The King

by ironwolf

Rating: teen
Tags: Dark, Sad, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, King Sombra, Romance, Tragedy
Length: 7754

The tragic story of King Sombra.

The story of Sombra's struggle to save the Crystal Empire, of his great loss and of his downfall. It takes place before the disappearance of the Empire.

Story co-written by my friend Starlight.

Rated 'teen' because it contains violence.

WARNING: Contains baroque-like writing style. Yes, it was intentional.

If you see a way to improve the story (grammar, choice of words, etc.) please visit https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Z0EKKeO8CeTt1kOu2AP65t3dPz8VpuVjHCZr-2XDGPk/edit

Published 2014-03-03 21:00:04 UTC
Last updated 2014-03-05 17:02:22 UTC

Phobos

Waiting for the final resolution is the worst. Strolling through empty chambers that echo the sound of my steps. I know those corridors. I could walk through each and every hall without even opening my eyes. For others, the non-participants of this story, the stony interior of the Castle might seem empty, ascetic, maybe even crude. Stripped of all life.

For me, though, those are treasuries. From the polished marble to arched domes, full of memories as beautiful as the painted stars gazing at me from the white plasters of the ceiling. I can still recall the days when these corridors were vibrating with life, with twitter of conversations and the brilliance of the age of our greatness.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with a sudden shiver. Suddenly and quickly as if the ceiling of my bedroom was gone and the warm, summer rain poured inside. I rush hastily through the lit halls, seeing so many faces close to my heart, the streams of light shining through colorful stained-glass windows, merging into a single flow of boundless joy. I reach the steps of the throne room and bow my head in front of the radiant majesty of our Empress. The ruler of my heart.

Tis’ but a mere illusion. A lie. A deception creeping under my eyelids to jeer at my fate. I turn my gaze away from the throne enveloped in darkness – a throne that has been empty for such long a time. The halls are once again flooded with darkness, filled with a dead vortex of shadows. They are devoid of a single friendly soul.

Nopony is around.

I wear away back to my chamber, overwhelmed by the burden of my fate. When did these walls become my prison, from which I cannot let myself free? Do I linger within them for so long because I cannot cope with the passing of those, who I have loved stronger than anyone has a right to love? Is that a reason why I creep around the castle like a phantom, never to be at rest again?

Maybe it is not like that.

Maybe it is the punishment for all my crimes, to be able to watch till the end of my days the last breaths and slow decay of a country I never wanted to rule? I loved it so, I gave it all of my days. My joy, my pain, my glory and my shame. I have done everything a mortal could to protect it from disasters, so I did not have to behold the sight of what is now illuminated by the moonlight.

I have taken up a burden that others have feared to even touch with their eyes. I did all of this against my will for the good of all those that could not defend themselves from the barbaric anger of our enemies. Could I have refused, gazing into the wide-opened, fearful eyes of children? Could I have defected while listening to the whining of hundreds upon hundreds of widows, orphans, husbands without their wives and the elderly mourning their offspring?

No. I could not.

Nevertheless, it can no longer mold the gaping ravine in my heart. The days when I gazed upon the borders of my dominion, proudly observing the fruit of my unbroken will, are long gone. What good comes from the statues carved in crystal, treasuries full of jewels and armories illuminated by the shining, panzer scales of masterfully crafted breastplates? It all seems to be a mere childish trifle, like building a fortress out of sticks and sand at the shore of an endless ocean.

I have this certainty that my story is over. Soon the string of my life will be cut in half by a brilliant ray of cold light. The Empire will go with me, once radiant with glamour and fortune. An Empire that stood strong for hundreds of years against countless raids. All of that was about to end, to fall into a bottomless abyss of oblivion.

The dawn is coming.

I go out before the daylight for the last time, observing from the height of the castle’s spire all that was left of the Empire. One day the authority of the Empress was so great that the shining of crystal towers of the farthest cities seemed to be merely stars hanging just above the horizon. Now I can see how many figures stand guard by the city gate. If I squinted I probably could have recognized the silhouettes of particular soldiers. There were not many left to garrison the proud capital that has never even been surrounded by a single ring of walls. Never, even in the most terrible nightmares, has anypony expected that the proud Empire would someday shrink to the pitiful patch of land surrounded by dead, frozen wastelands.

The sun is ponderously climbing the firmament.

I can already see the sisterly silhouettes of my fate. Phobos and Deimos, Fear and Averse, are coming from a distant land to take away the last bit of my distant memories. The end of nights spent on the hard flooring at the feet of an empty throne, begone shall be the tears and blasphemies that only the fleeing shadows could hear.

