Twilight Sparkle made a ritual out of the event. The curtains covering the windows had been pulled; the lights inside her library dimmed. Her work table, normally cluttered beyond recognition with mounds of scrolls, quills, and ink had been emptied and wiped clean. Only a single candle sat by its edge, wrapped in a protective bubble should the wax start to drip.
That day, Twilight was about to read a book she never thought existed.
A diary.
A diary by one of the most nefarious beings in all of existence.
A diary by none other than the ex-King of the Crystal Empire: King Sombra.
As she placed the book at the very center of the table, hooves wrapped in plastic gloves, Twilight breathed out as softly as she could, as if the book might burst to dust should she treat it too rough. Princess Cadence had come across it less than twenty-four hours ago while exploring around the Empire, and had given it directly to Twilight to decipher; Celestia and Luna had agreed on it, too. If there was one Princess that was up to the task, it was Twilight Sparkle.
On the book’s entirely black cover was a scratched-in name:
SOMBRA.
Twilight made note of that in her notebook, which she kept a good foreleg’s distance away. Steeling herself, she opened to the very first page and began to read.
PROLOGUE
There’s dread in my kingdom. Behind every corner and deep within every crack and crevice, it festers and boils. My citizens feel it. My slaves feel it worse. And my guards feel it more than anyone. And, regretfully, now I feel it, too. Deep it my guts. Twisting and digging. Ripping and tearing. Keeping me up at night. Consuming each and every thought inside my head.
War is on the horizon and there’s no way of stopping it.
Nor would I want it stopped, having brought it upon myself.
Ponies have begun fleeing my kingdom in droves. Those caught beyond the wall are either killed or sentenced to fight at the front—whatever they prefer.
It is more than likely we shall lose this war.
Outnumbered. Low on supplies. Allies totalling zero. Surrounded on all sides.
I think my own counsel is becoming curious if I shall try and flee from this looming threat. Be it on hoof or in the gentle embrace of death.
And that is precisely why none of them are fit to be King.
Kings never retreat. Kings never surrender. When my attackers sentence me to whatever judgment they deem fair, I will spit and laugh at their faces and tell them to get on with it already; I got a new job as ruler of Tartarus to get to.
Guards have begun asking about the cape I’ve been wearing around day and night and I tell them it’s merely due to the harsh winter wind. But the truth is…
… it’s to keep them from seeing me tremble where I stand.
The Great War is about to begin.
And I am sure I am about to die.
Twilight had to leave her chair and cross to the other side of the room to let out a squeaky batch of giggles; she dared not get any flecks of spit on the book. Truth be told, she really had no idea what to expect from it once it’d been handed over to her. But so far?
“This is outstanding!” she half-whispered, half-chirped, before quieting down. “Sure, Sombra’s writing could use a little work, but… he’s actually opening up about his fears and insecurities! He’s actually being honest about things! Not just boasting!”
A tidal wave of questions quickly flooded Twilight’s noggin.
Just who was involved in the Great War? How did it end?
What secrets would Sombra go into detail about? His childhood? The secret to his dark powers? Where he came from and what made him as evil as he is? Did he have any family or friends before he was killed? Anyone he was actually close to?
Any long-buried treasure to find? Or, Celestia forbid, bodies to unearth?
Once again calming herself down, Twilight settled into her chair and got her notebook at the ready. Then she said to no one at all, “Let the Great War begin!”
She turned to the next page.
THE GREAT WAR
All things considered, the Great War was pretty great. I stole someone’s hat. They didn’t even notice. Doesn’t fit, though.
For close to a minute, Twilight stared at the near-empty page, dumfounded. She even reread the small entry once more to see if she’d missed anything. Nope. Nadda. Zilch. It was what it was.
“Umm…” she muttered aloud. “That’s it? That’s it!?”
She even turned to the next handful of pages to make sure. Performing a hurried scan, she found that the Great War was hardly brought up again. Never in any detail.
