Silencing of Rimuaeli

by Drakasin

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Other, Original Character, Tragedy, Adventure
Length: 1669

A classic folk epic translated from Rho to Equal by Inkpot Star! Explore the myth about the life of Grogar the Necromancer, emperor of Shadow World and king of Tambelon!

Before you lies a book bound in a hard leather-like skin protecting the treasures within. You open to read the first page, the foreword. There's a letter attached at the end of it addressed to the one and only Inkpot Star, the famous pony mythologist. Yet you wait and skim the page first.

The Silencing of Rimuaeli
A classic folk epic translated from Rho to Equal by Inkpot Star

Rimuaeli. Also known as “demons” or “risen” or any variant thereof that civilizations deemed to call them. Those who fell to the dark and came back as something else. No more mortal, but not quite divine either. Monsters, predators honed to perfection. ~ A folk tale from the collection 'Concealed by Light'

Inkpot Star, the translator's note:
"I was just a fresh graduate of cartography when me and a colleague of mine got the crazy notion to explore the great wide unknown beyond Equestria and the known nations. With appropriate preparations, we would soon find ourselves blown out of our comfort zone. Since then my life has been filled with one adventure after another.
One such adventure would bring me to Trylm Slopes, green mountains far to the east of our beloved country. They're also the homeland of the sheepfolk. Without knowing why really, I've spent the last thirty years of my life there, later working on my life's work. I studied their culture, their lands, and the sheepfolk themselves, though I was but a lowly cartographer.
It happened on my forty-third birthday when one of my dearest sheep friends gifted me their family's heirloom—an old tome filled with tales passed down by word of mouth for generations until one clever scribe, and a predecessor to my friend, decided to write these fables down. Not one for old tales, especially written in old fashioned language and in the form of poetry, I put it aside until one late evening when I found myself bored and without work. Imagine my surprise when I found a name familiar to Equestria's history in one of the stories. Quickly fascinated with it, I set out to translate it into modern Equal for my own and everyone else's enjoyment.
The whole tale is obviously meant to be played by a troubadour or a bard, as there are often changes in perspective that can be quite jarring to a reader, but would very well by understood by the troubadour's acting and music. However, I have decided not to change this into a more comfortable reading experience as to preserve the experience of Grogar's fascinating tale as it was meant to be. Bear in mind that it indeed is only a tale, also mayhap changed many times before it was finally written down.
But also bear in mind that there's always at least a bit of truth to every story."

The last words linger in the air. The letter attached to it seemed to be a hastily written directions to someone unknown. You decide to read the letter before delving into the book itself...

Takes place in the Ternion of Kings universe.
Proof-read by McStuffins
Dark and Tragedy tags because we all know the final fate of Grogar the ram

Published 2016-02-17 06:20:02 UTC
Last updated 2016-02-17 06:20:02 UTC

Part I.

Now, my dear friend, with that out of the way, can I trust you to compile these once I finish them all? I'll be sending you the parts periodically through letters. The old sheep language is hard to understand and wrap my head around, but with the help of my sheepfolk friends, I am making good time in translating these. Plus, I'd rather a small part of the translation is lost should the letter perish during its journey home, than the entire work. I tell you, this is going to be the mark I'll leave upon this world, and you can be right there with me. We'll split the earnings and fame once it's published. In this letter is enclosed the first part, or in other words what I have finished translating so far. Please, make sure this doesn't get lost or damaged beyond readability, if it isn’t already so from the journey. Copy if possible and store it somewhere safe where none can claim it for their own.

I trust you in this, friend. Don't let me down.

The Silencing of Rimuaeli

SING!

Sing to us, oh Troubadour, ye who wanders the Maker's world so bright and dark

Who stills the caustic crowds, the dead followers of false gods usurping the throne

Sing to us, oh Troubadour, of the fledgling Rhonic son, of many voices' bells tolling

for the world of shadows slowly growing in the heart of the lord of mountaintops

Sing to us, oh Troubadour; in melodies laden the forsaken kingdom of Tambelon

whose spires so high in the shadows concealed; upon which one the king would sit,

ruling nothingness? Tell us, by the warmth of night's womb's fire, of the Rhonic son!

The Rhonic son, the son of mountains of eagled lions, the daybreak of his becoming!

The alluring scent, grass of morn, crisp whiff of rigid crystalline peaks, whitened

in the forlorn winter; the lamb's first breath oh so strained as tried to sing life's melody

for all to hear.

LISTEN!

For the fathers of warriors, for the mothers of poets; be silent not to the song of life!

Breathe again! Seal the hourglass of your heart, let the sands count your time so

long in this world! The neonate's cries prevailed the death's hunger for his light

Rest now, Rhonic father, Rhonic mother, listen for the song of your son, his breath!

Happy lay the mother after nature's labor. Happy stood the father holding his child

Proud was the begetter that beheld his creation molded to perfection in his eyes

that tears up for your brittle body in his vice-like grip with which held is the coil

mortals possess so. Alas, forgive him his tears for he nearly lost his bet with death.

Alive was the child and live he would, and his name would be Grogar of the Rhonic clan.

But for now be a son to the proud father, be a son to the loving mother, be a servant to

the Lord of Mountain Tops.

