Alduin Unbound

Here's number nine. Had it finished and sitting for the last week while I proofread the living hell out of it. Hopefully there's nothing I missed.

As in chapter eight, this one's gonna be a bit on the gory side.

Chapter 9- Deicide

If a man does his best, what else is there?

Gen. George S. Patton

They skimmed low over the treetops, stripping leaves and breaking branches with each downbeat of his wings. The sky around them was beginning to darken, the dry wind carrying the scent of blood and metal and smoke. The horizon was lit with an unearthly glow, the light pulsing like some monstrous heartbeat.

Heyvkahsil’s wings stroked furiously, the dragon constantly rising or dropping in altitude, doing everything possible to remain close to the ground. Sheogorath had pointed out that this was the best way to approach. The invaders would have no scouting parties, no airborne surveillance, no advance way of knowing what was on the way. Keeping low and out of sight would ensure that their arrival was a complete and hopefully panic-inducing surprise.

Even had he found fault with the strategy, Heyvkahsil would have welcomed the distraction. With the flight taking most of his attention, it helped keep his mind off the upcoming carnage. He was disappointed, though not surprised to see that his companion did not share his worry.

In fact, for a man heading out to single-handedly face down an invading army, Sheogorath was remarkably nonchalant. He stood proud and straight, an easy smile on his lips, and a stream of nonsensical chatter pouring from his mouth. To a casual observer, it would have seemed that the madgod was on his way to a picnic lunch rather than a battlefield.

But there was a hard glint in his eyes, a clear sign that he understood the looming danger, and relished it.

And why not? After all, Sheogorath was in his element here. If this were some children’s story, now would be the climactic moment when the hero strides out valiantly to overcome the odds and save the world.

Heyvkahsil did not feel like a hero. He felt overwhelmed, out of place, and more than a bit confused on just what they were hoping to accomplish.

Craning back his neck, he called out, “So the two of us are simply going to attack them head-on?”

“Yes! We’ll catch them unaware, disorganize and demoralize them,” Sheogorath yelled back over the wind.

“And once they decide to fight back,” he asked. “Are we to hold our ground until your soldiers arrive?”

Sheogorath laughed. “Oh, Heyvkahsil! Don’t be ridiculous!”

The dragon gave a sigh of relief. Perhaps this plan wasn’t as suicidal as he’d thought?

“Only one of us is going to hold his ground! The other has to go through the gates and bring them down!”

Heyvkahsil’s stomach lurched, what little reassurance he’d gained dwindling back to nothingness.

“So one of us is going to fight off an entire army, and the other is going to mount an attack on their home-plane,” he demanded, voice more shrill than he’d intended. “Alone?!”

Sheogorath gave him a grin, obviously proud of his strategy. “Exactly!”

“Have I mentioned what a resoundingly STUPID idea that is?”

“Repeatedly.”

The dragon groaned, knowing that any further argument would be useless.

“Oh come on,” Sheogorath wheedled. “It’ll be perfect! No sane and self-respecting enemy would even consider, much less expect this kind of attack! They won’t know what hit them!”

Heyvkahsil wished for even a fraction of that confidence. The thrill of returning to his body had faded under the looming specter of battle and death. Those lights in the distance promised both, stirring up a plethora of emotions in the dragon’s heart. None of them were pleasant.

He had never acted out of violence, in human or dragon shape. He had never struck a blow, never drawn blood, certainly never taken a life. Despite having witnessed countless deaths in the past, the thought of actually killing made his stomach churn. He gave his claws an experimental clench. He tried to imagine those talons driving through flesh, bones crunching beneath his feet, the warm and sticky feeling of blood covering his scales.

Bile rose in his throat, and he drew in several large gulps of air until the nausea passed. Rain clouds were piling up on the horizon, their thick, black shapes turning his thoughts on an even darker course.

They might die today. The realization was cold and sharp, and so alien that he nearly froze in panic.

Not once, in all the years since he first set foot on the Shivering Isles, had Heyvkahsil’s life been in danger. As the personal steward of Sheogorath, he was untouchable. Even the Greymarches were relatively harmless, as Jyggalag himself decreed that he alone was to be spared when the Isles were razed.

But now? Now he was flying directly towards a legion of merciless, fanatical invaders. As powerful as he might be, how long would it take before they dragged him down through sheer numbers?

The realization came again, stronger and more urgent. HE MIGHT DIE TODAY. The possibility was frightening, painful. He began to wish that Sheogorath had never returned this body, had never placed this burden upon him.

He barely felt the hand come to rest against his neck, but then Sheogorath’s voice reached his ears, soft and almost paternal. “You’re nervous. I can feel it through your muscles, see it in the tenseness of your body. I know this task is a grave one, and I am sorry for placing it upon you.”

A bolt of shame cut through the fear, and Heyvkahsil kept his eyes forward, letting the silence speak for him.

“But I do not doubt that you can succeed,” Sheogorath continued. “You guided me on my journey to godhood. You counseled me all these years I have ruled. Never once have you led me astray, never once failed when needed.”

The hand pressed down against his scales, and he felt a sudden warmth as a rush of power crept into his blood.

“I trust you, to a degree that no other in Nirn or Oblivion can match. Now, trust me when I say that I know you will see this through.”

The warmth had kindled into a heat that spread throughout his body. Adrenaline shot through him, fatigue and worry swept away in the literal flood of energy. Heyvkahsil did not know what Sheogorath had done, but he was thankful for it.

It was as if his body and mind had been set ablaze. For a moment, his mind connected to his master’s. He felt anger and resolve, and found that they were his emotions as well. Bloodlust welled up as he thought of the invaders that dared to attack HIS home, that dared to threaten HIS brother!

“What are we waiting for,” he snarled. “WULD…”

His thu’um tore a thin, invisible line in the fabric of reality. The planar tear collapsed in a millisecond, but they had already slipped inside.

They had not left the plane, but merely slid beneath its physical surface. But the incision was sealing, pushing them along as it closed.

To any observer, it would appear to be nothing more than a teleportation spell. The dragon and rider simply ceased to be in one location and appeared in another. But brief as it was, they both felt the dizzying rush of speed and the terrible pressure as they reached, and quickly surpassed the speed of light.

Then, with a burst of sound, they re-entered the physical world. The rip closed behind them with a deafening inrush of air and light. Still dizzy from his first thu’um in centuries, Heyvkahsil hovered in midair and observed the chaos beneath him.

All around them, the Fringe was burning. The village of Passwall was engulfed in flames, its spires and houses lighting the sky like torches. A hundred or more lesser fires dotted the landscape, devouring anything that could burn.

The ground was a chaotic jumble of movement, like a giant anthill that had been kicked wide open. Figures scurried in all directions, some frantically seeking to escape the violence, some locked in the throes of combat, and a growing number looking and pointing skyward…

Heyvkahsil was in awe as he took in the sights, the sounds, the smells. He could see the sunlight glint off the weapons and beetle-black armour of the Dremora. The smoke and the rich, coppery smell of blood made his nostrils sting. The shouted orders, the screams of pain, the howls and snarls of the bestial Daedra all mixed into a cacophony of pain and death.

The anger in his heart kindled into hatred. Sheogorath gazed down at the crowd and smiled coldly.

“Let’s get to work.”

“NAH KEST!”

The final words of his shout finally caught up to them, and it split the sky with a sound like thunder. A chorus of shouts rippled through the crowds of Dremora. Arrows were nocked, spells were readied, and all weapons and eyes focused squarely on the new arrivals.

Whatever attack they intended, it came too slow. Heyvkahsil gave a strong, powerful stroke of his wings before tucking his limbs and screaming into a dive. He rocketed towards the ground like a runaway meteor, jaws yawning open.

“Yol… TOOR SHUL!”

A jet of fire burst from the dragon’s mouth, crashing into the ranks of Dremora. Those at the center of the flames had no time to scream before they were disintegrated. Those at the fire’s edge died only a fraction slower, their flesh bursting into flame, their armour fusing and melting against their bones.

Unfortunately, Heyvkahsil was too engrossed in the destruction he was causing to notice just how close the ground was becoming, or how steep their dive had actually been. Then Sheogorath was screaming at him to level out, and he could see the individual faces of the Dremora beneath him. He unfurled his wings.

They could not have been more then forty feet off the ground, and it took nearly all of that distance before they were climbing back into the sky. He was sure they had been mere inches over the Dremora’s heads, easily within reach of their weapons if any of them had been quick enough to strike.

They banked low over the town, his wings stirring up eddies of smoke and dust. Once again, he swooped low over the invaders. Once again, he poured flaming death upon them. His fire burned white-hot, melting sand into glass and immolating the soldiers caught within. Whatever he targeted, he destroyed.

And all the while, Sheogorath was casting spells without pause. His hands flaring with indigo light, he flung magicka into the crowds. Strangely enough, the spells appeared to do nothing. Wherever they hit, the ground merely glowed for a short time. Whatever purpose they served, only the madgod knew.

Heyvkahsil was coming around for a third pass when he noticed the Dremora were no longer scattering at his approach, but already loosing a counterattack. Arrows shot from their bowstrings, bolts of ice and lightning burst from outstretched hands, and throwing spears and daggers of all sizes were cast towards them.

