The Prism of Infinity

Prologue
The Last Hours of the Old World

Written by
Jed R.

Editors/Pre-Readers
RoyalPsycho
TheIdiot
Sledge115
VoxAdam
Doctor Fluffy

There was Eru, the One, who in Arda is called Ilúvatar; and he made first the Ainur, the Holy Ones, that were the offspring of his thought, and they were with him before aught else was made.
J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Ainulindalë.

“Together we’re gonna change the world, man.”
Kevin Flynn to CLU 2, Tron Legacy.

In the beginning…

There was fire in the air, smoke that filled the sky, blotted out the burning mountains. All around could be heard the screams of the dead and dying, as the final moments of a war that had shaken the world drew to a close. But though the battle had yet to be decided, there was little hope left in those who fought to preserve this place. They knew the truth.

The world was broken, and nothing was going to fix it. It was the end: all the spirits all knew it, the wisest had proclaimed it, and after millennia of building this world and overseeing that which was bright and beautiful, their time here was finally over. Leaving was the only choice they had left, much as it pained so many of them to abandon what had been a labour of love.

But among all the spirits who fled, there was one who remained.

Hope may have faded, but after all we have suffered, all the work we have done, everything we have fought to make, it can't end like this.

In the last shaping chamber in the world, a single spirit worked to finish her final gift to a world long since abandoned by most of her people.

The chamber was decrepit, damaged, but still in far better condition than any she had seen elsewhere. A testament to the horrors they had encountered. In it, all the focusing crystals and arcane cants she would ever require were still preserved, ready for her to use in creating this, her final gift to the world. Around her, golden wisps of light flew, twisted and spun, creating the image of a thousand rivers of light floating in the air.

Even the raw stuff of life is beautiful, she found herself thinking, a smile gracing her face. It faded slightly. And yet in such beauty, there is frailty… and the shadow of darkness. Must all things be thus?

This particular spirit had long since chosen the form to which she would appear to the creatures she and her kin had made. A red mane flowed from the crown of her pale head, past a slender horn and down an elegant neck, brushing against two long, beautiful wings on her back. Four hooves on elegant, slender legs tapped anxiously. Her horn glowed as she manipulated the life energies that swirled through the chamber.

It was ironic that she was working on creating beings in the image that she had chosen for herself. A part of her briefly wondered if it was vanity, but she dismissed the thought.

“Faust?” a voice called through the shaping chamber.

The spirit paid the call no mind. Her work now was beginning to take shape: three golden spheres of light appeared before her, each one beginning to make the faint hum, the music, that was the core of all being.

“Faust, art thou here?!” the voice called again.

The spirit named Faust rolled her eyes. “Through here, Uriel.”

Another spirit entered the room. Unlike her, he had already reverted to his base form: two arms, the ghostly image of wings and a white robe, with no visible features. He floated along gently, no visible legs propelling him. His voice echoed as he spoke.

“What art thou still doing here?” he asked her. “The decree has been made. Nathaniel is making his last gambit now. Those of us who remain have been commanded to flee.”

“We may have been commanded to flee,” she retorted, her expression irritated, “but I will not. And I am not alone in this conviction.”

Uriel sighed. “Tabbris is one thing: he was always bound to choose his own path by the very nature of what he was and is. But thou art one of the shapers. Thine expertise -”

“Mine expertise hath clearly failed to save this world thus far,” she said derisively. A failure I must bear, and bear forever. Her tone turned to one of determination. “But there is still much to play for, and I have not played mine last hand yet.”

Uriel’s attention turned to the three spheres of energy. “New forms.”

“Indeed,” she said, smiling at him. “To take our place when we finally abandon this world to its fate.”

She waved one wing over the spheres, and three translucent figures appeared. Two of them were at least six feet tall, the third was slightly shorter. Though little could be made of the figures, the fact that each was endowed with a long, slender horn and wings tucked neatly at their sides was obvious.

“Thou hast made them in thine own image,” Uriel said softly.

“We all made our sons and daughters in our own images,” Faust replied gently. “These are no different.”

“Most of us did not make them so close,” Uriel pointed out. “These things… if the aura they present is truthful, they have nigh the power of a spirit themselves.”

“Hardly,” Faust scoffed. “True, they art more powerful than the mortal beings we have laboured to make, which is as they are meant to be, but they -”

She paused, the colour draining from her face. A great emptiness opened up within her: the same feeling that always happened when one of their kind was unmade, when something so unnatural, so abhorrent to the way that things should be came to pass.

“I feel it too,” Uriel said quietly, and despite him lacking a face, she knew that he, too, was as horrified as she.

Faust fell to her knees, tears spilling from her eyes. “Nathaniel… no…”

Uriel slowly floated over to her, before resting a shining hand on her shoulder. “He is gone, but he has succeeded. Dost thou feel it, Faust? Sorath’s power…”

“Broken,” Faust said, her voice cracked, “but not banished forever.”

Uriel paused. “You still intend to remain? Even now?”

“I intend to finish what I started, now more than ever,” Faust said, pushing herself back to her feet. She turned back to the translucent figures.