“What a—” rip-off, she was about to finish, before it dawned on her that any knowledge on the tyrannical king was still knowledge and therefore good. Knowledge is power and all that.
A little more resigned than before, she picked up the book and continued.
BREAKFAST
The Great War had taken its toll on me. So much so, that I slept in late the next day and demanded a hearty breakfast to sate myself. But after meeting with my kitchen staff, I felt more than overwhelmed by the options available.
Cold cereal was clearly off the table. What was I? A colt with a blanket cape?
Steak and eggs? Perhaps. Sausage? Bacon? Sliced tomato?
Things only got more complicated when I decided I wanted hash browns.
“Cubed, shredded, boiled, or mashed?” asked one of my chefs. “Baked?”
I had to excuse myself from the room, I was so overwhelmed.
Why couldn’t ordering breakfast be anything like war? Simple and black and white? You either won and lived to eat breakfast another day or died and stopped eating breakfast altogether.
Done. Easy.
But things only got worse from there.
Did I want fruit with my breakfast? If so, what kind of fruit? Any tasty crepes for the King today? Pastries, perhaps? Jam filled donuts to go-nuts for?
There were so many possibilities that morning, I just wanted to break down and cry; collapse to the cold stone floor and wait for brunch—
Twilight was pulled away from the book when the door to her library creaked open. Standing in the doorway was Spike, a mug of steaming hot chocolate in his claws.
“I was about to turn in for the night. You need anything?”
Twilight shook her head. “Maybe a better book.”
“Huh?” Spike took a step inside the room, rubbing his eyes. “Isn’t that that book Cadence gave to you? About King Sombra?”
“Yep.” Absently, Twilight flicked through the next couple of pages. It seemed she no longer cared what state the book remained in. “It’s his diary. His very personal, long-winded, boring diary.”
Spike blew on his hot chocolate. “Oh, come on, Twilight. I bet it’s not that bad. I thought you liked all types of books! You even gave that book of carpet samples a four-out-of-five! Would rub on face again, you said!”
Rolling her eyes, Twilight replied, “I would gladly rub that book on my face again over this!” She held a hoof to the book, accusatory. “Sombra spends two whole chapters deciding on what to eat for breakfast! Two! He even ends the first chapter with a cliff-hanger! ‘Does he get pancakes or waffles?’ As if I give a crap!”
Spike stood silently for a moment, sipping on his drink. He shrugged. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Does he get pancakes or waffles?”
Twilight took a look.
BREAKFAST PART TWO
After consulting with my board of advisors, I have decided upon waffles to accompany my diced ham and pepper omelette. The waffles will be cut into wolf shapes for my pleasure.
Woofles.
Let it be known here, first, that I am the most cleverest of all ponies in the land.
After reading the word “Woofles”, Twilight grunted as if punched by some invisible hoof and turned away from the book again.
“I don’t know how much more of this book I can take,” she admitted, rubbing at both temples. “Like… it’s still technically information. It’s just… useless information.”
Spike held his claws to his mouth for a yawn. “You could always skip to a more interesting chapter. You don’t have to read it front to back.”
Twilight snorted. “Please, Spike. If there’s one thing I know about books, it’s that you always read them starting from page one right until the very end. Just because I’m a little bored right now, doesn’t mean I’ll cheat and skip ahead to some juicier part.”
“Your funeral,” Spike replied. “Night, Twi.” He then shut the door behind him.
“Skip ahead?” Twilight asked the empty room with a dry laugh. “As if! I eat books like these for breakfast! With or without ‘woofles’.”
Her laughter was short lived, though, as she glanced ahead at the names of the upcoming chapters: “TAX RETURNS AND YOU”, “THE TIME I STUBBED MY HOOF”, “IT STILL HURTS”, and “THE COOL SIDE OF THE PILLOW”.
“And to think I almost lost to you,” Twilight mumbled out, before an upcoming chapter caught her eye. “Can’t be any worse than Breakfast Part Two, right?”