Heyvkahsil braced himself for the onslaught of projectiles, knowing that there was no time to dodge. But before even a single arrow could strike, a dazzling blue light flared up just inches from the dragon’s snout. They flew straight through the barrage, every spell dissipating, every weapon deflected.

He looked back to see Sheogorath astride his neck, arm extended and hand glowing the same blue as the shield. The madgod threw him a lopsided grin.

“Think we’ve worn out our welcome?”

“Well, they ARE trying to kill us,” he responded sarcastically.

Sheogorath nodded. “A good point. We should probably stop playing around.” He pointed to the leftmost Oblivion Gate. “How about you fly over there and hit them right in front of the gate? Something big, something that’ll clear the whole area!”

Heyvkahsil circled the gate, searching for the most opportune target. He found it in a tightly clustered squadron of Dremora churls, with a single kynreeve barking orders from their midst. He drew back his head and inhaled.

“Bah… AG DU!”

He spat a ball of roaring fire. The missile slammed into the group like an incendiary hailstone, tossing the black-skinned figures into the air. Any other nearby troops were thrown back by the explosion, leaving a blackened crater littered with scraps of armor and gobbets of flesh.

They hovered just over the crater, each of them looking to the other as if expecting some action.

“What now,” Heyvkahsil asked. “Will you make your way inside while I keep them occupied?”

Sheogorath scowled at him in annoyance. “Of course not! YOU’RE the one who’s going in!”

The dragon nearly fell out of the sky, temporarily forgetting to beat his wings in surprise. “Me!? But… but why?”

“To destroy the gate, of course! Weren’t you paying attention earlier?”

“No, I mean yes! But why am I the one doing it?”

The madgod rolled his eyes. “Come now, use your head! You want me to march into one of those gates, where hundreds if not thousands of soldiers are waiting to cross over? And then, after wading through that little quagmire of armour and weapons, hike all the way to the tower, climb it, and finally bring it down? Preposterous! Why should I spend hours doing that when you can just fly over them and right to the top?”

Heyvkahsil struggled for a counter-argument. “Well… but… I… I don’t even know how to destroy a gate! You can’t expect…”

Sheogorath waved a hand dismissively. “Couldn’t be simpler! Just find the biggest, tallest tower with glowing windows, use those big, taloned clodhoppers of yours to knock the wall down, and then rip out the sigil stone! It’s so easy, even a madman could do it!”

Heyvkahsil was about to retort that if it was so simple, Sheogorath could get off his divine ass and do it himself.

Unfortunately, Sheogorath was already bailing off. “Toodle-oo!”

Heyvkahsil watched in slack-jawed bewilderment as the god of madness plummeted towards the ground, landing in a spectacular, if somewhat gruesome fashion.

Emotions ran wild through his head. A part of him was horrified at what he remembered lay beyond those gates. Another part was disgusted at the thought of leaving Sheogorath to face such odds alone. And then there was the very small, yet very enraged part that felt incensed at the madgod giving him what was obviously the more dificult task.

Muttering several draconic curses at his infuriating master, Heyvkahsil pumped his wings and dove headfirst into the gate.

The moon hung high over the city, a shining beacon in a cloudless sky. Below lay the city of Canterlot, and nopony could deny that the city always seemed most beautiful at night. The windows of its towers and spires blazed with light, the warm glow of innumerable candles, fireplaces and torches illuminating courtyards and terraces, balconies and gardens. Even the streets were filled with life and energy. Ponies passed in and out of nightclubs, socialized at dinner parties, relaxed in cafes and restaurants. They ambled through the torch and moonlit streets, reveling in the excitement of the nightlife, the companionship of one another, and the sheer, simple pleasure of being alive.

There was one pony, however, that did not appreciate the hustle and bustle of the finest and grandest city of the world. As a matter of fact, he didn’t give a good goddamn about any of it.

Cascade trudged down Mane Street, feeling as though his legs had turned to stone with every step. Conversation ground to a halt as he passed, and ponies were quick to step out of his way, casting him wary looks as if he might lash out at any second. His uniform was rumpled, his mane and tail in complete disarray. Bags were visible under his bloodshot eye, and his face was set in the type of surly grimace one would associate with a massive hangover.

Not that anypony would say it to his face, but he looked like shit.

He certainly felt like it. His entire day had been an unbroken string of complications, one after another. When he advised the princess to let him take care of everything, he didn’t expect to be doing it quite so literally.

Things had gone sour right from the beginning. The sudden rush to form a nationwide sensor array had negated any chance for him to deploy his hoofpicked and trained soldiers. Even if the entire royal guard had been assigned to help with transportation, there would have been no way to get them situated in time.

Instead, he had been forced to reassign any unicorn that happened to be qualified and stationed in the area. The result was a mixture of soldiers from differing squadrons, companies, regiments, and everything in between, making for an uncoordinated, undisciplined, and uncooperative band of misfits.

Looking back, it would have been easier herding cats than getting that bunch to work together.

Sadly, things had not ended there. Whether it be the local pegasi refusing to halt the weather or Ryegate pissing and moaning about being precluded from command, everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. And that was even before that damn Rainboom lit up the sky!

But now, thank Celestia, it was over, and there was nothing to stop him from heading straight to the officer’s club, ordering a bucket of oatmeal stout, and drinking until Tartarus froze over, thawed, and froze again.

A hoof tapped his shoulder.

Cascade froze, inwardly decided that whoever wanted him for whatever reason, it was not worth it. Without so much as a backwards glance, he continued walking.

The tap came again, along with a tense and nearly inaudible “General, sir?”

Wishing this annoyance would spontaneously combust, Cascade grit his teeth and turned to see a member of the royal guard. The colt was young, an obvious FNG, and clearly scared out of his mind.

A twinge of pity wormed its way through his frustration, and the unicorn resisted the urge to order his subordinate to go jump off a bridge.

“Yes, corporal,” he growled out.

“Ah… excuse me… sir…” the pegasus said, stumbling over his words as he gave a nervous salute. “I’ve been looking for you… to escort… that is… your orders are to report to the palace immediately… well, as soon as you returned to Canterlot… so…”

“Understood,” he said wearily, waving the guard off. Well, that just bucking figured. Somepony was ‘ordering’ him to the castle. And he had a very good idea who, as only one individual possessed the authority to order him about. Hell, she was the only pony excluding his wife that could technically make him do anything!

So with a heavy heart, he changed course and plodded slowly towards the castle. As wonderful as a cold beer sounded, it wouldn’t do to keep the princess of ponykind waiting.

Oh no, that wouldn’t do at all.

After a long hike to and through the castle, Cascade finally stumbled his way into Celestia’s chambers. The alicorn looked up from where she lay relaxing on the bed, one wing extended as though covering something. Her soft smile was almost enough to lift him out of his funk.

Almost.

“Ah, Cascade, I’m pleased that you made it back safely.” She gestured to a nearby cushion. “Please, take a seat. You look as though you could use the rest.”

He grunted out a disconnected string of words and closed the door behind him. The room was warm and dimly lit, the fire’s glow casting light over furniture and the elegant sky and starscape murals on the walls. It was a grand and beautiful room, a sanctum that only the closest and most cherished friends of the princess were allowed to enter. Most ponies would give up their right foreleg to merely look inside. Cascade would have given both his hind legs if he’d stumbled into a bar instead.

Reaching his destination, he flopped bonelessly onto the cushion. As an afterthought, he brought a hoof to his forehead in the laziest salute possible.

“Reporting as ordered,” he mumbled into the pillow, far too exhausted to maintain his usual poise and decorum.

Celestia gave an amused sigh and levitated a full teacup down in front of the general’s nose. “Drink up, my friend. I’ll not have you dozing off in the middle of your report.”

He took a sip and grimaced. Herbal tea was definitely not his preferred beverage after a long day’s work. If she was going to bribe him, she could at least offer something a bit harder!

She clucked her tongue. “My, aren’t we cheeky today? Traipsing in here like some undignified vagrant, turning up your nose at my offer of tea, and then demanding booze in exchange for information?”

Realizing that he’d been mistakenly complaining out loud, Cascade gulped and quickly downed the rest of the cup.

“That’s better,” she said with a nod. “And, fortunately for you, I happen to be in a rather… celebratory mood tonight.” Her horn glowed, and a dark metal flask quickly flew from her desk to Cascade’s gleeful hooves.

The unicorn beamed and quickly unscrewed the cap, savoring the rich scent of whiskey that emanated from within. “I love you, you know that right?”

“Flattery was never your strong suit,” she said with a chuckle. Cascade merely shrugged and took a long pull from the flask, the tension in his body seeming to fade away as the liquid worked its magic.

When he finally lowered the flask from his lips, she asked, “Now, can you tell me about the Element bearers?”

With the hot glow of triple-distilled ambrosia in his belly, Cascade straightened up at once, though his mouth remained in a frown at the memories of the day.

“Of course,” he said. “Following your departure, I initiated a sustained, telepathic communiqué between the various listening posts and monitoring teams spread throughout the kingdom. We then conducted several drills involving the discharge of spells at various degrees of strength, to help in identifying and disregarding false contacts.”