In the village so high above the world of those below, like seeds growing, life finding

its way in every nook and cranny, so did Grogar the ram of the Rhonic clan take root

in the lives of the villagers. Voice of gold, he sang from morn to eventide long, and

all the sheep would rejoice for their gem was found in the throat of Grogar the ram

The gem uncut and raw but shone with fervor, its light reaching even so far

as to be seen by the old Lord of Mountain Tops himself, who overlooked from the

highest peak of the highest throne of the mountains tall. Oh, Maker have mercy,

Maker save the poor lamb, for the lord heard the song and desired the gem to caress

the fur upon his back impeccable, for his ears too lordly to listen to pleas of his kin

And the lord came, and the lord arrived, to the village of the Rhonic clan, sayeth to Grogar he,

"Sing for me in the halls at the mountaintops."

Grogar was young, shy and scared; he sang not for others, but for himself. That others

would be graced by the song of life and the song of death was not his heart's desire,

but happened nonetheless. For within home he found his family and friends he loved.

But to chant what he felt to the court of the damned, for the lord so cruel as to bury them

in ash, to share his gifts with eaters of the weak and the frail made the poor lamb's

heart ache beyond the words he would say. "I cannot, my lord, sing when asked. My

song comes from the heart, from the home, from the breeze of the mountains, from

the heat of the sun in which I play, from the mirrored image of moon in the pool in

which I bathe. It's the rain of the storm, and I am the ground it soaks. It's the water in

the mountains, and I am the bowl. But forgive me, my lord, I cannot sing, it's dry up there,

in the halls at the mountaintops."

The lord couldn't hear, the lord couldn't bear. To devour rejection was a morsel

much too great. Up there in the castle, where everyone does what he says, where the

lord pompous was raised served by all that moved and bore a breath. Inferno dwelled

within the confines of his sooted heart in black. This his mind could not tolerate.

The lord sickly smiled, the lord viciously whispered o'er Grogar's ears laid back,

"You will sing for me, child, or I will burn your village to the ground. I will render

you parent's head on spikes; crows will feast on their eyes. Your friends I will torture

until they won't even blubber save their names. Bear that in mind, child of the damned."

And so Grogar obliged, scared for the water that ran. He was no longer a bowl, but

a sieve for sand. Yet still the lamb went with the lord, still the lamb was seated by the throne,

and sang for the lord of mountaintops.

There he labored his song for years, child no more, there the raw gem was cut

to shining brilliance of which only few could dream. He was not alone however,

that poor lamb, for others like him – those that drew the lord's gaze or grazed his ear –

and like murals of painters of times far lapsed, they stood on display in the hall

forsaken for all to behold. There, in the halls of the accursed lord he fell in love.

The sheep that plucked his heart's strings, like the harp she swayed in heavenly

melody under her hooves, she caught his eye, possessed his ears, caressed his

fur, melted his miseries and sorrows into none. Together, they thought no pain.

Secretly they met, hidden they stayed each time the lover's moon would arise,

and in the end, in secret they wed, away from the watchful eyes and ears of

the jealous lord of mountaintops.

The heart of cold mountain stone drummed upon the walls as the lord bellowed,

"Accursed be the sons of wisdom gone, their will like this condemned crag of a home;

immalleable, immovable. Mongrels a name unduly considerate for their beastly lives!"

The noble seethed, spat at every servant and slave, marking those he considered to

be damned, until once more he sat on his lonely seat. "Sing, child." As the lord

commandeth, so the lamb obeyeth, and poured out his heart for the ruler to behold.

The song of sorrow, as all the others – no more life, but a sadness filled bosom –

warmed the lord, his heart so cold: like the mountain stone upon which his prison

loomed over the lives of those he ruled. On the throne, coat of old, claws so sharp,

wings unfurled; like an old king, head drooped under the heavy weight of a crown,

a forlorn tear slid down the feathered jowl.

"Why, oh sweet child of mine, sing you the saddest song, like the blackest crow that

soars above our world; that snuffs the candles, stops the sands, shatters the bowls?

Why, sweet child, bring me to tears, make my chest heave, my heart ache, my old

knees tremble, make me think of rivers and their waters gone by in the sea of sorrows?

Why, child, sing you not a happy song, a lovely serenade played by the lovers' moon,

an aria of desires of the heart, a ballad of glory and honor for heroes not of this time?!"

The lord bellowed, arms spread out, talons sharp knives, wings a regal cape upon his back

"Where's the feast, the tables overflowing?! The dancers in perfect harmonies?! The

guests to liven up the halls, the music quaking the windows and the walls, the happy yowls?!

Out! Out, you onlookers, you gazers of stars glazed o'er, mirrors cracked, of soulless stares!

Begone! Let me see you no more!"

Life has fled, the storm thus raged, the castle now dull and gray, the silenced songs

echoing in the empty hallways. The dark gathered over the mountain halls, and with

the first thunder trembled the walls as the hill itself shuddered in the roaring cries—

the cries of the oppressed that rose from their graves, their homes, their hidden lairs.

Rose they did, with flames of witches' pyres, weapons of sharpened edges, and voices

roaring like thunder rolling over the mountaintops. The heart was taken, the blood was still;

The breath stolen, the voice silenced. No more! They thundered the words again!

In the garden beneath the mountain, 'neath a willow creaking, the poor lamb and his lover

speaking gently and softly, cast away the shadowy clouds and the wrathful thunder in the warmth

of one another. "Will you go there, my beloved? Will you calm the tempest? Willst thou sing

to the lord of mountaintops?"