According to all the books gathered by my ancestors the Empire has never fallen. It fought, on its knees if need be, bleeding from dozens of lacerations dealt to it by jaundiced enemies. The steel-clad regiments stood their ground to the last under the fluttering banners to oppose the advance of forces that knew neither fatigue nor mercy. Step by step we fell back deeper and deeper, defending our slender strongholds to the last living knight.

Nopony surrendered.

It shall not be any different this time. Let the Empire go to battle for the last time, holding the shield against devastating impacts of enemy swords! I can already hear the trumpets and the thunder of obediently marching armor-clad regiments. In the pink rays of daybreak the spearheads shine, casting around their bloody halos.

This day the dying Empire shall share the fate of its ruler, who is now- for the last time- looking at his past.

Odium

The freezing wind blinded everypony in the same way, both the high-born knights, who marched proudly at the head of the column, the commoners, the low-born spearponies and axeponies, the cooks, as well as those, against whom this armed column marched against. Nopony, though, thought about the frost, the snow getting between the slits in their armor or their stiffening limbs.

Nopony’s gaze graced the exhausted figures falling at the side of the road. There was no future left for them, no struggles with the barbarians, no return in the glory of unfolded banners. Nearly shapeless silhouettes fell to the soft snow, welcoming the liberation from pain and fear. How simple a choice it was. All one had to do was to stop believing in victory, give in to the wave of doubt and embrace the deceiving warmth of the fluffy featherbed of snow accumulating at the side of the courtyard and to fall asleep for a little while, giving ones last breath. The brothers in arms only reached awkwardly to grab the abandoned coats and kept walking only to fall a little further.

For those that lived long enough to partake in supper awaited much worse a fate then an eternal, painless sleep. Gathered in silence around huge fires, shooting fountains of purple sparks into the air, they kept looking at each other with empty eyes. Faces without expressions used to have names once, used to, under a mask of feelings, hide a beating heart, ready to either love or hate. Now their muscles coagulated from cold and cruelty, their faces frozen in single grimaces, like a theatric masks. This whole grotesque troupe, covered with chain armor and gripping their weapons, waited restlessly for the break of dawn. If the troubled soldiers thought that nine days and nine nights of strenuous march through the frozen wastelands of the Empire was a road to a deepest abyss, then they certainly thought of the coming battle as an infinite void, where the rivers are full of blood and the mountains are formed entirely of dismembered corpses.

In a spacious tent standing in the middle of the encampment similar thoughts have troubled the mind of the future king.

Although he was believed to be the bravest of the brave, his devotion for the just cause of the Empire knew no equal, he fought the cruelest battle of them all. How much easier a battle with the barbarians seemed to be. He would have hundredfold preferred to stand at the vanguard and charge to meet his fate eye in the eye. There, in the foul heat of battle, his uncertainties would have melted, he would have cleansed his guilt with the vaporizing blood of the enemy. For these few hours he would not have to battle the forces he could not comprehend, against which a sharp sword was for naught.

For how many years has the Empire been the victim of powerful blows that reason could not explain? Firstly, groups of terrified refugees coming from the south, bringing terrible news of war fought between the tribes from faraway lands. He took these rumors lightly at the beginning, knowing full well, that the Empire’s border is well defended by a number of strongholds garrisoned by seasoned and valorous knights. But the defenseless groups of refugees were soon followed by hordes of starving barbarians. As long as the battles were nothing more than skirmishes fought with groups of reavers counting on easy loot they did not give the Empress much of a concern.

The captain sighed thinking about her. Some of the ice covering his heart melted immediately, changing into a distant, faint smile. She was the incarnation of the whole Empire locked in a delicate body, gifted with so many virtues that it was hard to believe that such beings grace this troubled earth with their presence. It was her wise rule that kept the Empire bound together. When she appeared before her subjects, speaking from a balcony of the castle tower, all of them became silent and listened as if they were enchanted. Which knight, scholar, citizen, or even a member of one of the lowest states would not have given his life for her? They all would and he, the Marshal of the Imperial Armies, would be the first one to do it.