“They are different from the others thou hast made,” Uriel said quietly. “The ponies are small and skittish, not gifted with magicks.”

Faust sighed. “They will be. Even as I make these three, I have set the fire of magic in the blood of all my children in this world.”

Uriel seemed taken aback, moving away from her. “All of them?”

Faust laughed. “Even the plainest of their kind will be gifted strength beyond their size and the power to manipulate the soil to gift their people with food. And others shall be given wings, to rival even our brother’s Griffons, and I shall name them Pegasus to honour our friend’s courage. Others still, the Unicorns, shall be granted innate magicks, power to create wonders. And within them all shall be bound the spark that shall grant them the chance to grow into more”

“They will be first among the races,” Uriel said, his tone now sour. “That breaks the pact of equality we all shared.”

Faust glanced at him, but she understood his point. They had all had ideas of what sort of life to shape in this world, but they had all agreed to create races that were equal, so that no one spirit's creation might dominate another’s.

“Dost thou think I have not considered that? That I had so little consideration for all our siblings’ works – for thy works – that I would forget it, even in this desperate hour?” she asked him. He turned away from her. “You feared it so, didn’t you?”

“Already thou hast taken actions I would not have said that thou wouldst were another to have asked me,” he replied. “It seems clear that I know thee not as well as I thought I did.”

“And yet thou knowest me better than that, dear Uriel, I promise thee,” she retorted. She gave him a reassuring smile. “Fear thee not, oldest comrade. Even as I plan to grant magic to the mine own creation, I will in turn gift new powers to the other peoples of the world. Our sisters’ Qil will be granted magicks to match mine Unicorns, and the Griffons shall be granted the fire of valour, unmatched among other peoples, so that fear may never rule their hearts. The same will be true of all kindred upon this world.” She turned to look back at her creations. “And to each, I will grant a measure of our blood, our power, so that among them may rise rulers who will become the guardians of this world, as these, mine Alicorns, will be to mine little ponies.”

Uriel shook his head. “Faust… I confess, I fear that thou begins to tread the path that led Primus to damnation.”

Faust chuckled. “So thou believes so little in me that thou would compare me to the first corrupt? Really, Uriel.” She looked back at him. “Dost thou truly not know me better?”

Uriel sighed. “I do. Which is why this… this meddling worries me. Thou hast never sought lordship, godhood, amongst the beings we have created.”

“When did I say that I desired lordship of these beings?” Faust asked, raising an eyebrow. “When I have completed my work, these beings shall be left to their own choices, and never know of me save as a dream, a myth.” She chuckled again. “Primus desired lordship, to make things and to make them his slaves, to worship his being and to abase themselves before him, and so was justly cast out. I only desire to leave this world with something to protect it when we finally leave.”

“Protect it?” Uriel repeated. He paused, before sighing. “Sorath.”

“Nathaniel broke him but did not end him,” Faust said quietly. “Dost thou not feel it, brother? We knew when Nathaniel was unmade… but we do not feel the void where once Sorath sat.”

“No,” Uriel agreed. “Sorath endures. I feel it. But it does not follow that he will return to the strength he once had.”

Faust sighed. “Brother, thou dost love thy work, dost thou not? Wouldst thou risk its safety for the hope that Sorath, whose determination to endure and prevail was always greater than any of ours, will remain content to be diminished as he is now?”

Uriel did not answer for a long moment, and Faust nodded, content with her victory. She returned her attention to the translucent figures, and her golden magicks began to conglomerate in the air, streams of the energy moving to infuse the spheres that contained these creatures’ essence.

“These things are meant to replace us,” Uriel said after a moment, “the first Guardians of the new world that will spring forth when we leave. Is that so?”

“Thou speakest the truth of it,” Faust agreed.

“What roles will they take?” Uriel asked.

Faust glanced back at him. “Dost thou intend to help?”

Uriel sighed, before suddenly shifting. Then, where once the glowing being had floated, a tall, canine beast stood. It had long, elegant muzzle, pointed ears and grey-white fur covering its body, along with a simple white tunic.

“If thou art remaining for a time,” the wolf Uriel said quietly, “it seems fitting that I should, too. At least… for a time.”

Faust shook her head. “Uriel, do not -”

“I will not abandon thee,” Uriel said to her. He shrugged. “Besides: we cannot be acting against the One’s plans, or He would make it known and punish us thusly.”

Faust chuckled. “The others will be angry with thee.”

“Then let them be,” Uriel shrugged. “Besides: if thy children shalt have the powers thou speakest of, it seems fitting that my children shalt be given the gifts that I would wish to give them.”

Faust nodded. “So be it, friend. Then, when I am done here, together we shall labour to give these gifts to all kindred, and hope.”

Uriel nodded. “Hope. Yes, it will be nice to have hope again. The days have been dark.”

“They will be dark again,” Faust said sadly. “But our work will ensure there will be a new dawn hereafter.”

“Perhaps,” Uriel said. “I shalt await thee.”

And with that, Uriel departed the shaping chamber, leaving Faust alone. She turned back to the translucent figures of the Alicorns, and smiled, feeling a wave of hope that she hadn’t since before Sorath had turned to madness. The golden spheres were glowing with such intensity that even she found it difficult to gaze upon them, and the translucent figures were now more solid than before. These were the projections of what would emerge when the time was just and right.