Pausing, Cascade cleared his throat and took another quick swig from the flask. “As I’m certain you noticed, a visual anomaly manifested shortly before 0700 hours in the skies northeast of Cloudsdale. At the same time, sixteen of our monitoring teams reported a magical disturbance of extreme strength, registering at 8.6 on the Kolchev scale and originating from an unverified location within the Everfree Forest. From there, things became… chaotic.”

“I must confess to have eavesdropped for a moment after the rainboom appeared,” Celestia admitted. “It sounded as if your stallions were in severe disarray.”

He shot her a dry look. He didn’t know how she could so casually dismiss such an absolute cluster buck, but to him it was along the same lines as comparing a static shock to being struck by a lightning bolt.

“No, your highness,” he growled. “Disarray would be your mane getting blown out of place by the wind. What happened to us would be like your mane being tossed in every direction at once, and then the individual hairs start screaming at each other until you want to rip the damned things right out of your head!”

Celestia laughed, obviously taking great pleasure in imagining the scene. Cascade used the opportunity to take another pull from the flask.

“Surely it couldn’t have been that bad?”

“Oh no, no, no… it was worse!” He realized that his words were becoming more forceful, his syllables starting to blend, and he quickly capped the flask before his coherency could suffer further.

“What else happened?” Her voice was soothing, her expression sympathetic and patient. With his inhibitions already lowered, he could feel the frustration and stress of the day reaching its boiling point.

“What else happened? Utter chaos happened,” he moaned. “Every channel lit up at once, each citing magical discharges all across the map. They didn’t bother cross-checking with other teams, didn’t identify and disregard false echoes. They were acting like foals on a damn treasure hunt, with a prize going to whoever got the first one!”

The princess tilted her head. “But did you not anticipate such a level of confusion? I assumed that was what you hoped to solve with the redundancy and overlap of the sensors?”

Her voice trailed off, and he could see a measure of uncertainty in her eyes.

“Were… were you unable to locate any of them,” she asked hesitantly.

Cascade gave a quick shake of his head, retrieving a sheaf of papers from one of his saddlebags. “No, we got ‘em all.”

“Though it should have been twice as quick and ten times easier,” he muttered.

The papers glowed with Celestia’s magic and formed a semicircle before her. He watched from around the flask as her eyes flicked between pages.

After locating the bearers, they had been instructed to observe, though not to directly approach. That restriction had prevented them from learning much more than names and physical appearance, location, maybe a few prominent personality traits. Certainly not enough to indicate whether the girls were in the slightest bit capable of saving the entire world.

Her brow furrowed, a sign that she was deep in thought. He wondered if she shared his worries. Mystical Elements or not, they were little more than fillies, and he sincerely doubted they would stand a chance against a being as powerful and ruthless as Nightmare Moon.

“I was expecting them to be more widespread,” she noted. “Two in Cloudsdale, two in Ponyville, the others not far off.”

Celestia shuffled the papers around, looking as though she had reached an undesirable conclusion. “Cascade,” she finally asked. “What are the logistics of providing transportation, food, and housing accommodations for all six of these fillies?”

The question caught him off guard. “For how long? And how often?”

Celestia brought a hoof to her mouth. “Daily visits twice a week, at the very least. And perhaps overnight stays for the weekends…”

He understood where she was going with this. If the six were going to work together, it was imperative for them to meet and begin interacting as soon as possible. He didn’t think much of the kind of scheduled meetings Celestia was considering, though.

“I think you’re on the right track, princess, but why make things more difficult than necessary?”

Even from behind the papers, he could feel her arcing a curious eyebrow in his direction. “Wouldn’t it be more feasible,” he continued, “to simply move them all to the same area? With them all living in the same city, their interactions would be frequent and sustained.”

“From a tactical standpoint, this would also make it easier to monitor and protect them in the case of emergency, and would also reduce the time needed for them to organize and launch their counterattack on Nightmare Moon.”

There was no response for several moments, and then Celestia wryly remarked, “A very convincing argument, Cascade. Had I known that drunkenness provided such inspiration, I’d have brought that flask to every council meeting.”

The unicorn laughed. “I certainly wouldn’t object! Though with Sweet Grass trying to toss me out for debauchery, I doubt we’d get a thing accomplished.”

Celestia responded with a soft giggle, and the two friends once again fell into a comfortable silence. The alicorn returned her attention to the reports, while Cascade returned his attention to the whiskey.

With the flask finally empty, the unicorn lowered it to the floor and looked back to his princess. “So then, what kind of housing should I reserve for the girls?”

The row of documents parted like an opening curtain, revealing Celestia’s perplexed face.

“You know, for these fillies once we’ve brought them to Canterlot,” he explained.

“They won’t be staying in Canterlot,” she said.

“No? But I thought…”

“For occasional visits,” she interrupted. “As a permanent home, I feel it could do more harm than good. Too high-profile, and with so many other ponies, excitement, distractions, it could easily hinder their progress.”

He nodded in understanding. “Where then? Cloudsdale would require long-term enchantments for two-thirds of them. Fillydelphia is too great a distance…”

“Ponyville. It’s easily reachable from Canterlot, as well as quite close to the Elements themselves.”

“Good enough for me,” he agreed. “First thing tomorrow I’ll start making arrangements for their new homes in Ponyville and begin contacting the families. If all goes well, I can promise all six of them there by week’s end.”

“Actually, I think it best if you allowed me to take care of this,” she said. “I also believe it would serve us better if they each moved to Ponyville separately, with a period of time to settle in before the next arrival.”

Cascade was perplexed. “How so?”

Celestia’s smile was devious. “Considering the town’s size, I’ve little doubt the Elements there are already acquainted. And with a bit of harmless manipulation, their bond can be easily reinforced. From there, I need only steer their fellow bearers towards them. Perhaps a business, or some civic duty that will ensure a meeting.”

“A sensible plan, but why not bring them together all at once?”

“Because it will be less threatening to meet as individuals than as a group. When each mare arrives, she will initially meet, and befriend one or both of the original residents. They, in turn, will introduce her to those who arrived before.”

“But we don’t need them to be best friends, only to cooperate effectively. Or does building a rapport somehow lead to a greater increase in their power, or make it easier for the Elements to coordinate?”

Celestia shot him an amused look.

“An extreme understatement, but correct nonetheless.” She explained how the six Elements functioned as a whole, a combined force that could only function if each piece was unified with the others.

Something clicked in the stallion’s mind at those words, and he felt a twinge of fear creep through the alcoholic buzz covering his thoughts.

“You said they all have to work in tandem,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Did you mean that the Elements themselves need to be unified, or their bearers?”

“Both,” Celestia responded. “The Elements represent balance, equilibrium. So too must the bearers. They must trust one another, care for one another. They must share a common goal, their minds focused and hearts pure. That shared harmony is what gives life to the Elements themselves.”

“What if they’re not? What if one of them isn’t… in line with the rest?”

Celestia frowned. “Then the remaining Elements would be useless. Why? Do you worry that one might be captured, or flee?”

“No, your majesty. What I’m imagining is something far worse.”

He leaned forwards. “What if… one or more of them carries Nightmare Moon’s essence? What if they fall under her control?

Sheogorath leaps from the dragon’s back, paying no heed to the indignant words of his companion. He falls fast and lands hard, toppling a Dremora mage as it tries to ready a spell.

The Dremora bellows and scrambles to its feet, tugging at the mace in its belt. Sheogorath remains on his back, two hands calmly lifting and grasping hold of thin air. With a triumphant snarl, the Dremora throws itself forwards.

There is a flash of light and the smell of heated iron. An object appears in Sheogorath’s hands, shining like quicksilver. The spear is long and impossibly heavy, with four upward curving spikes surrounding the wicked, bladed tip.

In an instant, Sheogorath rises to one knee and plants the butt of the spear into the charred earth. Unable to stop, the Dremora comes down with the full weight of its body driving the spear in and through its chest. The weapon blazes with light as organs char and blood flashes into steam. The spearpoint shakes and rattles, seemingly possessed by a mind of its own as the Dremora’s eyes glaze.

Sheogorath sets a boot against the corpse’s chest and rips the spear free, allowing it to topple backwards into the dust. Above him, Heyvkahsil vanishes into the gate, and he silently wishes his friend luck before his attention turns back to the fight.

The crowd stretches out to either side, a shifting field of black armour and weapons. Countless eyes are fixed to the madgod, each filled with anger and the promise of violence. But they advance slowly, each waiting for his fellows to make the first move. For all their arrogance, for all their discipline, he knows they are afraid.

Sheogorath stands tall, the Spear of Bitter Mercy firmly in his grip. He lifts both arms as if in welcome.

“Come on then,” he roars. “I’LL CRUSH YOU ALL!”

For a few agonizing seconds, the legion freezes, his voice rumbling over them like thunder. Then they yell in furious unison and surge forward, thousands of swords, axes and other weapons raised to strike.

Sheogorath is already gone, vanishing and reappearing several hundred feet into the crowd. The Xivilai commander is screaming orders at his troops when the white-haired deity flashes into being next to him, beard flecked with blood, spear drawn back for a strike.