It was no secret for any noble that hearts of these two beat as one. Maybe if the times were different they would have already been united with bounds stronger than steel. Alas, dark clouds were hanging above the Empire since winter began and had no intention of moving away. Chilling manacles did not leave the Empire’s borders, as if fueled by hate that was consuming the hearts of raiders constantly storming the borders. The merciless winter lasted, even as months have passed, blanketing the fields with snow and bringing hunger and disease. What little pieces of the once fertile lands were left have been sown with utmost difficulty. Not enough crops, not enough to feed everypony.
The raiders looked akin to the Empire’s knights. Born from noble blood, learned in both writing and the art of war, they became a worthy opponent of the Empire. Although they used to be divided into separate clans, fighting against one another, now they stood united against the Empire, banished from their lands by specters of hunger and domestic battles. They were said to be led by magi of great prowess, who were compared to the great sages of the Empire. Indeed, they must have wielded awesome powers, because the undefeatable regiments of the Empire began to suffer defeats even against much smaller opposing forces. Was it because of the hunger, the weather, the skill of their commanders, or their wizardry? It did not matter.

The bordering castles were taken by force and the citizens of the Empire, thus far living in peace, have felt the deathly breath of war upon their necks. The Empress, once aglow with happiness, now torn apart by doubt, was roaming the throne room trying to find a way to save the serf of her endangered feudum.

Let the blood of our knights buy enough time for our subjects – boomed the future king with all force he could muster, unaware of his fate – we will break through their lines, reach the borders and cut their forces in half. Let us give them a choice, to attack further with no food, so the Grandmasters’ regiments would crumble them to dust, or to turn to us, concealed behind the high walls!

And so it came to be, and the coming day when the fate of the whole Empire was to be decided, for failure would leave the whole country nigh undefended from further raids.

That was the enemy the Captain was facing.

Hyperion

At dawn two great forces stood across from one another, akin to wild animals flexing their muscles before the leap. The winter sun illuminated long walls of metal, spears and swords held high. Their steel helmets have been covered by icicles that covered the knights’ heads like grim fangs, breaking with each move. The soldiers readied themselves by scanding battle hymns, that collided in the middle of the snow covered plain, fighting a battle of their own.

Who was louder?

Who blew the horns stronger?

Multicolored banners fluttered in the wind, presenting themselves proudly in the golden sunrays. The world has never seen such an enormous battle before, where on but one side hundreds of thousands of swords, spears, axes and crossbows stood strong.

The mask of indifference adorning each and every Empire’s soldiers was now melting like snow confronted with a warm breath. The widened pupils captured every detail, as if that moment was to be their final image before they gave in to the battle frenzy that will not abandon them until nighttime, or until a hostile swing will strike them to the ground, unmoving and lifeless.

Suddenly quiet reigned above the field. The singing stopped. Swords ceased hammering against the shields. Only the cracks of bows and bowstrings broken by frost interrupted the grim silence. Nobody counted for how long the armies eyed one another with gazes full of hatred and contempt. Just a day before, when the Empire’s regiments marched to their fate, such a long pause would mean death, but now the blood in warrior’s veins was boiling, going through their heads, not allowing them to die before they could kill at least one barbarian.

At last the huge horns were blown and soldiers, step after step, began marching through crumbly snow. The bolts hissed through the air, breaking through fragile armor with ease and embedding themselves deep in the flesh. Nobody turned their head, the warriors walking over the corpses of both dead and wounded. Even if the most faithful ally fell it bore less importance than closing the distance, thrusting the speartip between the plated collar and the helmet’s edge and then tearing away the blood-soaked blade.

With a deafening roar two armies collided in a murderous embrace, cutting, thrusting, hacking and chopping. The axes fell forcefully, breaking the shields into splinters, making way for the thin swords. The crossbows’ strings were tensed time after time, sending clouds of biting bolts, their owners hidden behind the burrowed pavises. The impasse lasted for a long time until finally the middle of the Empire’s forces seemed to start faltering. The first lines broke formation and retreated to their own. The thundering war cry of the enemy nearly outrun the fleeing soldiers clad in golden armor and it would have been the beginning of an end of the battle if the first rows of the Empire’s army consisted of their finest warriors.

The obedient regiment of imperial knights was already on the move to face the enemy. They marched firmly upon the now hardened snow, covering themselves with long shields, freezing the enemies with their stares from behind the small slits in their winged helmets. With blows of their maces they made way for their powerful swings, smashing the golden plates of their opponents’ armor, pushing the offensive deep into their lines.

The knights marched on, not minding the hits they suffered and leaving only a tangled mass of corpses behind. The snow was gone, molten by hot streams of blood, creating crimson puddles in which the battle reigned on. The fallen warriors mustered their daggers and crawled towards one another only to push the blades through their foes’ still-beating hearts. When their weapons failed them, they would strangle each other, suffocating and crushing.