BETRAYAL
It’s always hard to tell who’ll end up hurting you the most. Over the years, I’ve had loads of enemies and have dealt with them as such. Enemies are enemies. You hate them and they hate you in return. But friends that turn into enemies? Friends that go on to betray you in the worst way possible? Hurt you more than you could even imagine?
It is a pain I am unaccustomed to; unprepared to feel or deal with or know how to handle.
I am angry; I am mad.
I am hurt; I am confused.
I have been betrayed. Why, Jim, why? Why did you have to do this to me?
I met a pony named Jim at a party two days ago. It was held at my castle and, as a gesture of goodwill, I played bartender for an hour, laughing and hoofing out drinks to all my guests. (Everyone received gin and tonic because that was the only drink I knew how to make.)
Then came Jim. Turned out, he only drank gin and tonics. How lucky for me.
Then it also turned out his favorite color was red and his favorite hobbies included not dying or getting whipped. It was almost bizarre how much the two of us had in common.
So as the night wore down, I did something I’d never done before; I asked Jim if he wanted to hang out with me the next day. He said yes and then we left it at that.
A day later and there was no Jim in sight. He never returned a single of my letters, or send a messenger pigeon my way.
And here I thought there was something special between us. I really did. How often in life does one soul meet another soul with more than two things in common?
Perhaps a better way to put it is: how often does a shooting star crash into another?
My heart burns with anger. As does Jim’s house. I set it on fire before writing this.
Why, Jim? Why!? Why do you make me do these things—
The rest of the page had been ripped out, abruptly ending there. Twilight lifted her head up and blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
She turned the book over and searched, frowning. No Yottall Ton Ciddors to be found.
At least the next chapter sounded interesting.
CONQUERING EQUESTRIA
The notion of conquering Equestria is as easy as a basic math equation; all one must do is fill in the blanks:
Sombra x (????) = global annihilation.
Now, tell me dear reader: do you believe it do be ‘army’ that fits inside that blank? ‘Power’, perhaps? ‘Magic’?
No, my naïve fool. The equation is simple, and it’s remained that way for centuries.
Sombra x money = global annihilation.
Yes, it really is that painfully easy. But where does one claim this money, you ask? That is a more difficult question. I’ll be the first to admit that my whole kingdom remains afloat due mainly to its slave use and relative small population. Our exports are next to none (besides ice) and are imports are close to the same. Until now, that is.
An idea came to me just last night as I was exiting the bath. I had slipped and banged my head atop the counter, and as I came to, the idea struck. So simple, it was. So damn simple.
A support garment designed specifically for mares.
The Som-Bra.
It will be sleek. Black and silver. With metal tips on both ends. Most female-centered garments normally range between twelve and nineteen bits, but because my name will be associated with it, I’d say we could charge twenty-nine bits, at least. Two pairs for fifty, let’s say. Add to that all the money we’d be saving due to slave labor and the world will crumple soon enough!
There was still an entire section on mare’s underwear, but Twilight didn’t bother with it. Instead, she counted how many windows there were in her library and began determining which one looked best to chuck a book out of.
Could she throw it hard enough to land in the town well? She could sure try.
As she got up to find out just that, the next chapter’s name stuck to her like previously chewed gum.
“REGARDING MY SEX LIFE”, it read.
Twilight’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. She really had no idea how to proceed.
Sure, taking someone’s personal diary and reading it was amoral and wrong to begin with, but Twilight had only done so for academic purposes. One could only defeat their enemy by understanding them first. But did that mean she had to know about Sombra’s private sex life, too?
She opened one of her windows and glanced down. It was the middle of the night; not a single pony in sight. She then opened the door to the hallway. “Spike? Are you asleep?”
“Yes!” Spike called back.
It was good enough for Twilight, as she made her way down to the kitchen to pour herself a large glass of wine.
With alcoholic beverage in tow (and her door double and triple locked), she returned to her work table to continue her “work”.
