Prison Of Ice
"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that, in the process, he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you."
—Frederich Nietzche
~
A ripple of black and gray against a sea of white, the stallion trudged on, trudged on.
His hooves scraped against the snow-swept landscape, layers of freshly fallen snow accumulating above rock-hard feet of unforgiving permafrost. Pure, brilliant white dotted his black mane, mimicking the permanence of the night sky. But there were no twinkling stars above to guide him tonight. There was only snow as far as his narrowed eyes could see. Only white.
He shivered, stopping for a moment to brush fresh flakes from his muzzle. He exhaled, more of a dragon than a pony by this point. The stallion coughed, his spittle turning to ice as soon as it left his mouth. He looked around again, hoping that his eyes betrayed him.
Far north of Canterlot, the stallion stumbled through the endless tundra, too exhausted to think. To remember. He briefly recalled from the corner of his mind a trial. The boom of a gavel echoed inside his eardrums, as cold and hollow as the vast expanse of snowy plain before him. In the far distance, if he squinted hard enough, he could discern the peaks of mountains—distant, looming towers on the horizon.
He shivered violently, and knew he couldn't pause for much longer.
From some primal instinct, he drew the strength to move one hoof in front of the other, and then the other. He closed his eyes, pained by the biting wind. The wind nipped at his eyelashes, his nostrils, his muzzle, bringing the foreboding chill of the frozen north into his soul. Although he made no motion to stroke his coat, he was certain that icicles clung to his thick fur and messy mane. His heart thundered in spite of the temperature, sending life-giving blood through his aching muscles, even if it was futile.
He searched his mind again, trudging through the snow. After the trial, there was a cell. An ocean of gray replaced the sea of white inside his consciousness. Chains around his hindhooves led to iron spheres of impossible weight. A tight limiter around his horn muffled his magic—
His magic! Of course! The stallion nearly laughed out loud. Though he wasn't quite sure how long he'd been walking—or, really, why he was here—he guessed it must have been pressing on through the tundra for eons to have forgotten his own race and abilities. Stopping in his tracks, he took a deep breath, focusing on his magic, remembering the runes he'd learned so long ago...
He needed heat.
Straining, the stallion closed his eyes and concentrated, thinking of warmth. Light and heat. Flame. The sun. Where was his Princess's sun? Why had it forsaken him? Why was it so cold?
As his horn began to glow, he shook away his questions. No. The time for questioning would come later. For now, he needed heat. Survival. Knowledge. He thought harder, of fire and flame, of a blazing tempest, pillars of black smoke reaching towards the sky...
His horn began to spark.
"Yes!" he cried, unable to contain himself. "Yes! F-fire!"
Embers of green erupted from his horn, shooting straight up into the air. Mentally smacking himself, he wrestled his head towards the ground, directing his embers towards the snow. Summoning the runes and all of his magical reserves, he willed his magic to strengthen, willed embers into tongues of orange, yellow, and red.
A thick column of flame shot from his horn, scorching the tundra. Surely, he thought, steadying his blast, there must be long-dormant grass beneath this plain! At least some semblance of kindling! Something! Laughing now, closing his eyes, he leaned forward and strained, feeling the magic churn through him, rippling beneath his fur with the flex of every muscle. Fire! Fire!
Beneath his forehooves, he felt heat begin to tickle as it crept up his coat. He concentrated further, burning through layers of snow and ice. The kindling would be soon located, and once he had a fire going, he could wrack his mind further, further, solving the mystery of why he was here in this strange land, surrounded by nothing but a virtual tomb of white—
"Aaaaaaaah!"
He cried out in pain, vicious tendrils of agony racing through his being and up his spine, up his nape, and towards his horn. Sweat dripping down his coat, he began to flail, throwing his head back and forth. His eyes flew open.
His jaw dropped, aghast, even as he continued to scream. He tried to halt his flailing, but was no longer in control of his own body. He felt himself rear up on his hindhooves, screeching a hollow agony across the plains. Between the blur of left-right-left, between the blizzard of snow rushing towards his exposed eyes, he looked down at the hole he'd burnt through the tundra, and was pummeled by instant despair.
"Iccccccccccccccccce!"