Nobody cried for mercy, knowing that it was never to come. Madness ruled the realms that day, turning those kindest of heart into blood-thirsty monsters. So what that the eyes you looked into were the same as yours? How were you different? If it wasn’t for orders wouldn’t you prefer to peacefully sit by the same, amply set table?

No!

It is better to dim the light of these demonic eyes with one swift blow. To break this snake’s neck before it bites, cut its hideous head off and break each of its venomous fangs. No mercy for murder, no justice, save for the one dealt with the executioner’s sword.

Today all of the Empire’s warriors have the right to be executioners. The thought raises their spirits, gives them wings, and turns the battle into a bloodbath. Nobody escapes their merciless gaze. It’s payback for hunger, diseases and frost, revenge taken for those chased away from their towns, well-deserved compensation for the brothers and fathers that are to come back home no more.

Nopony can match the one who leads the Empire’s warriors to battle in the very heart of inferno. The other nobles look to him with envy, as their leader smites another foe with ease. He is immediately confronted by another two, his shield cracking under murderous cuts, but he is already preparing his next strike. He is immune to their blows, the bolts bouncing harmlessly off his armor’s hardened plates, the enemies seem paralyzed under his gaze. He marches arm to arm with the Empire’s finest, but he is the first among the equals. His blade falls again and again, cutting him a way towards the hostile banners.

At last, after hours of murderous exertion, the enemy flees, showing its back. They abandon the fight, along with unwieldy shields. Whole groups of once proud barbarians run away from the Empire’s forces.

There is no strength left for pursuit. Some die of suffered wounds and fatigue, but they die in the glory of their victory. Their triumph shall not be taken away. The generations to come will praise their sacrifice.

The aftermath of the battle is frightening. Dead bodies are lying all around, frozen to the bone, locked in deathly embrace, trying to take their opponents’ lives even after death. The plates have frozen to the cooling bodies, creating a macabre carpet that is impossible to miss or ignore. The glasslike eyes seem to gaze at the retreating soldiers with reproach. Why are you still alive, while we have to stay here for all eternity? The shuffling soldiers, walking slowly to eat and rest, avert their eyes, not being able to stand the accusations of those dead pupils.

Perses

Triumph has a bitter taste, the one that poisons all the sweetness of the successful battles. So what? The Empire has emerged victorious from yet another battle and the powerful army reached the previous border, garrisoning nearly all castles and outposts.

So what?

Three hundred thousand left the capital, only the third is still alive, their banners jagged by war. The rest has fallen to enemies’ onslaught, hunger, diseases and biting frost, sucking out the breath of every living creature. What was the point of this victory, not even delaying the threat of the Empire’s fall? Never-ending winter, with only a couple of months of pale spring, kept lasting, reaping its deathly toll of the hungered and the frozen. Although the barbarians were pushed out of the borders, the Empire grew weaker and weaker.

Bands of reavers circled the snowbound provinces, robbing the leftovers from granaries, abducting the starving cattle and massacring the citizens. Even the former defenders of the Empire have abandoned their orders and pointed their blades against those, whom they have sworn to protect. There was nopony to stop them. They could only be kept at a crossbow’s shot’s distance.

Even among the victorious soldiers, now defending the borders from continuous attack, the battle spirit weakened with each day, mutilated by macabre images of the daily struggle in recaptured keeps. Food was gained aplenty, but it was kept in the armories and disposed in small amounts, sufficient for them only not to die out of exertion.

The frost was unbearable and no firewood was to be found in a radius of many miles. Nopony would have risked such an endeavor anyway, even if it meant finding a miraculously preserved grove. Everything that could sustain the dim fireplace was thrown into the flames. Furniture, floors, ruined houses’ beams, even the hordices hanging over the fortifications, were long since hacked and burned.

Dead bodies were successively thrown on the hideous hills growing in the walls’ shadows. Nobody bothered with proper burials, it would require digging the frozen ground with pickaxes and there were no volunteers, so the corpses were left where they fell in battle. Some of them were already frozen to the cobble and, because they didn’t smell of death, the soldiers just walked around them with indifference. As if the frozen carcasses were nothing out of ordinary. Nopony was surprised by seeing, sticking form under the snowy veil, frozen limbs or nameless visages.