REGARDING MY SEX LIFE
It was Saturday night. That meant it was sex night.
Even before I entered the bedroom and took off my cape and crown, the mare on my bed was soaking wet. A few moments prior, I’d ordered a guard to enter the room and dump a bucket of water onto her in case she was smelly. She was not.
That was when I pulled out my thingy and showed it to her.
I asked her, “You like it?”
And she said, “Yep.”
“You ready for it?”
“Yep.”
“Here it comes.”
“Yep.”
It was soon evident that I had sent the mare all the way to Heaven and back. During our entire love making session, all she did was stare up at the ceiling, motionless and silent, as if telepathically asking God himself if he’d ever seen anything so majestic and powerful as the love the two of us shared. And God went on to answer, “Nope.”
In the afterglow, I told her, “I love you,” and she said to me, “Yep.”
Then I went to the kitchen to eat some chips.
King Sombra don’t cuddle. Not unless he gets to be the big spoon.
Sombra’s diary landed square on top of Spike’s head, startling him awake. He glanced around irritably. “What was that for?”
“Early hatchday present,” Twilight explained a tad slurred, her half-empty bottle of wine clutched close to her chest. “Hope you enjoy it more than I did!”
Then she stumbled out of the room and down the hall, leaving Spike alone with the book.
Gingerly, Spike fumbled through it, reading a few words here and there. It honestly appeared as terrible as Twilight had made it out to be. Until…
“What’s this now?”
There was a small inscription on the very last page of the book Twilight must’ve overlooked.
It read: “To those of you who made it this far, congratulations! Here’s the locations to all my buried treasures and bodies. A word to the wise: I can’t remember which spots are loot and which spots are bodies, so proper glove use would be advisable. Happy hunting! K.S.”
Not a bad hatchday present, after all.
Author's Note
So I wanted to do something similar to "101 Interesting Facts About Draconequui" about Sombra for a while, but didn't want to just write another giant (probably repetitive) list.
So... disappointing diary it is!
Btw, what the hell happened to this site? It's all blue and different. It's new, so I automatically hate it. Just like my newborn. Stupid blue baby.
B. Dragon (Bonus Chapter)
As Spike carefully handled the package of popcorn he had cooking on the stove, he casually thumbed his way through King Sombra’s old diary. Sure, it was terrible; that was a given. But for a baby dragon that spent most of his time either dusting shelves or doing dishes indoors, rudimentary activities like the ones described by Sombra in his book still managed to hold his interest plenty.
Plus, until last night, Spike truly had no idea about the “cool side” of the pillow.
He knew he could never go back. Not ever.
Spike flipped to the next chapter.
SORROW
It is said that each pony has three faces to show. One that the public sees. One that only their close family and friends see. And the one that only appears when that pony is alone.
The face I show to the world is one of hardened steel. Unbreakable. Unbendable.
The face I show to my loved ones is warm and gooey, like a freshly baked cinnamon bun.
But the face I hold now, as I sit on my bed, miserable and alone, wondering where it all went wrong, is one coated in tears.
I feel sorrow in my heart. Sorrow like never before.
I foolishly opened myself up today, left myself bare for all to see, and in return I was gutted with a knife so sharp that God himself would bleed from it should it be tossed his way.
I told a joke at work today and nopony laughed.
Not even a snicker or a smile.
A classic joke, if I do say so myself.
Q: How many slaves does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
A: Depends on how you stack the bodies.
Pending an abrupt change of heart, I have decided that all those within earshot of my miraculous attempt at levity, shall be sent forthwith to the Crystal Empire’s very own Laugh Camp. Hopefully to relearn how to laugh, chuckle, or guffaw.
Thus far, not a single soul has ever escaped from Laugh Camp.
That makes me laugh for some reason.
Heh.
THE REBELLION
It has become clear that a rebellion is in the works; a band of miscreant bastards hellbent on overthrowing me and undoing all my good work. Do they not understand just who they’re up against? Do they not understand the danger they’re putting themselves in, just by making themselves known to me?