Ice! Ice! No flame! No ember! No spark! Not even one smouldering blade of grass greeted him.
A hole, about four or five feet in depth, was his reward for exerting his magical energies. Between his involuntarily flailing and shrieks of pain, raw agony shooting up through his horn, making it throb and pulsate white-hot torment, he saw not one single speck of grass, hay, or underbrush.
Nothing but ice, ice, ice, tunneling straight down towards the Earth, which yawned before him, a gaping maw threatening to swallow him.
Panicking, he grabbed his muzzle with both hooves and flung himself onto the ground, screaming louder still. He threw back his mane and began to howl, a timberwolf in unicorn's clothing. He called upon his ancient magic, searching for the runes, but nothing came. Nothing came and everything hurt.
"Ice! Ice! ICCCCCCCCCCCCE!"
His hindhooves dug at the snow, impenetrable beneath his iron keratin. He shook his head rapidly, clutching it with his forehooves. No, no, no. This wasn't real. This was just a dream. He was back in the cell now in the ocean of gray, not in the sea of white. He was chained and impaired there, fed bread and water, isolated and imprisoned in a few square feet of his own demise.
He wasn't here, exiled to the frozen north, destined to die in the limitless sea-foam of icy death.
Lost in his delusions—eyes shut, vocal cords vibrating with useless screams—he burst to all four hooves and began to gallop. He had to get out. He simply had to. There had to be something to start a fire—something to warm him.
All four of his limbs began to numb at this point. His mane and fur provided no relief, feeling the very marrow of his bones begin to harden in response to the relentless cold. He had to get out.
His horn continued to ebb with agonizing pain, as if somepony were hammering hot spikes into it with ungodly glee. He barely registered the churn of his limbs, the rippling of tired muscles beneath his coat, and the shrieks of his banshee throat.
Then, the Earth opened up.
The stallion's eyes shot open as he began to fall, his hooves skidding across nothing, dragging him into a cavern far deeper than the measly one his horn had dug. With a final, shrill scream, he closed his eyes as he began to fall, fall, fall, the cold, dark Earth embracing him, swallowing him, dragging him into its hungry throat without so much as a smile.
~
The unicorn stallion paced and paced in his prison cell, one forehoof pawing desperately at the limiter around his horn. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't remove the restraint. No matter how much he gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain as he groped wildly at his sensitive horn, he couldn't take it off.
The prisoner had even resorted to banging his horn against the wall of his cell, hoping that the limiter would come loose in the violence, but it was in vain. Day by dark day, night by insignificant night, he paced and paced, trying to remember...
The guards often made off-cuff remarks that hinted towards his crimes. "Supper time, Mister Murder."
Murder? He'd wracked his foggy brain for any recollection. There were only a few memories, and none of them were of murder. He remembered a coat of armor fitted perfectly for him. He remembered an iron spear and a few vows.
On some nights, when he dreamed, he remembered trenches filled with bodies and the scent of death filling his nostrils. Blood, reeking of copper, dripped down his muzzle in those dreams, In those dreams, he was no herbivore.
Spurred by the iron taste of liquid life, he thrust his muzzle towards the ground, sniffing like a hound. Needing more. Needing more of that delicious feast of scarlet.
In those dreams, he was strong and valiant, levitating his spear, thrusting it into the bodies of faceless enemies that rushed towards him. Brainless, faceless bodies, machine more than equine, churning towards him. Holey, black limbs soared towards him there, charges of green magic directed towards him, the only living thing in this graveyard of souls...
He tried to remember more, but there were only the dreams, the dreams of death and war, and the taste of blood and flesh, delicious and filling...
~
The first thing he realized was that he was warm. There were no daggers of ice stabbing into his flesh here. There were no icicles hanging from his muzzle, clinking merrily against each other as he weakly lifted his head. He exhaled once, his own breath an evermore-pleasant sensation of vital warmth. The stallion coughed once and, slowly but surely, creaked his eyes open.
Crystals.
Here—wherever here was—there was nothing but crystals. Jewels. Gems. Enough to feed an entire horde of dragons several centuries over.