The fruits of their sacrifice were bitter and the Captain knew it all too well. With complete clarity he noticed the things that didn’t bother the thoughts of his subjects. What counted for them was the victory, return to their homes, their clans’ castellums, and a quiet hope for the coming spring. They hoped that, by conquering their enemies, they might have broken the curse looming over the Empire. They have won, they have beaten their foes with all force they could muster, right? The captain was sitting in a chilly chamber. His hope has died long, long ago.

He led his grim gaze over the crystal walls of his billet, observing his own reflections, staring at him with a hundred eyes. What good comes from victory when it is the hunger and not the sword that lays waste to the Empire? Was it not better to burn in the fires of war, on the barricade, while raising a sword before the next blow? So sweet that thought seemed compared to slow, agonizing death of a wilting Empire. For how long will the gathered crops last, locked away tightly in the granaries? A month? Two? Maybe for a whole year will they be able to survive with their heads in the noose of snow and hail. Then a moment will come when the educated citizens will lose their minds and not unlike rabid dogs they will begin to kill their neighbors and sack their homes in search of even the poorest fare. Somepony will at last notice that the flesh of his closest comrade thus far can be bitten off their bones. There will be no Empire then, no knights, no yearly fair in the crystalline shine of the Imperial Spire. There will only be a herd of wildlings being slowly extinguished by the merciless winter.

Why the war? Why, in face of so many disasters, nations so alike have strived so vigorously to cut one another’s throats? Why not join forces, forge an alliance the world has never seen before? How many great feats could have been made if they would all push hate off the pedastal and place peace in its stead?

That is exactly what has kept the Empire alive thus far. The truest magic coming from the feeling of safety and unity has shielded the country from all dangers that were thrown against it by unfavorable fate. Even when the times were bad once a year crowds of citizens would come to the capital to celebrate the Crystal Fair together. It didn’t matter if you have come from the lowlands, or if you had azure blood in your veins. For a few days everypony was equal and servants could speak with masters on the same level.

Now very few still believe in the eternal fair of happiness. The minds were filled with hate and grim determination to survive yet another day and, most of all, freezing cold. It would seem that the citizens of the Empire became just as cool as the crystals they loved so much that they have mined them from beneath the earth. There was neither honesty nor joy in their hearts, only the desire for the murderous winter to drift away to the abyss and for the streams to flow with blood of the invaders.

The knight lifted himself from his seat and leaned his shoulder against the still of a narrow embrasure. Ah! How wonderful would it be to have at ones disposal the powers described by the ancient tomes! To be able to force the sun with one’s mind to stay above the horizon for long enough for all the snow to melt! To be able to force the winds to blow the clouds far beyond the borders and to change the unfertile fields into blossoming orchards! Would it not be the most wonderful gift of fate? Indeed it is said that the very same force supports the aggressors. The Empire would field even twice as many warriors as there were foes and even then they would march onwards without fear. How could one explain their strength if not by wizardry? Maybe if the forbidden gates in the castle’s library were forced open to enter the parts of it available only to the wisest of the Empire’s counselors… Maybe then it would possible to work out from within the secret grimoire a weapon that could shift the vile fate? To find a way for everlasting peace, unity and prosperity for all?

But who would be able to master such arts, even if such tomes were to be found? Are there powers great enough to turn years of hunger into blossoming abundance in a matter of days? Only few knew the answers to those questions. He was not one of them.

Chronos

Upon hearing of the Empress’ illness many an important Empire’s knights have travelled towards the capital. It was a blow so unexpected and shattering that the war at the borders has lost all of its significance. The thinned and weakened banners of the nobles have rushed towards the city, having taken only ponies of their closest retinue, in order to arrive at the crystal halls of the Imperial Castle as soon as they could.

According to the medics skilled in their arts the Empress has suffered from an illness caused by a message concerning her lost, beloved kin, whom – after a sudden death of her sister- she has raised as her own daughter. When confronted with despair and the heavy burden of imperial crown the doctors were helpless, unable to find the remedy. With each day the ruler was weaker than the day before and the unbreakable flame of her will was going out before the medics’ eyes. The balms and potions were for naught, same as filling the rooms with vapour of burnt healing herbs and even an amply set table that would satisfy the imperial court even in the times of welfare did not help.

Alas, the Empress ceased to eat and she drank little, as if she was abandoned by all hope in one instant. Some suspected an evil spell cast by the vile magi leading the barbaric hordes. Whatever the cause might have been, the prospect of an empty throne with no successors was being drawn before the eyes of the counselors, as well as one of the demise of the most noble dynasty that has ever graced the Empire with their rule.

