The Ponies of Apocalypse

A city of grand stature, void of denizens, stands alone amidst a vast desert of gray. Its glory reduced to ruins, its luster rusted from edge to edge, and its pride sucked away by time. However, this once proud city still holds a speck of life.

He is alone in the beaten and battered castle, waiting for his lord’s return. Where others have left the old city to waste away and be taken by the evils that haunt the land he stays behind to protect it.

His old bones crack as he walks from one side of the castle to another, with his dark robe covering his body, hiding his face. The silence is deafening. At times when he lies still in the darkness he shuts the world out, and listens to his own heartbeat reverberate off the walls. Then he steps forward clip… clop. The sound of his hooves against the cracked tile floors, echo back at him, casting an illusion upon his decayed ears that more than one pony roams these empty halls.

Outside he stares at the vast, lifeless desert surrounding the city, watching the grey sand blow back and forth, and hearing the loud roars of the enormous vortex in the sky as it devours the clouds and expels lightning. Its hunger is never satisfied and as long as its source of food appears limitless it shall continue to feast. He could compare it to loneliness, a trapped state full of endless sorrow ever pouring into the whirlpool of despair.

He sighs and continues on with his duties, alone. Protecting the castle and reaping the souls of those both damned and saved.

He remembers their last words, their faces, and why they died.  He waits patiently, knowing the end is near as they lie upon their death beds pleading for forgiveness, begging to be spared. But nopony can be spared from death for it the natural order of things. Death is the mediator between the Overworld and the Underworld and without it both world would soon collapse. He is the vanguard of souls; the weary courier of death.

He thinks back to the time when he was alive. He was a scholar, a leader, and an innovator. However, despite the good that he had done, despite the dedication he gave to the gods, life caught up with him and passed him by. But this was not the end of his journey as he had expected. Now his body may grow older, his skin rot, his bones whiten, and his muscles wither, but in the end his body will remain. He never questions the magic that holds his bones together and enables him to move with grace, but he couldn’t help but wonder why so much had to be sacrificed for immortality. Was this the price for immortality? Was this the price for being a servant of the Gods? Was this the price for becoming the one entity he tried so hard to escape? Was this his destiny to become the physical manifestation of Death itself?

Skin no more, muscles a fabricated memory, and bones bleached white. Was this a curse or a reward for the things he did in life?

However, one part of his body still whispers the gentle philosophy of life, his heart. Though no blood flows it beats on. Comforting him in the darkness and giving him a reason to cherish what little life he has. But time is a cruel and remorseless being.

Days turn to months and months turn to years and then the final hour is at hand. At first it is strong and carries itself with the will of fire, but it only delayed the final death as with each beat it grew slower and weaker, barely heard or felt, fading into silence. Its rhythmic beats succumb to time and it is laid to rest, ceasing all retaliation against its fate. It lies silent alongside the rest of the castle, but his body still moves, his thoughts; his memories still flood his mind. Every second, every minute, every day, every month, every year, every century, every millennium, and he remembers it all.

He finds a cracked mirror and stares at himself, questioning the creature he has become. He undresses and is shocked by who he sees. A bare skeleton was looking back at him, looking into his soul. The pony in the mirror is him and in those dark, empty eye sockets, his eye sockets, he sees nothing. He feels his still heart. It is cold and lifeless, no longer warm and vibrant.  He no longer sees use in his old, decayed heart and pulls it out, watching it turn to dust in his hooves.

His curse, a punishment for reaping the lives of billions, is never ending. It is a cycle unbroken. A commitment made to Hades, God of the Underworld. Only the destruction of his soul will give him the freedom he yearns for. But death is impossible for the being that is Death.

He sit’s upon the throne, thinking of all those that he has watched die. He can only take life, and he always wonders, “Why?” He is filled with sorrow as he watches ponies cry and grieve over the dead. He wishes he could change their fate, but alas he is the courier of death, the one who leads the souls to the underworld and continues the cycle that was established by Hades when mortal kind was first formed. However, the old cycle is dying along with the Underworld.

The Overworld is prospering thanks to Celestia forbidding the Ponies of Apocalypse from spreading War, Famine, and Pestilence throughout the world, and although these concepts can happen naturally without the Ponies of Apocalypse the grand scale on which ponies are affected has been reduced to small towns instead of whole nations. This prosperity is not without consequence; however, these actions have left the Underworld starved, for with each year the number of denizens in the Underworld lessens.

Those that are of lesser souls fade away soon after they arrive in the Underworld, lasting only a few years. Greater souls may prosper for a few decades and the few gifted by the Gods may be granted spiritual immortality. But even these few gifted souls aren’t enough to keep the Underworld alive.

Death rises from the throne. He knows that if he continues to support the cycle it will only prolong the suffering of the Underworld as it continues to take the lives of mortals to save itself. He is tired and wishes for an end. He can’t stop death, but he can stop the cycle. Without him the Underworld’s final lifeline is cut and a new cycle will begin, perhaps a happier cycle where loved ones never die and the fear of death is no more.

“So this is the end? I served Lord Hades loyally for thousands upon thousands of years, even now with him gone I still follow his orders. Perhaps if he was still here the fate of the Underworld would have changed.” He sighs, “But there is no point in wondering what could have been. What’s done is done.”

He turns around and places a hoof gently on one of the throne’s armrests, “I miss you Hades, I’m certain you would have found some way to show me the good in what I do, but… I see only the lives I take and the pain I leave. Please forgive me and please understand that I am tired and I give in not because I lost faith in you my lord, but because I lost faith in the Underworld, this cycle, and myself. I can’t go on. I’m sorry.”

Death sits back down upon the throne in an unnatural posture, lying back with his forelegs on the armrests and his hindlegs spread apart, “I have a confession my lord. I only accepted your offer to become the courier of death solely to honor you. In my youth…” he chuckles a little and corrects himself, “Well I guess I should say in my old age considering I was old when I accepted. But it all seems so long ago that my old age has become my youth. I miss those days even though I was a stubborn lonesome stallion who preferred books, and maps to friends and whatever else stallions in my time did. Forgive me if I’m rambling, us old scholars tend to drone on about the past.” He laughs heartedly for a moment, but then the silence returned and the loneliness set in once again.

Death returns to his previous subject, “As I was saying in my old age, and by being a stubborn religious zealot, I was overjoyed to assist you in some way even after you warned me of the conditions I would have to go through. Only now I find these conditions unbearable.”

He shakes his head, “Look at me an old stallion talking to himself, thinking his dead lord can hear him. It goes against logic and is childish, yet… I feel comfort in talking to you my lord that is if you are listening.”

“I wish to sleep now my lord. I wish to escape from my daily lament and not worry of the consequences that my leave may bring. This world is dying, and I believe I should let it die. I know it probably goes against you my lord for this is your domain, but twenty-five thousand six hundred sixty-six years of loyally serving you is long enough. I endured it all for you and now that you are gone and your domain is dying I see no point in pressing on.”

“I know death, the concept, isn’t my doing, but I feel as though I am to blame for all the heartache and death in the world. Maybe, I’ve seen too many die, and I feel helpless not being able to help them and that’s why I blame myself. I can’t die. I am eternal and the only way I can see the world being rid of me is through sleep.”

“May my slumber be eternal and my lament end. May the lives of those I’ve taken and casted away by bringing them to this empty land find peace. May I find atonement for what I’ve done and if I ever awake may I find myself free of these chains.”