“I hope that Uriel is right,” she said quietly, though she didn’t know whether she was speaking to herself, to the spheres, or to something else unseen, “and that our father does not begrudge me this. But if making thee makest me as much a betrayer and outcast as Primus proved, then so be it. But I must believe that intent is all, and that where Primus’ pride led to his fall, mine love shall lead only to greater things.”

By now the translucent figures had gained enough definition that individual colours and features could be seen. With a smile, Faust turned to the smallest of the three first. A midnight blue coat and regal blue mane greeted her, as did soft, kind features.

“Thou art Luna,” Faust said to this mare.

“I am Luna,” the figure of the mare repeated, her voice soft and melodic, echoing slightly.

“Thine place is at the side of thine elder sister,” Faust said to her.

“My place is at the side of mine elder sister,” the figure of Luna repeated.

“Thou shalt be her moral compass, her heart’s guide, her conscience,” Faust said. “Thou shalt be the light of her life.”

“I shall be her moral compass, her heart’s guide, her conscience,” Luna repeated, her tone warming slightly and the edges of her lips curving upward slightly. “I shall be the light of her life.”

“Listen to me now,” Faust said.

“I hear thee,” Luna said.

“To thou, I entrust the moon, and the realm of dreams,” Faust told the image, “so that the beings under thy protection will sleep well and fear no darkness. Dost thou understand?”

“I understand,” Luna said softly.

Faust nodded. “Then sleep, and await thy appointed time.”

The translucent figure disappeared, and the golden sphere glowed all the brighter. Faust nodded again, before turning to the middle sibling, an alabaster mare with a multicoloured mane flowing down her face.

“Thou art Celestia,” she said to this figure.

“I am Celestia,” the figure of the Alicorn repeated.

“Thou art guardian, guide, mentor, protector,” Faust told her.

“I am guardian, guide, mentor, protector,” the image of Celestia repeated, her echoing voice kind and reassuring even before she was truly made.

Faust nodded. “Thou shalt be even tempered, kind and firm, wise and compassionate, strong when needed, a firmament for those you lead to gather around.”

“I shall be even tempered, kind and firm, wise and compassionate, strong when needed, a firmament for those I lead to gather around,” Celestia repeated, almost nodding to the words, her expression warming incrementally as her mind responded to the words.

“Now harken to my words,” Faust said quietly. “For thou art entrusted the Sun. Thou art charged with the light and hope of the world, a task thou must not fail.”

“I understand,” Celestia’s image said.

“Good,” Faust said. “Then sleep, and await thy appointed time.”

Celestia’s image vanished, and the sphere containing what would be her glowed. Finally, Faust turned to the last sibling, a mare in shades of green and brown, a mane the colour of the golden leaves of autumn flowing around her, and red eyes.

“And thou…” she said to this mare. “Thou art Gaia.”

“I am Gaia,” the mare repeated.

Faust took a deep breath. This mare would be given at once the smallest charge and the largest.

“Thou art a mare of compassion,” she said, “but also of neutrality, for all the world is thy charge, and thou must see all sides of it.”

“I am a mare of compassion, but also of neutrality,” the image of Gaia repeated, her voice deep, powerful, but also measured and soft, “for all the world is mine charge, and I must see all sides of it.”

“Thou art the watcher of life, the overseer of decay, and to thee both the joys of spring and the frosts of winter art thy task,” Faust said quietly. “To predator and prey alike, thou art a silent guardian, never to intervene unless needed.”

“I am the watcher of life, the overseer of decay, and to me both the joys of spring and the frosts of winter are my task,” Gaia repeated. “To predator and prey alike, I am a silent guardian, never to intervene unless needed.”

Faust sighed. “Now harken well.” She paused. “All the world will be thy charge. There is a natural order, and when it is upset, it is thy place to correct it and to repair what hast been broken. Thou shalt hold no titles, but instead be a wanderer, for all the world will need thy ministrations. Dost thou understand?”

“I do,” Gaia replied.

“Good,” Faust said heavily. “Then sleep, and await thy appointed time.”

And Gaia’s figure, too, disappeared into the golden sphere. Feeling drained, Faust almost slumped, but she kept to her feet, just. She knew she had expended much of her energy in this endeavour, but she also knew, in her heart, that it had been worth it. She gave a soft smile at the three spheres, glowing away happily.

“Good night, children,” she whispered softly. “When thou awaken, a new world will await thee. May you find it a better one than ours.” She sighed. “Rest well.”

And with that, she turned aside and trotted slowly out of the cavern, leaving her ‘children’ alone and asleep. There were many labours yet ahead, and even with Uriel’s aid it would be a long time before she was done.

The future awaited.

Author's Note

And so it begins...

So yeah, it seems I can’t stay away from this kind of story. So sue me 😜 I hope that, as it unfolds, you come to enjoy it. You’ll probably notice similarities with other things I’ve worked on: that’s deliberate, as I’m using this story as an engine of exploration to take certain ideas or themes to whatever conclusions I see merit in.

‘Til next time, all.