The eyes of many drifted towards a single knight, who stood guard at the ruler’s bedside every night. Nopony knew what they talked about, or if they talked at all, locked behind the locked, thick doors of the imperial bedroom. The medics keeping watch just outside the room did not say a word, only their faces became grimmer with every sunrise, as if they shared the worries of the love-struck pair that, up until then, spread the light of hope among their subjects. Her – by sitting on the throne, ruling wisely and sagely, while he did so by standing firm in the defense of the Empire.

So passed these mournful days when the first among the equals, the Marshall of all the Empire’s banners, sobbed defenselessly, stroking the ever so colder cheek of his beloved. His entire military prowess now seemed for naught, leaving him in a dark void of despair. Despite that he abode unbroken by her bedside, unsuspecting of the jeering fate, which was soon going to place him upon the throne. In those moments he was no longer the Captain of his troops, leading them to victory through a ghostly forest of swords. He was a lonely soul lost among the ruins of a crumbling order of the world as he knew it.

The world itself mattered very little to him, though. He would prefer it a hundredfold to take the place of the Empress on the deathbed awaiting his passing then watching his beloved slowly drift away, watching her life slip away from between her lips with every breath. Did he not suffer enough for the fate to take his last hope away from him?

Whatever he did, he did for her. He transferred his every beautiful thought on paper and sent it through his messengers before her eyes. There was neither victory nor enemy banner that he would not offer before the feet of her throne without awaiting anything in return. How close were they both to living their dream, to having their lifelines sewn into one?

No mischievous courtier wished him ill. His fame went far and wide and the sages saw in him the greatness of the Emperors from the old. The knights chanted his name without hesitation, acclaiming him as their lord, their Captain they loved as a father.

For naught though was that hope, crumbled to dust.

The feeling born between the two hearts was passing away, shaken with shivers of the merciless fate. Despite that it still lingered in their gazes, full of devotion, in the tears slowly flowing down the knightly cheeks and in the softly whispered vows of faithfulness. The imperial medics also sobbed quietly, concealed in the chamber’s niches, unable to withhold the despair, looking at the two lovers whose life turned bitter before it could have tasted its sweetness.

The Fate, following the palace’s halls without haste, has finally caught the bedstruck Empress. It waited, like a shade, next to the moribund, in order to force the last breath out of her breast and to blow out the stubborn ember of her life. Her helpless body fell deeper into the soft bedding. And so went the last Empress, killed by a burden that could not have been withstood by many a king.

The knight by her side did not shed any more tears. He had none left after all those long days. He looked upon the Imperial Insignia with unseeing eyes. They were resting inside an encrusted casket next to one another. He could have put them upon his temples, effortlessly taking the rule among the storm of cheers of his subjects who would have seen him as an avatar of hope, the one capable of saving the dying country. He just shook his head, banishing the vile thought and turned his face back to the posthumous mask of his beloved.

Hekate

For the first time since times forgotten the Empire stood before a difficult choice of picking the Imperial Throne Regent. There was nopony with claim strong enough to be given the Imperial Regalia with whole certainty. The situation was becoming even worse by the hour because the border- heavily fortified up until then- has been breached again by the attackers’ fury. Enemy banners were marching towards the capital, sacking and pillaging as they went. The decimated banners of the Empire have fled before them, hastened by fear of brutal and inevitable death.

In the moments of doubt the Regency Council has decided in favor of an unprecedented step that could have caused a great unrest among the subjects, but at the moment was met with cheers of joy. It was deemed necessary to pass the crown to the one, who stood by the Empress to the very end. The one chosen by Her heart, who, were the times more peaceful, would without a doubt have already ascended to the position by the right of marriage.

He, thought, declined, not being able to cope with bearing the very same crown that was worn by his beloved. After many a reasoning he accepted, assuming the title of King Regent and was ready to rule the Empire until kinder times, when the schooled genealogists could find the rightful heiress to the throne.

With his heart heavy with misery the King took the burden. Although the crown seemed to be cast from lead, he straightened up and went forwards to his subjects. Clad in plate armor and with an ermine cloak sweeping the floor and his dark mane flowing on his shoulders he seemed to be the only pony who could turn the tide of destruction marching towards the capital.

