The undead lay dying upon the steps of the cathedral of Anor Londo, fabled city of the gods.
I am afraid. The knowledge should have embittered him, but instead he felt nothing. He had known fear before, and even death was an experience he had come to see as inevitable, but never before had he understood the gnawing desolation of lost hope.
I must live. I must carry on. I must try again. So he had said every time he had fallen, struck down by monsters and malformations with strength or cunning that far exceeded his own—or by simple ill-luck. But every time was harder. Every time cost him a little bit more, until he could feel the edges of his mind begin to fray and the very essence of his body start to drift apart. And each time he knew was closer to the last.
His shield lay discarded beside him. The bastard sword he once wielded was lost to the cavernous depths that loomed astride the Cathedral's gleaming promenade, claimed by the pale demon he had sent hurtling over the edge... along with half of his arm. A thin trail of red marked where he had dragged himself to the steps, blood and worse streaking and staining the marble. He could still feel it leaving him; a slow, quiet pulse of the heart proclaiming the final moments of his life as it poured out of him to run and pool at the base of the stair. Soon, the crimson cataract would be all that was left to tell of his passing. At least I shall feel the warmth of the flame again, one last time. The undead struggled to raise his head as he gazed out across the twilight city. Every piece of architecture spoke of enormity and elegance, and all of it was as erroneous as the radiant, perpetually setting sun that framed the horizon, its rays falling wan upon the gold-washed buildings. A facade, he thought morosely. All of it, just an illusion. This city has been dead for an eternity.
He reached beneath his heavy plate for the medallion he wore about his neck, grasping it with his one remaining hand, trembling and bloody. A faint symbol of the sun was emblazoned on either side. It felt warm to the touch, and the undead took comfort in the heat. Many times he had held it as he waited for death to find him once more; it renewed his determination, filling him with memories of comrades and sunlight. But one by one, those memories had faded as surely as his companions. Try as he might to hold on to them, they slipped through his fingers like so many blades of grass swept up by the wind. Who he was, where he had come from, why he fought... even the name of the one who had bequeathed him the medallion he cherished had long since fled. They seemed so near, like the wisps of a dream, and he assured himself that he would recall them all once he awakened from the fire. But they never returned.
“I am hollowing.” Even hearing the words aloud, in his own voice, he could barely remember why they filled him with so much dread. It would not be long before he was yet another empty husk, doomed to await the ending of the world in continuous hunger. “Please,” he beseeched the empty sun. “Do not let this be in vain.” Do not let the light die out...
“It is a cruel world that would forge a sun of lies,” a voice echoed in his mind. “And a crueler fate that you must never know its true warmth and light.”
The undead looked around, bewildered. Who is it that speaks to me? As if in answer, a figure appeared before him, blazing and resplendent. A soothing stillness seemed to surround it. The figure was bathed in a light so powerful that the undead had to shield his eyes with his hand. He could make out wings as white as snow, and a veil of shimmering, surging color that coalesced as it approached. An angel, he thought. The incandescent being stopped and knelt beside him, and its brilliance diminished ever so slightly. The undead moved his hand away to look. No...
“A unicorn,” he whispered, awestruck.
She was looking at him with large, sad eyes. How he knew it was a she, he could not say, but he had not a doubt that it was so. Is she real? Am I... dead? He reached out with his hand, ever so carefully, and when he touched the heat of her coat he could not understand it. The words came disbelieving from his mouth. “Who... are you?”
“I am that to which you pray.” The words did not seem to come from her mouth so much as he simply felt them within his mind. “Or rather, that as it should have been. My name is Celestia.”
Her voice sounded melodious as it reverberated within him. “The princess of the sun—is it you?” he asked in astonishment. “The gods... it is true. You are real.”
“God? No, I am simply one among many who can see further than most.”
“I do not understand,” the undead said.
“I know.” The unicorn smiled sadly. “There is much even I do not understand, and little time to explain it.” A vision slowly bloomed in his mind as she spoke, of a universe vast and unending. “There are worlds beyond number and name,” she continued. “This is but one of millions. It is a land lost to time, with a false sun carved by false lords.”
Her words left him confused and conflicted, but he tried to accept them. He saw no other choice. “False it may be, but it is the only sun we have,” he murmured.
“And for that, I am truly sorry.” She gazed into his eyes. “I cannot give you the redemption you seek, young one. There is an abnormal power here, dark and deceiving, and its manipulation runs deep. I am afraid that I have no influence in a land such as this, a land beyond the reach of the sun. What you see of me is just an image, a conception. A collection of ruminations.”
“A daydream.”
“No, I am more than that. I am a part of your imagination, yes, but one that is more real than any you have felt before.” She looked above her, and the undead followed her gaze to the golden orb in the sky. “I am more the sun than that which you have known.”
But you cannot help us. “I see.” The undead tried to keep his voice calm as he asked, “What then is to become of us, and this land?" What is to become of me? “We have tried to keep the fires lit, but we are failing.” The fires that devour all they touch, until nothing is left but darkness and cold. “I fear for my world, and my people.”