Eyes widen, hands fumble for a weapon, but the Spear of Bitter Mercy flashes up and across like a comet, its tip slicing through flesh, muscle and bone. Before the severed head can begin to fall, Sheogorath slays five others with a powerful roundhouse swing and teleports away.

The helmeted head falls and strikes the ground with a clang. Then the screams begin.

The Fringe erupts with the sounds of battle. The cries of the wounded, the clipped and increasingly frantic commands, the clashing of metal against metal, and the wet squelch of blades meeting flesh.

Confusion reigns. The bewildered Daedra see allies on all sides, then a flash of light, a rush of air, and the squadron beside them collapses in a spray of blood and gore. With no clear enemy or strategy, discipline erodes. Some attempt to fortify and defend their positions. Some scatter in panic. Most attempt to rally their brethren and push deeper into the Isles, hoping against hope that they survive.

Throughout the valley, Sheogorath is doing what he does best: causing chaos. Blanketing the ground like snow are thousands upon thousands of Mark spells, placed by the madgod during Heyvkahsil’s attacks. Now Sheogorath teleports from one to the next, crossing hundreds of feet in the blink of an eye and sowing carnage in his wake.

Blink. He teleports into a cluster of troops, eyes set on the Markynaz directing them. The grand duke has enough time to turn his head towards this new threat before Sheogorath’s spear punches through his skull, popping out an eye and driving brains out through his teeth. The madgod drops a sphere of frost and blinks away before the others are riddled with shards of exploding ice.

Blink. He reappears alongside a hulking Daedroth, ramming his spear into the crocodilian beast’s gut. The monster howls and lashes out blindly, but only strikes its own allies as the madgod vanishes yet again.

Blink. He brings his weapon upward in a cleaving arc that severs limbs and splits armour like paper.

Blink. He spins and delivers a full-arched swing, catching an Auroran commander in the chest with the spear’s blunt end. The golden-clad figure’s ribs are splintered, and he is sent flying back into his men, the impact bowling over the entire group.

And so it goes. The madgod travels across the valley with reckless abandon, pausing only to kill whatever is in range when he appears. He slaughters platoons, decimates brigades, striking wildly and lethally.

As he kills, he is reminded of a childhood, centuries in the past. As a youth in the mountain city of Chorrol, he and other children would play at war. They would race wildly through the streets with no tactics or plans, using sticks and snowballs as weapons and spells.

Sheogorath acts the same now, but instead of bruised skin and soaked clothing, the bodies he leaves behind are shredded beyond recognition.

The Daedra are scattering all throughout the region, their fright of the god-spear and the demon wielding it spurring them to panic. Sheogorath follows, choosing and killing at his leisure as a farmer picks ripened fruit.

It is still not enough. More Daedra pour through the Oblivion Gates and the scattered pockets of resistance gradually form into a semblance of order. The commanders force their lesser brethren forward, and the legions advance. Sheogorath strikes all the more furiously, but finds himself unable to push the Daedra out of the salient they have created. Inwardly, he urges Heyvkahsil to hurry.

Luckily, he does not have long to wait. The veil of fire in the leftmost gate begins to contract into a brilliant orb of flame. The ball shudders and begins to pulse, sending out a trio of shockwaves that batter the spires and arch of the gate to pieces.

As the rubble thunders to the ground, the orb gives one last tremor, and Heyvkahsil’s body is expelled from the collapsing portal. The dragon crashes into one of Jyggalag’s crystal obelisks and lies still. The ball of flame erupts into a pillar of fire several meters wide, stabbing into the sky before growing thin and finally dissipating.

The momentum of the battle shifts. Angered at the destruction of the gate, the assorted Daedra loose a massed yell, double back, and stream towards the motionless dragon. Sheogorath knows their thoughts. Furious at the losses they have suffered, the Dremora are anxious, desperate to inflict damage in return. In Heyvkahsil, they see something vulnerable. Something to kill.

Sheogorath meets them less than ten feet from the dragon’s body. The madgod’s form is shrouded in divine light, and the air around him swirls with dirt, debris, bits of blood and armour.

“NOBODY TOUCHES MY DRAGON,” he roars, the amplified shout throwing the crowd off-balance. He charges before they can recover; the Spear of Bitter Mercy slashing back and forth in great horizontal arcs. Blood literally boils in the air as Sheogorath tears his way through like a man shoveling snow.

But the path he carves is a narrow one, and Dremora stream past him on either side. Cursing, the madgod teleports back in a serpentine pattern, cutting down any that approach.

“Heyvkahsil! Wake up and get off your scaly rump,” he shouts desperately. “You still have two gates to go!”

The dragon stirs. Heyvkahsil’s eyes open; he notices the tide of bodies that approach. Scrambling to his feet, he gives Sheogorath a brief word of encouragement before taking wing once again.

Now surrounded, Sheogorath teleports away before the crowd of Daedra can overwhelm him. No longer forced into a defensive role, he resumes his bloody work, failing to notice the cracked obelisk where Heyvkahsil lay, or the fragments of crystal lodged between the dragon’s scales.

It was no easier the second time. He struck the planar boundary, and the portal flowed and wrapped around his body like a membrane of fire. For the shortest of moments there was a terrible disorientation, as if balance and equilibrium had ceased to exist.

The feeling passed as his nostrils filled with the stench of brimstone, excrement, rotting flesh, and a thousand other things too horrible to be described. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

Stretched out before him was a hellish wasteland, barren and inhospitable. The torn sky was a quagmire of light and motion. The black, swollen clouds piled atop one another, sometimes breaking apart to reveal the dull red glow of something too alien to be called a sun. Great chains of lightning arced from one horizon to the next, each bolt wider than rivers and longer than mountain ranges. The ground below was a nightmarish labyrinth of ruined buildings and cold rock half-submerged in necrotic sludge.

Heyvkahsil drew in a breath, and the foul air burned at his throat and lungs. He strained to keep aloft, the plane’s gravity making it feel as though he carried another dragon on his back. He flew onward, his eyes searching for a tower that might sustain the gate. It was difficult to concentrate. The sheer, unnatural wrongness of this world was enough to nearly throw him into a panic.

“And just think; were it not for luck, you and your kind might have been trapped in this abyss until the end of time.”

The voice caught him by surprise, and he reflexively swung his head around and loosed a stream of fire behind him.

“Is that your idea of a greeting,” the voice asked. “And I always thought you to be a well-mannered beast.”

Heyvkahsil snarled. “Who are you? Reveal yourself!”

The voice turned hard. “Giving me orders? You of all people should know better than that, my good and faithful servant…”

A chill ran up the dragon’s spine, his memories placing the voice to its owner. “Jyggalag,” he whispered.

“Ah, so you do remember. It is pleasing to know I have not been forgotten, even by traitors.”

Jyggalag sounded pleased, like a man whose dog had finally learned a difficult trick. Heyvkahsil, on the other hand, was terrified. He had no idea when, or from where Jyggalag had come, but his mere presence was a threat all its own. There was no way Sheogorath or the Isles could withstand the combined ire of two Daedric Princes.

He needed to choose his words carefully, and pray that the god of order was in an agreeable mood. “An honor to speak with you again, Lord Jyggalag. But could you not have waited for a more opportune time to seek me out? As you can see, I’ve managed to get myself rather lost.”

There was a low rumble that Heyvkahsil mistook for thunder; then he realized it was the unseen god laughing. “Don’t play coy with me, Haskill. I know quite well how you came to be in this place, and what goal drives you. I beheld the threat facing the Isles, and heard firsthand Sheogorath’s plan to counter it.”

A sense of despair washed over him. Jyggalag knew. Had he somehow watched and waited through the centuries, looking for a convenient time to take back his former realm?

“When did you return,” he finally asked.

The response was smug, mocking. “I never left.”

Silence followed. Heyvkahsil flew on, his eyes searching desperately for the tower. He knew what the Daedra expected him to ask, heard the words in his mind but refused to voice them. These might be his last moments, and if so, then he needed to close the second gate, if only to better the odds for Sheogorath when Jyggalag came for him.

When he could no longer bear the ominous quiet, he asked, “Why have you revealed yourself?”

A soft, amused chuckle. “I have come to offer my aid. To assist Sheogorath as he once did me on the eve of the final Greymarch.”

The physical world seemed to fade out as Heyvkahsil fought the panic rising in his chest. Jyggalag wanted to assist Sheogorath? Assist the very one who usurped his throne and cast him out of his realm? Ludicrous! Why would he choose to do such a thing?

Perhaps this was all a ploy? Some act of revenge that would deceive and cut down Sheogorath in his moment of triumph?

He shook his head. No, Jyggalag was not the type to rely on trickery. Whether in matters of state or war, the prince of order was as subtle and straightforward as a battering ram. He would never hide his intentions behind lies or falsity.

So then, was he serious in his offer? That possibility was scarcely more reassuring. What conditions would his help entail? What would he demand in return?

Heyvkahsil knew he had to choose his words carefully. “A generous offer. But if you have observed what you claim, then you know that Sheogorath himself holds the invaders at bay, and only one gate will remain once this falls. Forgive me, your grace, but I fear your assistance will not be needed.”

