

black slumber?

And yet I invoke them; Behemoth,

Leviathan, Ziz.

You that destroy, you that create,

you that spawned your own demise.

The demise: a mare whose heart

was grand and vast as yours with courage

and hope.

A mare, the daughter of Metaesus the blacksmith.

He in turn, son of Silvam the wise,

he in turn, son of Bellusius, the valiant.

A mare, living within the country side,

where her father’s forge was the only

light in the inky-blue night for leagues

among the untamed wilderness.

This mare was named Siderae, named

after the stars beneath which she was born,

and for the glimmer of her blue eyes.

None can be sure what brought those

fateful seven words to her tongue that day.

“Father, I want to go to war,” spoke Siderae.

Her father ceased his metalworking mid-stroke.

Leaving the red-fired steel upon its anvil, he

levelled his world-worn gaze with that of his daughter’s.

“Why, my child, would you desire such a thing?”

he questioned, a heavy weight in his heart.

“I know not,” she admitted, “Words cannot explain

what the soul yearns for, and yet it must be expressed

lest it drive a soul mad.”

The earth pony with the red mane and blue eyes

looked down at the gravel of her father’s forge.

“But it burns in me, Father, it burns like the fires of

your steel, the metal that builds, the metal that strengthens,

the metal that kills. Something in my very heart cries

for battle, cries for the clash of blade and shield.

I want more than this, Father, can you not see?

I want more than to be the humble daughter of

a blacksmith in the middle of the vast plains.

I want my name to be known, my blade to

be feared, and my will to be admired.

I want an eternal throne in history!”

“Pride and arrogance can only lead

to destruction, Daughter,” spoke Metaesus wisely,

hammering the metal at hand with skilled blows

from his hammer. “And more so, the battlefield

is no place for a mare. Leave the senseless violence

and bloodshed to we stallions, foolish enough

to indulge in honor, and to take and lose lives.”

Siderae’s eyes became harsh and defiant with

anger. “Pride? What know you of pride, Father?”

she questioned fiercely, “What beasts have you slain?

What empires have you conquered? What

treasures and hordes have you amassed, and

what books speak of you in legend with

tremors in their words?