“Yours is a strange world,” the pony said. “That which gives you light and hope, so too does it create darkness, death, and despair.” She frowned. “You humans... you create disparity wherever you go. I do not know if that distinction you carry will prove to be a blessing or a curse.”
The undead spoke with conviction. “That disparity—it is our birthright, and our responsibility. There can be no dark without light, my princess.”
Celestia shook her head. “I am afraid that is where you are deceived. The darkness will remain. And the light, your fires... they are dying. Time in this world is twisted. Restive and unsure. A mere chance could decide the fate of all. Even now, I sense there are those of you who strive to keep the fires alight just a little bit longer. And who knows? Maybe they will succeed.” She looked to the sun once more, glowing overhead. “But every light can be put out. How long until one amongst your number decides to extinguish them forever?”
The thought filled him with unease. “If one were to do such a thing, it would doom us all.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps not. I cannot say. But the way you speak of your humanity, of that incessant contrast that you have inherited, gives me pause. The light feeds the darkness within you, ceaselessly, and it furthers nothing but to make the dark more insatiable. Your world has known nothing but a constant limbo of twilight and phantasm for so long. Maybe it is time to finally relinquish it to darkness.”
He looked at her as one stricken, eyes wide and imploring. “What you ask, to give up fire, and light, to give up the sun... Could you do it?”
The princess looked away. “I am no stranger to the dark,” she said quietly. “Nor to those who have fallen to it. The dark can consume, yes... but it can also cleanse, and renew, and pave the way for even brighter creations. It may be that that is the very salve your world so desperately needs: a chance to begin anew.”
The undead pondered the pony's words for a long time. “Then everything I have struggled for, everything I have sacrificed, it has all been for nothing,” he said at last.
“None who would give all they have for the betterment of their world do so in vain.” The unicorn touched him with a hoof crowned in golden glory, and the undead could feel wondrous heat and light flow into his body. It felt like the light of hope. “It is up to each of us to know when our intentions may be misguided, so that we may correct them. But it is for the future that we all strive, each in our own way. I cannot think of a worthier cause.”
“Yes. Yes... I-” A spasm of pain took hold of him, choking off his words. He could do nothing but writhe in quiet agony and wait for it to pass as the princess looked on in sorrow, a hoof rested gently upon his shoulder. And then it was gone, as suddenly as it had come. The undead looked to the pony glowing beside him. His breath came short and ragged. “I... I will be gone soon,” he managed finally.
Celestia bowed her head. “Yes. I am sorry.”
“Do... do not be. Please, there is something... something I would give to you.” He fumbled at the hemp about his neck with a failing hand, pulling it away with a sharp tug. He placed the warm pendant in the hoof she offered. “This has been my most cherished possession. Please, look after it for me. And there is... one other thing.” The unicorn watched him, and to her it seemed as though he were reaching inside himself; inside, and searching for something hidden and treasured. He pulled away a trembling hand, and there in his palm rested a small black brilliance, humming with energy. She watched in amazement as it floated from his hand and came to rest upon the medallion she held in her hoof.
The princess looked at the tiny sprite. It was as black as coal or the night sky, but somewhere amidst a swirling, indefinite edge, she thought she could see a glimmer of the purest white. “It is beautiful,” she whispered. “But, I am afraid I do not know what it is...”
“Me.” The undead smiled, though the effort it cost him was great. “What little I have left.” As he spoke, the sprite seemed to dissolve into the medallion, merging with it. The pendant brimmed with a pulsing radiance, black and grey and white, and it was full of heat and warmth.
Celestia looked at the dying undead, tears in her eyes. “I am sorry that I can offer you no more comfort than words,” she said softly.
“You have given me more comfort than I could ever hope for,” he answered. “I spent my life in service to the sun, but never did I dream that I would feel its touch against my skin. You have given me hope... hope that, even if this world must face the dark, there are a thousand others where the sun still shines. Maybe... maybe one day I will see a world such as that, in another place, another time... another life.” He grimaced with pain. “And maybe... maybe this world can find its rest in darkness. We all must sleep, in the end. All I ask of you, my princess... all I... all I ask, is that we are not forgotten.”
“The sun takes care of its own,” Celestia said. “I promise you, the light will live on in a billion other hearts. And I promise, so long as I live... you will not be forgotten.”
“Thank you...” The undead nodded, closing his eyes. “Now please, go. I do not wish you to see what will become of me...”
Celestia murmured her assent, and allowed the vision of herself to fade from the undead's sight as she left the world of the false sunlight behind.
***
She opened her eyes, in Equestria once more. Celestia rose, and padded softly to the open window, where her sun blazed gloriously in the sky above. She looked at the medallion she still clutched in her hoof, glowing with the light and warmth of a soul.
“I promise,” the princess of the sun whispered. “You will never be forgotten.”