The soldiers, armed with lances, stood in formation yet again. The polished schischak all shined as the sun looked at oneself in their smooth surfaces. They were led by knights- unbroken and strong of will, yet few and decimated. Too little strength was left in their steel hearts to fight off the incoming enemy forces. The city was not fit for defending and the ornate crystal gates were but beautiful arches looming lonely over the roadways. The crystal houses were soon rend asunder and turned into fortifications the city lacked. The razor-sharp crystals, the pride of the Empire, were dug deep in the ground, creating rows upon rows of deadly palisades, soon to be dripping with the raiders’ blood. Everypony who could lift a weapon kept training to the loss of consciousness, learning the art of war.

It was still not enough. What a miserable army it was when compared to the one which marched to meet the enemy not so long ago! Surely the banners of citizens and peasants could not match the hardened troops closing in on the Empire, pushed forward by promise of battle spoils.

Upon seeing that the King went to the palace library at night, accompanied only by an elderly turnkey. Without a single word they have wandered along the sleeping corridors. They have crossed the doorstep of the Forbidden Chamber, which imprisoned power so corrupting and terrible that even the wisest sages feared to mention it.

But it was time to wake the entries from their slumber and to read the forgotten verses. Where they not concealed her from the sight of the foolish ones? Hidden behind the doors so thick that they should not be disturbed not to liberate the forces untamed, ready to consume the heart of the vainglorious who thought he could impose his will on them?

So it was.

But on that day it was not a power-hungry usurper who opened the leather-covered volume. It was a ruler of just cause and humble heart. Fueled by love towards his country. He would not let it fall, even at the price of his own soul. Let the innocence of his heart perish, submerged in the abyss so atrocious that it extinguished the flame of the turnkey’s torch. Darkness was no longer a liability for his pupils, his eyes running along the stanzas written by an unknown warlock.

Suddenly a flame came to being around him, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. The terrified turnkey fled from the gloom that kept pulsing with words, running away from the clawed talons of living shadows.

The King stood his ground without fear, with his head bowed over the lectern. On that frigid night he spoke his demand, one that he did not wish to hide from the entity emerging from the void. He now knew the price of his deed, but he was willing to pay it, to give his heart to the moonless and starless night. Everything in order to protect the legacy of the Emperors of old from the flames of mindless destruction. Even if madness was to consume his mind he would not allow a single raider to glance upon the lifeless form of his beloved.

Before the King’s eyes more and more images emerged, nebulous at first, impossible to make out, but with each moment gaining more of their terrible sharpness. His subjects, put in black chains, stripped of dignity, marching to the dark maw of a mine which was left by emaciated and attenuated slaves pulling wagons filled with crystals. Covered in mud, dust and open wounds, barely able to walk, they go back inside the entrails of hungering abyss, never to see the light again.

Cursed be these visions! He would not allow them to come true! Until the end of his life he would be the bedrock protecting the citizens of the Empire against any foe willing to force them, his serfs, to submission! Even if time itself was to call out for his soul, stopping its course, sending merciless minions to tear him apart, he would not let these images come true.

Charon

And so stands the King, alone on the barricade, against the enemy hosts.

The eyes that used to belong to him now burn with a fire ready to immolate those standing before him. The shadows begin to shiver around him, tearing themselves free from those frozen in fear, and come to life, animated by the dark wizardry. Open jaws full of sharp teeth dig themselves in the panzer breastplates, tearing the metal sheets to pieces without effort. The claws bite into the eyes, blinding their victims. The cries die out quickly, when the throats are finally reached by a tide of warm blood coming from crushed viscera. The knights, seemingly covered with creatures of shadows, shake in a helpless fury, hacking and slicing their own bodies. Their strength is for naught, the darkness flows into their minds through open wounds. Madness falls upon the raiders, now bent in fear before the whirlwind of revenants.

The King steps down from the fortifications, surrounded by a ghastly host of monstrous shapes. Nopony stands in his way. Those brave enough to try and pierce him with their spears suddenly sway and fall down on the ground, where they are impaled by crystals, dark as the night itself, striking from the ground like swords. The world trembles in its foundations when the mocking mirrors, the ridicules of so-beloved imperial crystals, rise from the ground. They are born of hatred and lust for vengeance, it is a war cry of those fallen in battle. Those are the dead that now push the crystal pillars to the surface with their shadowy arms, wanting to taste the battle fervor and the sweet smell of spilled blood once more.

But the shadows do not approach the sages in their long capes, they are able to repel them by summoning the shimmering light. It falls upon the spectral Empire’s warriors and the blood-covered demonic snouts screech in pain.

No! It is a cry of joy!

In a sharp light the shadows only gain sharpness. Now their burning eyes can be easily seen behind their visors of shadows. Without fear they launch themselves at their new victims, dousing the light at its core with a wave of cruelty. There is no force on the battlefield that is able to oppose the Shadow King, his will bending the monstrosities that used to be hidden from the eyes of this world.