Purple amethysts, blue sapphires, red rubies, green emeralds, and white diamonds jutted out from his surroundings at every angle. From the ground. From the ceiling. From the sides of the "walls" of his limitless expanse. He blinked, certain he was dreaming.
He shakily stood on all four hooves and gazed about the cavern. The walls, ceiling, and ground appeared to be as gray as his coat. The mouth of the cavern yawned in the distance, leading into a void as black as his mane. In his immediate vicinity were the crystals, shining brilliantly without light, glistening like stars below the sky.
Beside himself, he felt the hint of a smile curl its way across his muzzle. He trotted into the open, relishing the warmth. Without a flame and without a sun, he warmed his freezing marrow, silently thanking whatever gods had spared him.
"Maybe the crystals are keeping this cave warm?" he wondered aloud. He rubbed his horn, which was still incredibly sore, his touch rewarded with a wince of deep-seated pain. Any thought of teleportation, light, or fire was cast aside. He was far too weak.
The stallion had only trotted a few more tentative hoof-steps when his visitor arrived.
WHOOSH!
A black, figureless shadow erupted from the ground in front of him, soaring towards the ceiling.
"Aaah!" The stallion jumped back, eyes wide-open. Landing on his rump, he groaned, then alighted himself to his hooves. Leaning forward on his hindhooves in a defensive stance, he called out into the cavern, "Who's there?!"
A low, throaty chuckle answered him.
He shot his gaze towards the ceiling. There, the shadow configured itself into a strange form, then shot back to the ground. Landing on its limbs, the thing turned its "head" towards the stallion.
Made entirely of shadow, the thing was neither equine, nor not-equine. Its "head" was pony-shaped, with two oddly shaped horns jutting out from its "skull". Four limbs kept it on the ground, but only one of them was recognizably a hoof. Both a mane and spikes jutted from the thing's "spine." A fanned, reptilian tail completed its phantasmic visage.
The stallion's throat dropped into his stomach. Remembering courage long forgotten, he forced himself to stand still, gritting his chattering teeth. "W-who are you?!" he demanded, stuttering as he spoke. "W-What are y-you?!"
The shadow smiled with its mouthless maw and laughed. It turned its eyeless face to the stallion. "I am."
"W-what?!" The stallion braced his limbs, his adrenaline pumping furiously through his veins. He concentrated on his runes and was met with a stabbing pain at the base of his horn. He groaned, rubbing at his horn and tearing his eyes away from the shadow.
"Your magic will not save you," the shadow said.
The stallion met the eyeless being's gaze slowly. "W-what are you?" he said, a little quieter this time, knowing that any further attempts at spellcasting would be useless. He would have to rely on his hooves.
A strange thought graced his mind, piercing through his amnesia. If only he'd had his spear...
"Perhaps I should ask you the same question," the shadow answered, almost playfully.
Before the unicorn could answer, the shadow of a pony-not-pony snaked around him, reflecting its reptilian roots. "But I already know what you are. Do you?"
"I..." He hesitated. Why was he answering a monster? "Reveal yourself!" he shouted weakly. Nevertheless, his voice echoed throughout the cavern and off the crystals, ricocheting into his eardrums. He cried out in pain and cringed at last, bringing his forehooves to his ears.
The shadow chuckled. "Your own voice hurts you, for it is a traitor's voice."
He shook his head violently, trembling with fright. "No! You're lying!"
"Am I?" The shadow sidled up to him. He felt an impossible chill brush against his cheek, sending numbness tingling down his spine. The shadow was stroking his cheek tenderly, as a lover would. The shadow chuckled again, then made a noise as if it clicked its tongue. "Does 'Regent Shadow, Captain of the Royal Guard,' ring any bells?"
Waves of nausea washed over the stallion. He clutched at his ears, tugging at them. He smashed his muzzle into the ground, answering in the negative with every furtive shake of his head. "No! No! You're lying!" he called out, growing more despondent by the minute.
An ethereal hoof of pure ice forced his muzzle upwards, making him stare into the eyeless face of the shadow. "Regent Shadow, Captain of the Royal Guard. Commander of a hundred battles. Right-hoof stallion of Princess Celestia. The most feared and respected Captain to take up the sigil."
In the grasp of the pony-not-pony, Regent Shadow froze.