King Sombra is no one’s fool. As my personal advisor learned this very afternoon after I rammed his head against a courtyard wall and held it there.
“Who wrote this!?” I demanded, my eyes blazing with purple smoke, my pupils darting between my quivering advisor and the shameless graffiti on the wall just beside us. “Tell me!”
“I don’t know, my lord!” he chokes out. “It just appeared there! Overnight!”
I take a step back and let him fall to the ground, eyeing up the rebellion’s first vengeful attack upon my person. Up on the courtyard wall is a large caricature of myself done in red and grey crayons, no more than three feet up off the ground.
Let it be known here, first, that I look nothing like that. Not nearly as chubby cheeked as the rebels would have you believe.
Even worse is the apparent speech bubble exiting my image’s lips, exclaiming to all that look upon it, that: “I HAV A SMEELY FACE.”
Let it also be know here, first, that I have never said such a ridiculous thing in all my life.
I round on my advisor again, screaming down at him. “I want these lowlifes found! Today! Then hanged, drawn, and quartered posthaste!”
“But… my lord…” my advisory squeaks out. “This was clearly the work of children!”
I settle down for a moment. “Fine. You speak the truth, servant. Children would be much too small to cut into four. Cut them in half instead.”
Then I turn and march away, orders given and head heated. Yet the biggest question of all still remains. How did they know I had a smelly face?
With popcorn bucket and book in claws, Spike settled himself on the softest loveseat in the castle foyer and tried his best not to get melted butter on the open pages. Spike found it hard, though. Considering the topic for the chapter ahead.
“You have got to be kidding me!” he erupted, chewed-up popcorn swiftly exiting from his gaping maw. With renewed interest, he read on.
MY BABY DRAGON
It was my birthday last week. I won’t divulge on these pages how old I really am, but let’s just say I have to touch up my roots every two to three weeks to keep them as black as they are.
If I had a beard, I’d call it salt-and-pepper.
Many gifts were laid at my steel-plated hooves that day, but only one truly took me by surprise.
A dragon. A living, breathing, squirming, wriggling baby dragon.
I am unsure how to react, exactly. Is a baby dragon a normal birthday gift to give? Or did that guest merely forget about my birthday altogether and this baby dragon remained as the last available item on the market shelf? Either way, I am stuck with it now.
I have begun calling him B. Dragon.
My imagination has never been the same since I accidentally murdered it in a dream I had.
Thus far, B. Dragon has been an overwhelming disappointment. Here is a simple “pros” and “cons” list for easy consumption.
PROS:
It is a dragon. That’s pretty neat.
When he’s asleep, I use him as a convenient paperweight.
CONS:
Complete lack of cool fire breathing or flying skills.
Complete lack of super spooky sharp teeth as he still only has his baby teeth.
Complete lack of conversation starters; I have to start and carry each and every conversation between us.
Has been caught eating the jewels from my crown. Twice.
Sadly, it’s become clear that things won’t work out between B. Dragon and myself. Many guards have told me to hold on to him for a few more years until he’s older, but you know what? I want a flying dragon now. Not in ten years time!
This morning, I had both B. Dragon and the birthday guest that had given him to me launched out of the Empire by catapult.
Good news for me? That particular guest wasn’t a pegasus.
Bad news?
B. Dragon decides that now would be a good time to sprout wings and learn how to spit fire. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have a terrible feeling he’ll be coming back any time now.
With all that written down, I shall now go hide in the basement like the brave king that I am.
“You have got to be kidding me!” Spike repeated once more, after he’d scanned the book front to back and found not a single other entry on “B. Dragon”. He sighed, licking butter from his claws. “Twilight’s right. This book does suck.”
Then he chucked it in the trash where it belonged.
Author's Note
What? A Sombra story in the feature box? This site update really broke everything, didn’t it?
Thanks for reading!