That deep, rumbling laugh echoed in his ears. “It is indeed a noble plan, but it is doomed to fail. Sheogorath believes he can deal with this as he did with the Oblivion Crisis in years past. That the invasion is as frail and contained as a lesion upon the skin, a cyst he can cut away and sterilize.”

“What else can we do,” Heyvkahsil demanded.

“Soldiers can be killed. Invasions can be thwarted. But a Daedric Prince is not so easily defeated. You must carve deeper, to the very root of the infection. Cut it out at the source, then cauterize it, so that every trace is burned away. Destroy him entirely.”

The dragon could not keep from snorting in derision. “Impossible.”

“Is it? Lorkhan proved that even the gods can die. Why should we Daedra be any different?”

The implications of those words made his head spin. “If such a thing is possible… if you know how to accomplish it… why contact me at all? Why wait so long and then offer to help us, when you could simply have acted long before?”

“Does it matter? You need only know that my assistance has been offered, and that it will save your realm.”

“That is not enough,” the dragon protested. “If I am to agree to this alliance, behind Sheogorath’s back, no less, I will not do so in ignorance. You will tell me how you gained this knowledge, why you are choosing to help us, and what you stand to gain in the end!”

There was no response, and Heyvkahsil wondered if he had pushed too far. Ahead of him, a great spire of basalt and iron loomed over the ruined earth. He could make out the flickering light from the tallest windows, and was relieved to have reached his goal.

Something like a sigh passed his ears. “In the days after my defeat at the hands of the new Sheogorath, I wandered the dark spaces between planes. I sought to regain my strength. The Isles were lost to me, and so I wished to craft a new home of my own design.”

“But my power was spent. Too much wasted on the invasion, too little siphoned back. I no longer had the strength to shape the Aurbis, to stabilize it, to tame it. And I did not wish to remain bodiless in that darkness, where unknown shapes groped and slithered. So I returned to the comfort of the old spaces, to my obelisks and crystals.”

Heyvkahsil climbed higher, wings beating the still air as he circled the tower. He knew the darkness Jyggalag described, and the fear of being watched by formless terrors in the black. At the same time, he realized why Jyggalag had approached him. With no wellspring for his powers, the god of order was next to powerless. Even if they somehow needed him to win this battle, he needed them all the more.

“But when I returned,” Jyggalag continued, “I soon realized that I had been followed, like a wounded fawn with a wolf lapping at the blood it trails. I returned to the crystal only to find myself trapped, encircled by a seething mass of eyes and tendrils. The demon of knowledge, Hermaeus Mora…”

“He spoke to me of a terrible event in the future, one that would spell doom for the whole of Mundus, Oblivion and Aetherius alike. The tides of Fate had revealed that a Daedric Prince would escape to worlds beyond our own, that he would rise in power and one day return to conquer and destroy his brethren. This war would upset the balance between Aedra and Daedra, and that instability would destroy all three of our worlds. But Mora did not know the identity of the Prince, nor did he know what events would precede this apocalypse. And so he came to me. He came for Dyus.”

Heyvkahsil remembered that name. Jyggalag’s chamberlain, the keeper of his once great library. It was said that the man knew of every event through history, that he could predict the actions taken by every being, mortal or god, and so predict the future without fail.

“Mora had long sought to add my library to his own, but now that desire had grown into a necessity. With Dyus’ knowledge, he could determine the Prince’s identity and put a stop to his designs. So he made me an offer: surrender my library, and he would give me what I so desired.”

“A plane of your own,” Heyvkahsil guessed.

He felt Jyggalag smile in his mind. “Better. The secret to permanently killing another Daedra and taking their realm for my own.”

He came at last to the top of the tower. With Jyggalag’s troubling, even frightening words fresh in his mind, Heyvkahsil drew back his head and inhaled.

“Fus… RO DAH!”

The side of the tower dented inwards, a series of cracks appearing in the dark stone. Heyvkahsil waited for a moment, then shouted again. A second dent formed beside the first. The cracks grew larger.

“Dangerous knowledge to be given,” he said. “Why trust you with such a secret? For all he knew, you could be the destroyer he prophesized.”

“He considered that,” Jyggalag rumbled. “And he planned to end me then and there, if Dyus’ predictions revealed me as such. Obviously, it did not. And so he gifted me with this most terrible of secrets, provided I use it to end the threat to our worlds.”

“Why would he share it at all,” Heyvkahsil had to ask. “Could he not have acted on his own?”

Jyggalag scoffed. “Don’t be a fool, Haskill. If it were so easy to slay a Daedric Prince, we would have destroyed ourselves long ago!”

“No, Mora would not have acted, nor would any of the others,” he continued. “You see, the act of destroying another lord is a slow and dangerous process. While performing it, the Daedra must focus the whole of his being. He must, in essence, abandon his realm.”

“And what is so hazardous about that? Sheogorath is often summoned to the mortal plane. Princes visit one another frequently. How would this be any different?”

“Indeed, you are foolish.”

Heyvkahsil grit his teeth and continued throwing shouts at the tower. The material buckled and cracked.

“A storm approaches from the sea, and the wise man locks his door, bars his windows, strengthens his walls. He departs in confidence, knowing that his home is secure, protected from all that approaches. But what if his presence, his power, is what sustains the house? What if nails will rust and beams will rot and supports falter the longer he remains away?”

Heyhkahsil was beginning to understand. No matter their size or glory or grandeur, each sphere was still tied to the Prince who ruled it. That meant…

“It becomes vulnerable without them! The time and strain of fully conquering another realm forces them to draw power away from their own,” he ventured.

Jyggalag chuckled. “Hmm, perhaps there is hope for you after all. You are correct. Hermaeus Mora could indeed destroy this realm, but his own would be left helpless in the meantime. And then, to weaken Mora and strengthen himself, what would stop Malacath from obliterating Mora’s realm? And what would stop Nocturnal from destroying Malacath? Or Meridia destroying her?”

It made sense. Though one Prince might possibly eliminate another, the certainty of their own destruction was enough to stay their hands. It was that constant fear that kept Oblivion from tearing itself apart in the throes of war.

Something still troubled him, and he ceased his attack on the tower.

“But wait! What of this realm? If what he said to Sheogorath was true, he intends to abandon it in his pursuit of the worlds beyond Mundus! Surely he knows that he risks its destruction?”

“Very perceptive, Haskill. Yes, I have no doubt that he knows the risks. But through his actions this day, it seems that he hopes to deceive his fellow Daedra. When this invasion fails, it will appear that he has secluded himself here, rebuilding his strength and foregoing contact with the other worlds.”

“He assumes that this deception will allay any suspicion, and that those who realize the truth will still be held back by the fear of reprisal. He is correct on both counts. But none of them realize that I am waiting to strike. I, who currently has no home to lose and can act with impunity.”

The wall was nearly broken. Heyvkahsil flew closer and slammed both legs into the stone. He smashed through the broken stone, and once again found himself in a large, domed room. The floor below was a ring of volcanic rock surrounding a circle of red, spongy material the same color and consistency as raw flesh. Ramps and stairs circled upward to a suspended metal crucible. Perched within and engulfed in a pillar of fire was the sigil stone, the anchor for the Oblivion Gate.

“You distrust me, and you are right to do so. But know that despite the defeat and the insult your master handed me, I hold no malice towards him or his realm. In truth, I would prefer not to deal with you at all. Unfortunately, my power is still rooted in the Isles, and I am little more than a ghost elsewhere. Even now, I can only speak through the crystals lodged in your hide. Before I can take control of this world, before I can lend you my aid, I will first require yours.”

Ignoring the words, Heyvkahsil tucked his wings, bent his legs and jumped to one of the perimeter ramps. The rusted metal screeched and bent in protest, and he quickly leapt to the next before it collapsed. When the sigil stone came within reach, he acted without hesitation, lunging forward and snatching the orb up in his jaws. Ripping it from the fire, he crushed it between his teeth.

The room erupted in flames, the walls and floor melting from the intense heat. A strong pulling sensation grew from the broken sigil stone, and Heyvkahsil found himself being sucked into a void of blackness.

The disorientation came and went, and then he was back in the Isles, thrown from the collapsing gate in the few moments before it imploded upon itself.

The air was filled with the sounds of battle. Sheogorath was no longer alone; countless saints and seducers were locked in hand to hand combat with the Dremora. What had once been a single man against innumerable odds was now a few thousand against a few thousand, the intruders being pushed steadily back towards the last standing gate.

Hope kindled in his chest. They had all but won! The only remaining task was to close the gate, and sweep away the last pockets of reinforcements that still charged futilely into the fray.

“It will not last,” Jyggalag reminded him. “No matter how many of his troops you destroy, no matter how many times he is forced out of this world, he will find a way to return. He will attack again, and again, until he takes what he desires. And then? Then he will bring about the end of all things.”

“So you say,” Heyvkahsil countered. “But what proof is there of the claims you make? I have only your word for assurance, the word of one who was once an enemy of my lord.”

Jyggalag’s voice was flat and unsympathetic. “You have my word on nothing. I do not give my word to traitors and slaves of madness. But I have spoken the truth.”

“Very well, but suppose I give you the aid you require, that I help you tear this world down and remake it in your image. What then? What proof have I that you will not turn your sights once again on the Isles, mind set on revenge?”