The phantasm continued, its words hanging thickly amongst the cavern of glistening gems, "Regent Shadow, Captain of the Royal Guard, only survivor of the regiment that battled the first Changeling invasion of Canterlot. Though, it won't be the last."
Regent swore upon all his worthless vows that the shadow-beast smiled, fangs shining in the dark.
"Regent Shadow, who, after watching his brothers die, took up hooves against the rest of his Guard, and slaughtered many in his wake..."
"N-no!" Regent clamped his forehooves over his ears, wrestling out of the shadow's icy grip. "No! No! Liar! You're a LIAR!"
"Regent Shadow, who, in the sight of his own Princess, slew her most faithful servants..."
"LIAR! LIAR!"
"Regent Shadow, who, in a strange, insatiable lust, drank the blood of his victims, stacking their bodies high as a tower to touch the skies..."
"DEVIL! DEVIL! YOU'RE THE DEVIL!"
The shadow laughed, laughed, laughed. Cruel and hollow, it released the monster in its tendrils, letting its booming voice pierce the heart of its captive. It twisted its tail and threw back its head, full of merriment and joy, as Regent Shadow prostrated himself on the ground, baring his brains beneath the Silent.
Regent Shadow began to sob, sob, sob. He remembered everything at once—every breaking bone, every snapping sinew, every slitted throat, every drop of sweet, red ambrosia dripping down his fangs. He remembered the thrill and elation of the first kill, of watching the innocent's life drain before his eyes, just as the Changelings had done to his comrades, his brothers, his friends, his everything.
The shadow winked its eyeless eye, and before Regent Shadow appeared the form of a great beast. Mighty and foreboding, it was the sum of ten beasts, and its voice was the roar of thunder.
It was Old Scratch himself, the betrayer of legend. The Devil.
"Regent Shadow," continued the Devil, grinning madly, "who was sentenced to exile in the frozen north, the uncharted territory, the tomb of ice. Regent Shadow, whose magic was cursed to betray him on first cast. Regent Shadow, who was destined to die an agonizing death, and be denied the peace his victims deserved.
"Regent Shadow, who lies motionless on the frozen tundra above, rather than in the caverns of gemstones below."
The stallion ceased his sobbing and looked up into the face of the Devil, tears rolling down his cheeks. "I am—I am dead?"
The Devil laughed. "Indeed, you are." Regent began to protest. The Devil held up a paw and a talon to stop him. "As am I. However, my tomb is made of stone, while yours is made of ice."
Regent Shadow felt all shade drain from his muzzle.
The Devil laughed again, striding around the stallion in taunting, endless circles. Upon this, Regent noticed that the monster's body appeared to be translucent—as was his own. Lifting a forehoof to his face, Regent gasped, staring straight past it to the floor.
"Yes, Regent, you are dead. You are dead, lying lifeless and frozen on the tundra above. Nopony shall mourn you, for you are a monster."
The beast stopped in front of Regent, grabbing his muzzle and lifting it to meet his wild yellow eyes. "As am I."
Before Regent Shadow could respond, the Devil, by some unseen force, began to levitate the pair of them towards the gem-jetted ceiling. He smiled, rows of molars and fangs sending shivers through Regent Shadow. "Now is where the great choice begins, Regent. As long as I am here, you cannot die. Once I leave, you shall become nothing, returning to the nothing from whence you came.
"Unless..."
"Unless?" Regent Shadow asked, clutching to the Devil as he and his invisible angels began to fly them higher and higher, towards the ceiling of his prison, towards eternity.
"Swear your allegiance to me," said the Devil, "and I will not only give you all of this..." He gestured to the endless caverns of priceless gemstones, which were brilliant in the dark. "But I shall give you power that you would have never dreamed of wielding, power that even that foul Celestia herself shall fear."
Regent paused, staring straight into the eyes of the Devil, no soul reflected in any four of their pupils.
They hovered there for a few minutes, inches beneath stalactites of diamond, emerald, ruby, sapphire, and amethyst.
At last, Regent said, "I give you my soul."
A wide, toothy smile. And then, with a whir of darkness and light, Regent Shadow began to fall again, falling, plummeting, soaring towards the ground, towards the awaiting stalagmites, spears raised high to meet the traitor...