The hordes of attackers were smitten to the last. Today nopony will carry news of defeat and weakening Empire. It stands strong, strengthened by its own shadow. The White Crystal shook under the blows dealt by Fate, but the Black Crystal shall not succumb to that fate. The dead bodies swell, torn apart by the very demons that have accompanied them their whole lives. The most faithful companion, one’s own shadow, turns against its owner, taking the semblance of life away from him.

Now they are all equal, devoid of breath, meaning, and flesh.

The tents burn with a colorless flame, turning into ashes, instantaneously blown away by the freezing wind. The knights, running away from their fates, shall not go far. Nopony escaped their own shadow yet. Oh no! Let them have their hope, just as the King had one! A hope for a long life of happiness. Let them run forward, promising in their hearts that they will return to their own castellums, where they will be welcomed by their beloved wives and clusters of children. The King wishes for his victims to feed on the light that they have torn away from him. Then he will release from the leash of his will the demons, raking the blood-soaked soil with their claws.

He watches with a smile on his face as they seize them, tear the helmets off their heads and rip their throats. Let them die. Let them die in uncertainty of their wives’ fates. But they shall not suffer the same fate. The King knows no mercy, but neither does he know cruelty. Even if the voice in his head keeps tempting and enticing him to allow for the carnage to unfold, he denies. He will not send his revenants to feast in cradles and bedrooms. The fury rips his heart. The alien hate against everything that lives tries to force him to submit.

The King falls. The purple coat gets soaked in blood that was shed that day.

He stays strong and suffocates the desire. He lifts himself with toil. Blood floods his eyes, still full of burning anger. He is the Shadow King, he is no servant. He will tame this power and bend it as far as he commands.

He will abdicate and retreat back into shadow.

Deimos

It is in vain to run from one’s destiny.

I could not stop those horrifying images that have revealed themselves to me on that fateful night. I became the torturer of my own subjects, their savior and oppressor. How naive I was to think that I could bind that power with my own will, the power that even the sunlight cannot defeat.

Nopony was born without a shadow, an inherent companion of our lives. It is the shadow that, by listening to even the quietest words of grievance, drinking every emotion from our lips, grows in strength. And so I, too, have fallen. Now I see it with terrifying clarity. It is I who put the yoke of slavery on the necks of my own subjects. It was my word that forced the whips to flay the ones that put the crown on my temples.

Even when the winter finally ended after many years of misery I did not see it through the white of my own pride and justice. Now I see that moment, the moment in which I succumbed entirely to the darkness lingering at the bottom of my heart, immersed in dark ruminations that have led me to this. I have put on the shadow armor, grabbed my sword and left the light.

Forever.

Is there anything to regret? Is there a single crevice in my conscious that will leak deadly venom of contrition? No! Only those weak of spirit torment themselves with such trifle problems. I stood above them. I have united them in my iron grip, protecting the Empire for many, many years. Who protested and denied when the enemy was at the gates, ready to burn our homes?

Nopony.

Did anypony want to see our soldiers come back from the battlefield covered in blood, crippled both in flesh and mind so much that they could not enjoy the life under the sunrays? And to know all that was in vain, as they would fall to the enemy anyway? No.

Nopony opposed the shadows.

They wanted to turn the tides so much that they preferred to sacrifice their leader as a scapegoat on the altar of darkness in order to delay the phantom of their demise. Nopony opposed when my shadow hosts protected their families from harm. I put an end to battles that leave widows and orphans behind. I have destroyed our enemies letting them, the little ones, to enjoy the fruit of my victories.

Now I can see my bane flying towards me on their spread winds. The Sun and the Moon have descended from the firmament to deal justice to the one that saved the Empire from doom. Is this justice? Why am I the only one to put my head on the executioner’s block, to allow them to cut my head off with their fulgent axe, when the true scoundrels are already reaping what they have sewn? I have dealt their punishment alone, locking them in chains, herding them to the mines. Let them gather the crystals from the depths of earth, the crystals they have come to love so much.

I CURSE THEE!

If what I did was such a hideous deed, so unpleasant for the new world, cleansed of all evil by the longstanding winter, so be it. Let those, who cheered so vigorously when the shadows torn the enemy host asunder, go with me.

They are tainted as much as I am.

Sombra, the Shadow King, lord of the Crystal Empire, awaited his fate with a smile and His head held high.