“You have none. But tell me, which is preferable to you? A potential ally, who may or may not prove trustworthy in the future, or a known enemy who currently seeks your destruction?”

The dragon staggered, laughing bitterly. Was this what it meant to be a hero? Gambling with the lives of entire worlds, making alliances not out of friendship but necessity, praying that whatever sacrifices were made and consequences arose would be somehow worth avoiding their alternative? If so, he wanted no part of it. Let other beings, stronger beings make those choices, live with those consequences.

But no, he could not simply wash his claws of this. Sheogorath bade him to help end the threat to the Isles. If this agreement could accomplish that, then he was duty bound to see it through.

“What must I do,” he asked heavily.

“The obelisk you struck upon closing the first gate. Break off a section of the crystal, carry it with you, and scatter its pieces when you arrive. From there, I will see to the rest.”

There was a flash of light, and Sheogorath stood beside him. The madgod’s body was spattered with blood, his eyes bright and his mouth set in a smile.

“Heyvkahsil, you magnificent lizard, you’ve done it! Look at them, running about like rats deserting a sinking ship! Or cats shipping a deserted sink! Or bats sinking a ship full of desserts!”

Placing a hand on the dragon’s neck, Sheogorath motioned for him to stand. “Well, come on now! Can’t be leaving a job half-finished! Pop that blister! Lance that boil!”

Heyvkahsil nodded, head down and unable to meet the madgod’s eyes as he turned back to the fight. Rising, he turned and kicked out at the crystal obelisk, smashing it to pieces. Snatching up the largest chunk in his talons, he dove into the final gate.

Setting out for the tower, he opened his claws, sending shards of crystal tumbling to the ground. Where each landed, it glowed and sank beneath the murk. As their mental link vanished, he could hear the rumble of Jyggalag’s laughter fading in his ears.

Heyvkahsil prayed that he had made the right choice.

He wasn’t exactly sure how he’d expected Celestia to react. In his personal opinion, it was certainly cause for alarm, and while he didn’t hope for her to fly into a panic, he was expecting at least a small measure of concern.

Instead, the princess merely took another slow sip of tea, head cocked to the side as though she had been asked to comment upon the weather.

“I’ve considered that possibility,” she finally said. “And decided that it is not something with which we need concern ourselves.”

“Not something we need…” he sputtered in outrage. The Element Bearers were the entire focus of Celestia’s plan! Supposedly, they were the ONLY ones capable of defeating Nightmare Moon. Anything that even remotely pertained to them should be their top priority!

She nodded. “Tell me, do you recall when Sweet Grass attempted to track down the Royal Guard who fought alongside my sister?”

He nodded back, already knowing where this question would lead.

“And what did he find?”

“Nothing,” Cascade said with a sigh. “All the trails went cold at some point or another. They changed their names, relocated constantly, even created false histories. All we know is that they scattered throughout Equestria shortly after the battle, and then disappeared.”

“I fear it would be much the same if we attempted to trace the Elements back to that point,” Celestia admitted. “We have no way of knowing for sure if my sister’s magic lingers within them. As such, it won’t do us any good to ponder what may or may not happen. We can only wait and see what does happen.”

Despite Celestia’s assurance, Cascade could not bring himself to so easily accept the situation. In fact, he was only irritated further at how frivolous and amusing she seemed to find the topic.

“Even if we can’t predict whether it WILL happen, surely we can prepare for it,” he insisted. “Even if we cannot make the whole of our troops immune, surely there is some spell or artifact that can protect the six of them!”

She smiled. “I’ve considered that as well.”

Cascade tapped a hoof against the steel rim of the flask. If she said that one more time, he would seriously ponder throwing this right at her head.

The alicorn noticed his anger, and her smile faded. “Forgive me if I’ve upset you, Cascade, but please, give me some credit. I know the Elements, I know my sister, and I am quite familiar with the capabilities of both. Your concerns are valid ones, but I assure you, I am quite prepared to deal with them.”

He knew that he was losing his cool; that the alcohol in his blood was making him irrational, but he could not stop himself from slamming a hoof into the floor and shaking it angrily.

“Then explain to me! I am not your damned student anymore, so stop acting like this is some problem I have to work through,” he growled. “Instead of just brushing aside my concerns, how about you bucking address them!?”

Celestia pulled back as though she’d been slapped, and Cascade’s heart ached as he saw the hurt in her violet eyes. Head drooping in regret, he sank back onto the cushion, all the day’s fatigue creeping back into his muscles.

“I… please, forgive my behavior, princess,” he said. “My actions, my words, all of it inexcusable.”

“No, forgive me. You are right; it was cruel of me to simply dismiss your fears, treating you like some foal cowering from a thunderstorm, when we both know the danger is far more real.”

She looked down and sighed. “Sometimes I forget that my subjects have not known of and expected Nightmare Moon’s return as I have. That they see her not as the mare she once was, but as the horror story of their foalhoods, a dark and wicked being they feared might lurk under the beds or outside their windows. And because of that fear, they feel that defying her is useless, that her return can only bring doom and destruction.”

Cascade remained silent. He didn’t know what to say, or if there was anything he COULD say. It was true. Even he, who had grown up hearing Celestia’s tales of the lost Princess Luna, had difficulty imagining such a kind and noble ruler compared to the black-coated demon of campfire stories. And even with all their preparations, he still doubted whether or not they could survive her return.

She looked back at him, and her smile was as brilliant as the sun. “But I know the truth. Not only can Nightmare Moon be stopped, she WILL be. Not only can the Elements save Luna, they WILL. Please, Cascade, believe in them, as I do. Trust in your princess.”

A part of him wanted to argue, to say that she was still asking him to put his trust in her blindly, though all the evidence and the odds were against them. But the confidence, the surety she exuded was inspiring, and he realized that yes, he did believe.

He was trying to muster up a half-decent response. After all, that had been a hell of a pep-talk. But before he could speak, Celestia started, flinching to the side as if something had tickled her stomach. Confused, the unicorn watched as she carefully peered beneath her outstretched wing. The sadness vanished from her smile, and she looked back at him, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“And, of course, I should also apologize for treating you like a schoolcolt rather than a grown stallion. That mistake, however, is more the fault of recent events. You see, earlier today I found myself forced to act as a teacher once again.”

Cascade paused when he caught the implication of her words. A look of glee came over his face as he forgot about the day’s mishaps, forgot about Nightmare Moon, forgot about everything but the filly he had seen off that morning.

“She passed,” he asked excitedly. “My little Twilight passed the exam?”

Celestia smiled proudly. “With flying colors.”

“HAH! THAT’S MY GIRL,” Cascade whooped, tossing the flask high into the air. It stuck the ceiling with a loud clang, and his celebration was suddenly interrupted with a loud and high-pitched shriek.

More than a bit surprised, the one-eyed unicorn jumped out of his seat, looking around wildly for the source of the wailing.

Celestia tsked at him in exasperation. “Now look who you’ve woken up,” she chided, though her tone was far too happy to have any real bite.

Cascade’s eye widened as the princess lifted her wing and revealed a fussing baby dragon. Scooping him up in her forelegs, she cradled him against her chest and whispered soothingly.

He was frozen still, staring blankly at the infant as his mind struggled to catch up.

cascade…

Her egg had hatched? But when? And how?

“Cascade?”

What had… how much had he missed today?!

“Cascade!”

He snapped out of his thoughts, realizing that Celestia had been calling his name for some time. His eyes lifted from the dragon to the cheerfully smiling alicorn.

“It looks as if he’s hungry,” she said. “Would you mind giving me a minute while I feed him?”

“Of course, your majesty.” He automatically looked around for any sign of the aforementioned meal. “Will you need any help with…”

His words trailed off when he noticed Celestia turning onto her side, pulling the dragon down towards her stomach. His mind connected the dots, and he let out a strangled ‘erk’ before spinning around.

He busied himself with staring a hole through the bedroom wall, his mind attempting to block out the sounds of the nursing infant. In bewilderment, he wondered why the princess hadn’t dismissed him from the room, or at least asked him to avert his eyes!

More than likely, it was another example of Celestia’s bizarre naivety regarding matters of parenthood. All that study, all those years of research, and apparently she’d never gotten around to learning proper nursing etiquette! Now he just had to figure out how to get out of there without coming across like a voyeuristic jackass.

Clearing his throat, he tried to think of an excuse. Unfortunately, his mouth had begun moving before his brain could catch up.

“Why feed him that way? And how does that even work,” he blurted out, immediately regretting the question.

“I’m sure you’re aware of HOW it works,” Celestia said with a laugh, oblivious to her friend’s discomfort. “As for why, at his age he can only process liquids, or crushed gemstones that register below a 2.5 on the Mohs scale. With none of those readily available, this was my only option.”

“Ah,” Cascade responded stupidly, hoping that Celestia wouldn’t explain further.

No such luck. “And if you’re worried about cross-species complications, every book on pony-raised dragons stated that this method is perfectly safe, as dragons possess the most robust and versatile digestive system of any creature. Granted, I did have to use a spell to alter some of the vital nutrients so that the milk provided-”

That was it; he couldn’t take anymore. Clambering to his hooves, Cascade made a beeline for the door, his uncoordinated limbs fighting for balance.