~
The stallion blinked, his vision obscured by the swirl of a blizzard churning around him.
Weakly, he rose to his hooves, shivering, shaking. Had it all been a dream?
"Regent!"
He spun around.
There, in a fine coat of red velvet and white fur dotted with black soot, stood the Devil, his visage great and terrible against the expanse of white graveyard. Around his neck was wrought an impressive amulet forged from the strongest iron. Its shape was that of a great, gray alicorn with rubies for eyes.
Regent stepped forward, grunting and groaning, pressing against the relentless winds.
Each step was the greatest distance he'd ever marched, but he marched it still, one step first, and then another, and then another.
Crossing an impossible threshold, the traitor and the Devil finally met, muzzle-to-muzzle.
"Now, live out my word," commanded the Devil.
Regent took a step back, confused. "H-how...?"
With a flick of the Devil's muzzle, the coat draped across Regent's back and the amulet snapped around his neck.
In the rivers of his veins and arteries came a rapid boil, a tempest of fire proliferating through his blood. Regent Shadow threw back his mane and screamed, collapsing to the ground, prostrating himself before his new master. Warmth and heat and light and darkness blinded his vision, blinded his mind, spreading across his limbs and through his horn and his mane and coat and tail and hooves and muzzle and eyes, and for a moment there was nothing but pain, pain as he was stretched and tempered, a piece of metal between the hammer and anvil, and for a moment Regent Shadow looked up into the yellow eyes of the Devil himself in a daze, sure he'd made a mistake, and then—
Two pairs of razor-sharp fangs jutted from his gums, making him cry out as they were cut.
His half-shaved mane—trimmed to a military length—grew to a wild, flowing mess of black, a shadow trailing behind him.
His horn grew, doubling in length, darkening to a crimson-orange. The color of flame.
Spines and spikes jutted from his skull, little horns to rival the master one.
His eyes, once a simple gray, became red, and his whites became green.
His limbs were stretched and lengthened, then encased in armor.
Thick plates of armor snaked and entwined around his barrel, his neck, his flanks, thick, flame-forged steel.
Finally, Regent Shadow reared up on his new, strong hindhooves, and roared through the tundra—stallion, wolf, and dragon—as his horn blasted mighty green and purple, twin tendrils of flaming, pure magic racing towards the Heavens, baring his new, soulless, phantasmic form before the eyes of the Silent Most High.
He roared and roared, and with his horn, created a majestic display of green and purple light in the sky, bright enough to be seen as far as Canterlot.
Later generations would call this the "Northern Lights," in their ignorance.
When Regent Shadow ceased at last, he fell down on his hooves in worship before his new master, emboldened by the strength rushing through his phantasmic body. He was both alive and dead, his soulless flesh impenetrable to any blade or any magic, as translucent as the stars.
"Lick your fangs," commanded his Master.
Regent Shadow did. He tasted blood.
He wanted more.
"Rise up."
He did.
"You are no longer Regent Shadow," said the Devil, smirking. "You are a true King, and a true Shadow. King... Sombra."
"Sombra?"
"Yes. For you are no longer of this world," the Devil explained. "Your namesake shall be that of another world."
"Very well."
The Devil smiled. "Repay your debt in blood and gems. For I am coming soon. And when I return, I expect your house to be in order."
The stallion looked around the frozen north, his mane flowing behind him in the unending wind. "House?"
The Devil ignored his question. "You shall find that your magic is stronger than you can imagine now, for I have made you Elohim."
"Elohim?"
"God," said the Devil. "From the crystal, create those who shall build your house. A house fit for a king."
"A palace," the stallion said, grinning.
The Devil smiled in return.
As quickly as he came, Discord disappeared from the frozen north, leaving King Sombra to his work.
With a burst of magic, King Sombra began to carve into the frozen Earth, towards the tunnels below the miles of ice, where the crystals were.
Soon, he would begin to create. He would begin to breathe life into his creations, and make them his slaves and his subjects, for his pleasure and his work.
He would become a true ruler, rivaling the one who'd sent him to die amongst a swarm of endless insects.
And Equestria would soon know him again, great and terrible, by another name.
