Chapter 1: Iginition

It is important to remember that it only takes one spark to start a fire.  The flames of adventure burn so brightly that it beckons to those who see and follow its call - and the reward of peace then befalls the community.  But his story wishes to break this tradition.

Enter a stallion who wore a cold skin.  Perchance one to look at this fellow - the very thought of it unpleasant to most, only a brave soul dared - then one would predictably wish to veer off into a second evil.  Age twenty proved to be his age; though his mentality argued a greater year.  Twenty-seven was a time that was far from his early years but still not sagaciously mature... in a land between two worlds.  Never one or the other.  Ampere Van Current was his name.

At quite the early age of five, he witnessed the raping of his mother and the consequent death thereof.  She was the last jewel that he held in his life.  His father had left him earlier.  On that fateful, rainy day he stood at the top of the hill of courage, for he followed the stallion that was responsible for his mother's death.  The stallion dragged the lifeless body of his mother to a ditch, cursed, and hurriedly left the scene.  Standing from the hill of courage, Ampere looked down upon his mother.  While still standing atop the hill, he rushed to greet his front hoof with his mother's cheek.  Cold.  He had not cried yet - in all actuality, he could not tell if he was crying or not.  The rain acted as a magnification for his tears.  They dripped from his eyes as they landed on his face, mixing with his native tears.  The darkness of the clouds acted as a symbol of his pain.  The mud acted as a translator for explaining his pain.  That his world was slowly falling apart and melting.  This recipe proved well into producing the thickest substance known to ponies:  cold isolationism.  The author is disputed, but one could say Nature or a mad pony.  In the end, there is no difference.

After feeling his mother's cheek, he moved his face to nuzzle hers.  Cold.  He looked at the lifeless body again.  Two minutes passed.  His coat was beginning to be drenched in rain - pain - and cold.  He tried burying his mother by digging a hole but a wave of mud prevented its completion.  His mother still lay there, lifeless.  He tried to drag her into the house but he slipped, fell, and hurt his knees.  It was the mud's fault.  He received a cut on his third fall and then began to cry from the pain; again, in all actuality the rain had mixed in with his tears and could not be differentiated... he had begun moments before.  He decided to quit his task and then sprinted for the house - whilst crying...  When he arrived just inside the door, he bolted under the table, as if hiding, and began to cry in full force.  He placed his hooves over his head and then began to lament on the act.  Why him?  Why?  What did he do?  Where was Princess Celestia?  After a minute or so, his tears did not stop but his heart slowly quelled.  He cried himself to sleep.  For a moment, he ignored his wetness as depression took hold of his heart.  Ironically, it gave him warmth from the cold.  A warmth that was not easily forgotten.

When he awoke, he found himself in bed, neatly tucked in.  There was a chair which belonged to the kitchen that was in his room... with a bowl of still warm soup.  Until age twenty-one, he would not learn who was responsible for such miracle of kindness.