“General,” he heard Celestia ask in concern. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, fine,” he called over his shoulder, making sure that it was his blind eye that faced her. “I’m just… feeling a tad under the weather! Too much excitement for these old bones, you know?”

“More like you hit the bottle so hard that it wound up hitting back,” she said amusedly.

“Guilty as charged,” he agreed, magically flinging the door open. “Suppose I can’t hold my liquor as well as before. In any case, I think it best if I retire for the evening, otherwise I’ll likely end up passing out on your floor.”

“Are you certain? I’d hoped to speak with you more about the results of Twilight’s exam.” The disappointment in her voice and his own curiosity nearly changed his mind.

“I’m sure,” he said. “I think I’ve had all the excitement I can stand for one night. But I promise to be back first thing in the morning. Hopefully we can speak then?”

There was a displeased mewl as the dragon was set back on the bed, and Celestia walked up beside him. “Very well, though ‘first thing’ might be a bit too early considering your… condition. Speaking of which, I don’t feel comfortable with you wandering home in such a state. I think it best if you take one of the castle suites for the evening.”

At this point, he would’ve agreed to anything if it meant escaping the awkwardness of the situation. Promising Celestia that he would do as she said, he quickly wished her a good night, congratulated her again on the birth of her son, and all but lunged out of the room.

Once alone and in relative safety, he cast a glance back at the closed door and sighed. That blasted mare… how was it that without even meaning to, she could so easily reduce him from a battle-hardened stallion into an embarrassed wreck?

And now, here he was. Exhausted, halfway drunk, completely embarrassed, and faced with yet another hike back through the castle.

He was getting too old for this shit.

Sheogorath is still killing everything in sight. But now, with the arrival of his armies, the disorganized intruders fall into a confused retreat. This is not what their lord had promised. He spoke of an unguarded world, its defenders miles away, its fertile fields and bustling cities ripe for the plunder.

Now, reeling and decimated by Sheogorath’s assaults, there is no chance of a counterattack. Instead, the invaders trade ground for time. The Clannfear and Daedroths and Atronachs and all the lesser Daedra rush forward and throw themselves onto the blades of the Saints and Seducers, if only to try and slow their advance.

The Dremora fall back and burn the ground as they go, destroying Sheogorath’s Mark spells and hindering his armies in their pursuit. Coming to the remaining Oblivion Gate, they prepare for a last stand.

With Sheogorath leading the charge, the Mazken and Aureals surge ahead like an armour-clad tsunami. Fighters on both sides scream in pain and battle frenzy. Weapons splinter, shields are rent. The madgod smashes through the wall of spearpoints, swords and shields, and his armies stream through after him.

The Dremora fall back even further, coming within feet of the Oblivion Gate. The reinforcements that continue to stream from the portal are too few and too disorganized to turn the tide. The ferocity of the battle reaches a fever pitch. Be they men, mer, or Daedra, warriors always fight at their fiercest and most desperate when their backs are to the wall. It holds true this day; the Dremora fight, and die, like cornered rats.

As the armies clash, the invaders launch their final strike. Following a trio of Storm Atronachs, a platoon of Dremora tightens into formation and charges. Thunder booms, and bolts of blue energy split the earth as the Atronachs are cut down. The Daedric women nearest the blast are scattered in the explosion of lightning and flying bodies. Armour melts, hair and flesh burst into flames, and the two score Dremora race through the resulting gap.

Angry shouts ripple through Sheogorath’s forces, Saints and Seducers alike turning about to pursue the fleeing Dremora. Sheogorath blocks their way, spear blazing, and urges them back into the fray.

“Push them back,” he yells. “Don’t let that rabble gain another inch until Heyvkahsil brings down the gate! Push them back into their abyss, and gut all who stand their ground! Let me run those cowards down! I’ll break their spines and nail their heads to the Gates of Madness!”

Spurred on by the cheers of his armies, Sheogorath readies his spear and gives chase.

The Dremora have already escaped the Fringe, turning north and fleeing up the Laughing Coast into Mania. Stumbling across unfamiliar terrain, each one burdened with more than sixty pounds of clumsy armour, they should have been easy prey to catch. They are not.

The group turns east and plunges into the forest. The Dremora bringing up the rear glances over its shoulder, sees Sheogorath in mid-lunge, and has barely enough time to shout a warning. Sheogorath cleaves it from shoulder to hip without breaking stride.

Strangely, the platoon does not scatter, does not attempt to hide or throw him off their trail. Instead, they string out in a ragged line and continue running. Whenever Sheogorath closes the distance, the rearmost soldier halts and turns to fight. It is a hopeless delaying tactic, but it still buys the others a few precious seconds while the madgod slays each comrade.

In this manner they move further east, giving up lives for miles. Sheogorath follows, killing ten, then twenty, thirty, until only three remain.

He comes up behind the straggler and drives his spear into and through its torso. The Dremora stumbles, and Sheogorath is forced to carry it along, holding the impaled body up like a pennant fixed to his weapon.

The weight slows him, and he sees the last two pulling away. The muscles in his arms straining, he swings his weapon in a fast, high arc, flinging the body back and over his shoulder.

No longer encumbered, Sheogorath shifts his grip to one hand and looses a spray of lightning from the other. The dozen separate bolts strike at once, throwing the Dremora forwards like dust kicked up by the wind. It hits the ground several feet ahead of its companion, blood streaming through blackened holes in its riddled body.

Realizing that its time has come, the final Dremora puts on a burst of speed and changes direction.

Tired of this game of chase, Sheogorath twirls the Spear of Bitter Mercy into a throwing position, takes aim, and hurls it after the last soldier. It strikes true, catching the Dremora directly between the shoulder blades. The Dremora is knocked off his feet, hitting the ground and somersaulting for several meters, coming to a stop facedown in the dust.

Sheogorath sets a foot atop the corpse and pulls the spear free. With the last of his quarry dead, he takes the time to examine his surroundings. He finds it strange that they fled to here of all places. It is a nondescript hill, far removed from any settlements or fortifications. There is nothing, and no one for miles.

The answer comes to him, and Sheogorath throws back his head and laughs. “Well played,” he says.

The Daedra hits him then, charging out from a shadowed copse of trees to his left. Its leaping tackle catches him in the side, spinning the madgod around and sending him sprawling to the ground. A clawed hand reaches for his face, and talons dig into his scalp.

The Daedra begins to run, hunched over and loping on three limbs like an animal. Its right hand keeps a vice-grip on the madgod’s head, dragging him along while pushing down hard enough for his body to dig a furrow in the dirt.

Sheogorath struggles to breath with the Daedra’s hand pressed against his face. His clothes are sliced to ribbons as he is dragged along. His head is rubbed raw, his bare back and shoulders become slick with blood as the skin is chafed away by rocks.

The Spear of Bitter Mercy is still firmly in his grasp. Sheogorath inches his hand down the shaft, then grips tight and swings it around. The blunt end strikes its leg just below the knee. The Daedra stumbles and loses its grip. Sheogorath skids to a halt as it tumbles further. Both princes stagger to their feet.

Sheogorath stands ready, grinning fiercely even as the nerves in his flayed back shriek from agony. He ignores the pain and waits for the wounds to heal.

“Masterfully done,” he announces to the Daedra. “You tricked me into a trailing a track of tantalizing tidbits that traversed into a terrifying and tumultuous trap! Bravo!”

He steps forward, spear at the ready. “But just like all your other schemes, it gains you nothing,” he taunts. “You’ve lost; you know that, don’t you? Your armies are routed, your gates destroyed, and your only hope now is to run back to your realm before my spear meets your skull!”

The Daedra laughs, a vile chortling that immediately sets the madgod on edge. “So I have lost, you say? Foolish words from a foolish man!” It raises an arm, one finger pointing at his breast. “If I am defeated, why then do I stand here unharmed and ready for battle, while Sheogorath leans on his spear, gasping for breath and wincing as the breeze stings at his wounds?”

Sheogorath gasps; one hand snakes around to gingerly probe at his back. The flesh is still raw and oozing blood. He wills the injuries to heal, mentally drawing power from the Font of Madness beneath his palace. All he receives is a stabbing pain in his head, and the nimbus of light around his body flickers and fades. Clutching his temples, he glares at the Daedra.

“What did you do!?”

“I turned your own idiocy against you,” it says. “Admittedly, I despaired when you buried me beneath the stones of your castle. I knew that I could not escape in time to stop you from destroying my armies. It galled me so, to think that I had been outwitted, bested by a transcended piece of mortal trash!”

It laughs again, relishing in his distress. “But then I felt something. A pulling sensation from far beneath the ground. I recognized it as your magic! So instead of digging up and out of the rubble, I searched deeper. And what I found was the wellspring from which you drew your strength.”

“And so I dammed the spring and cut off the source of your power. I knew this advantage would only last a short time, so I called out to my servants and bid them lure you to me. And now… here you stand. As you were before, as you always should have been, a weak and frail mortal, fit only to die by my hand.”

