Chapter 4

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A whisper.

A whisper to the right, to the left, from inside and out. All around, a voice whispers on the wind.

A stabbing in his eyes, silence on his part. The cold of the medallion intensifying.

Another joins the first, whispering to him, whispering of something he cannot understand. A third and forth join the first two.

His hoof is forced away from his head; the medallion, cold as frost, digs into his coat and skin. A grunt of annoyance.

More have joined, speaking to him, of him, through him. He cannot understand.

His muscles tense and then still; he tries to move but remains rooted. The medallion burns his forehead with it's frigid intensity.

Still they whisper, a sweet symphony of nothing that holds the weight of his existence a fraction from the earth by a spider's thread.

The freezing chill seeps into the rest of his face, running down to the bone and coursing through his skull; his eyes freeze shut.

A rhythmic melody lightly presents itself among the whispers, bringing a sense of order the odd chaos of prophecy and deceit.

His heartbeat slows as the cold sweeps through him, bringing calm and a serene sense of peace. The world around him vanishes.

A tint of blue, rising, falling, and weaving in rhythm with the melody of certainty, appears before his mind's eye. It seems to peak out from whence it came, timidly cautious about revealing itself.

The melody continues and the tint slowly emerges, moving in time with the melody, becoming brighter as the moments pass.

It comes near to him, in the shape of a tall, lithe unicorn and places it's horn to him. The melody increases, becoming crystalline in purity and silky soft to the soul. The bright blue unicorn pulses with the melody and, each time it does, he feels a fire ignite in his gut.

His body, encased in a layer of ice, steams slightly.

He is at peace. He should never leave. Never forsake this entity of loveliness, that fills him with such a flame.

Steam rises from his body at a regular rate.

He feels a chasm open beneath him and the sound of a great river rushing is faintly heard.

Steam pours off his body, the ice rapidly melting.

The entity carries him down towards the river, serenading him with its wonder and magnificence; once he dips in the river, he shall be whole- he stops.

The melody ceases.

The whispers are unheard.

The entity has stopped pulsing.

It holds him in it's grasp, it's horn still against him.

The steaming suddenly stops. Quiet falls over the whole of the clearing.

He looks at the entity, the suffocating burn of fear grasping at his heart as the serenity is choked from him. The entity looks at him, uncaring of his fear, comes closer, and utters a simple phrase.

"Purity does not tolerate Madness."

His body burst into searing flames that roared like a demon of Tartarus; his screams that of the damned. His ears gushed acid-like blood and his eyes seemed to boil in their sockets, starting to lose their form and slip out of his skull. His skin began to melt; his tunic, robes, and coat turning to ash and mixing with the mass of organic horror. His fore and backleg grieves, melting with his skin, seeped down and seared themselves to his bones.

The scorched clearing around him caught the horrific disease of flames, further scarring the earth as they raced towards the edge of the treeline. Coming up just short of it, they doubled back, coming back to him and intensifying the heat a hundred fold. His screams were cut off as his vocal cords were shredded and his throat collapsed in on itself from lack of structure.

Cutting through the chaos, the medallion, still anchored to his skull, flashed. A white energy burst forth, coating him in a cooling balm that felt like the warm water of a spring. The energy raced through him, rebuking the cursed flames and extinguishing them, blessing his tortured body, giving it structure once more. It solidified and bound his body, keeping it from melting away; though it could not rearrange and repair all of the damage done.

His mind, as deteriorated and raw as his body, slipped away and found solace in the blankness of unconsciousness, even as Death waited anxiously for his soul. Astral would survive, however, and be of some use to the Order; even if the most likely use was cannon fodder.

"It is a divine sign of ascendancy and servant-hood; that by bonding with this blessed artifact, a pony shows that the Holy Rulers have chosen them as Their servants, granting them the privilege to transcend the bonds of morality that would bind and curse them to the depths of Tartarus or the oblivion of the Void, and guaranteeing them a place at the feet of Their thrones in Elysium.

In freeing, however, The Exalted Ones demand absolute service, the very life They have freed do with as They wish. This is both the paramount blessing and grievest of burdens that will test the limits of any who are truly faithful, for all who wish to proclaim they to be chosen must take heed. For if they have not been, they will be obliterated from this world, in body, mind, soul, and memory, as if they had never walked the dust of the earth. None shall claim falsely the blessings of The Divine."

Fin Rah Uth, pg.174, lines 70-77

Author's Note

Just as a general comment: if there is an editor who reads this and finds anything that could be refined, fleshed out, replaced, redone etc., please don't hesitate to say so.