Sheogorath draws in a long, shuddering breath. He meets the Daedra’s eyes, and a bitter smile crosses his lips. “Perhaps, but there is one thing you’ve forgotten,” he says softly.

The Daedra sneers. “Oh? And what is that, human,” it asks, the last word dripping sarcasm.

Sheogorath leaps at it and thrusts with his spear. “I’M NOT DEAD YET!”

The Daedra sidesteps the thrust and bats the spear aside. Its hand stabs forward with fingers spread, and Sheogorath throws himself to the right. He rolls on his shoulder, ignoring the burning ache from his wounds, and stabs at the Daedra’s stomach. It leaps back a second too late, and the flesh at its hip smolders and blackens as the spear stabs deep.

Fighting through the pain, Sheogorath rushes after it. He swings once, twice, three times in succession, bringing the spear around in wide sweeping arcs. The Daedra ducks under the first swing, leans back and away from the second. The third carves across its chest and shoulders, and the air fills with the stench of burning meat as the spear sears and cauterizes its flesh.

The Daedra roars and lunges before Sheogorath can complete another swing. Its hands lash out and seize the Spear of Bitter Mercy, halting the madgod’s attack. Sheogorath does not release his grip, and the two stagger and fight for control of the spear, the Daedra kicking and snapping while he tries to evade its claws. Sheogorath knows he is running out of time. His head is spinning from the loss of blood, and without his power, the Daeda is far stronger than he.

He gives a sudden pull with his left arm while shoving hard with his right. The blunt end of the spear cracks against the Daedra’s skull, and it reels back in pain. Taking advantage of its momentary disorientation, Sheogorath repeats the maneuver, and the Daedra nearly topples over. Only its grip on the spear keeps it standing.

Before he can strike again, the Daedra turns his own strategy against him. The spear’s direction is reversed, and this time the razor-edged blade catches him in the thigh. Sheogorath screams in pain as the spear burns through muscle and skin, and his left hand releases the shaft to try and pull the blade loose.

It proves to be a fatal mistake. The Daedra pushes the spear against Sheogorath’s chest and darts in, its jaws biting down on his forearm. Teeth pierce through flesh and grind against bone, and then the Daedra gives a powerful snap. Blood fountains into the air as Sheogorath’s hand is ripped away. His vision blurs in the red haze of agony, Sheogorath releases the spear and reflexively clamps a hand over the bloody stump that was once his wrist.

Brandishing the spear, the Daedra steps back and swings the weapon in a fast uppercut. The spear’s butt catches Sheogorath in the chin, lifting him into the air and flinging him onto his back. Stepping over the madgod’s body, the Daedra holds the spear in a two-handed grip and raises it high over its head. With a bellow of triumph, it drives the spear into Sheogorath’s chest, shattering bone and running the blade through and out until it pierces several inches into the ground beneath him.

Sheogorath vomits blood and collapses.

The Daedra staggers back, laughing wearily as its wounds knit closed. “I am impressed, mortal,” it admits, amusement and something like respect in its voice. “Few have possessed the courage to defy me as you have done today. Fewer still have elected to fight when death and defeat are certain. And only you have fought me to a draw, forced me to rely on trickery rather than my own strength. Truly, it is a feat worthy of praise.”

It drops to its knees and crawls up Sheogorath’s body, one hand gripping his throat while the other hovers over his face. “Even so, it is all in vain. You have failed, as we both knew you would. Now, there is nothing left but to accept the inevitable-”

Sheogorath roars in anger and defiance, throwing up his remaining hand and shoving it against the Daedra’s head. Calling on the last traces of his power, he fires an orb of white-hot flame. The fireball ignites the Daedra’s face, causing it to fall backwards, shrieking and clawing at its melting flesh. Knowing that this is his last chance, Sheogorath grasps the spear with his slick, bloody hand and tries to wrench it out of his body.

He pulls and tugs, but the weapon refuses to budge. Clenching his teeth, he gives one hard yank. Then he sees the clawed hand just inches above his own.

The Daedra is crouched over him, half of its face burned away. Its mouth twists in hate. Holding the spear fast, it brings its other hand around and slams the palm-edge against the spear’s shaft. The Spear of Bitter Mercy splinters, then snaps in two. Streams of pure energy blaze out from the broken handle and blast craters into the rock around them.

The Daedra swings the broken end of the spear in a savage backhand. It strikes Sheogorath in the face, shattering his jaw and knocking out several teeth. He is slammed back to the ground, and makes no effort to rise. Unwilling to take chances, the Daedra stabs the jagged handle into Sheogorath’s wrist, impaling it between the radius and ulna.

Pinned and helpless, Sheogorath can do nothing as the Daedra again grips his throat and leans close.

“Now,” it snarls, all mirth gone from its voice. “Give me what I want!”

It raises a finger, the claw sharp and needle-thin. Holding Sheogorath’s head still, it drives the claw through the madgod’s eye and deep into his brain. Magical energy ripples between them, and Sheogorath’s body goes rigid as the Daedra’s mind forcibly merges with his own. A bitter, hemlock chill spreads through his body as his thoughts and memories are examined and taken.

After what seems like hours, the Daedra pulls the talon free of his eye, allowing his head to fall weakly back to the ground. Its eyes flutter closed, mouth moving silently as it processes the barrage of information. Sheogorath’s meeting with Akatosh, his transformation of Alduin, and the location of the world he fought to keep hidden.

Glaring out of his remaining eye, Sheogorath chokes back the blood in his throat and says, “…damn you… you… regret… when I… get… back…”

“It will be far too late,” the Daedra interrupts. “Alduin is mine, as is the world to which he has fled. I will turn its own people against one another, corrupting and misleading them until in ignorance they bring about their own destruction.”

It pulls his head up, its eyes full of murderous glee. “I will see its rulers displaced, its warriors put to the sword, its women and children dragged off to death and slavery, its cities pulled down and broken, its lands burned and the earth salted so that nothing will grow there again.”

Sheogorath’s vision begins to darken, his breaths gurgle and bubble from the blood in his lungs. He tries to respond, but only strangled groans and arterial blood emerge. The Daedra leans close to his ear.

“And through it all, it will be your name they hear in their grief and their pain. It will be whispered into the ears of the dying, shouted over the wailing of the captives. All will know that their doom came through the folly of Sheogorath. A man too weak to save even himself.”

A clawed hand comes to rest on his forehead, while the other gently lifts his chin.

“Fare you well, madgod.”

The muscles in the Daedra’s arms bulge as it gives a mighty twist.

CRACK.

The day had finally come. A moment that would live forever in the history of Equestria. The coronation of the royal pony sisters.

Two thrones sat waiting in the grand and opulent throne room. On either side, sunlight shone in through a great stained glass window created in the image of Celestia and Luna. Doors opened, and the two alicorns stepped into the room.

The princesses were the very picture of beauty and poise. Celestia was clad in an elegant gown of ivory and gold, while Luna’s was the dark blues and violets of an evening sky. Side by side they walked, matching the other’s steps until at last they stood before the thrones. Celestia smiled and took in a deep, soothing breath, as if savoring the moment.

“The day has finally come,” she said. “Are you ready, little sister?”

Luna said nothing. Concerned, Celestia looked over and saw the younger alicorn’s shoulders trembling, her wings twitching nervously.

Celestia rested a hoof on Luna’s shoulders. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here for you,” she soothed. “I’ll always look after you.”

Not seeming to notice her sister’s touch, Luna continued shaking. Celestia noticed that she was whispering frantically.

“Please… please no. I’m sorry… please… don’t do this… don’t…”

Celestia stepped around Luna to look her in the eyes. She was shocked to see that her younger sister was crying.

“Luna…”

Her words were cut off by a strange noise from above. Looking up, she saw that the stained glass window of Luna had cracked, a long fissure running down the length of the alicorn’s body. Then she heard more cracking sounds, and the lone fracture began to spread. The room darkened, sunlight disappearing into a black sky.

Luna looked into her eyes, tears falling from her own. “Tia…”

The window exploded, sending glass flying into the room. Celestia’s horn glowed, and a magical shield formed around her. Luna had no protection.

Celestia watched in horror as the shards rained down on her sister. Luna cried out as her dress was sliced to ribbons and her back was split with dozens of ghastly cuts.

As her dress fell to the floor in scraps, Celestia could see that instead of blood, Luna’s wounds were dripping with some sort of black, sticky ichor. It ran down her legs, splashing and soaking the pile of fabric on the floor. The pile churned as more liquid seeped into it, and then the fabric was sinking down and out of sight. The black substance continued to flow down Luna’s body. She was covered in it; only her neck and head remained untouched. Beneath her, the ichor had formed a pool on the floor… and Luna was beginning to sink into it.

“Tia…” Luna pleaded, “Don’t leave me here. I’m… I’m so cold. Please come back for me. I don’t want to be alone…”

Celestia’s horn lit up with a flash as she tried to telekinetically pull her sister free. But try as she might, her magical aura swirled harmlessly around Luna without managing to grab hold. Foregoing magic, she galloped into the spreading ichor.

The moment her hooves met the liquid, they stuck fast, as though she had stepped in tar. Celestia pulled and tugged, her head thrashing and mane streaming wildly as she tried to free herself. It was no use. She was caught.

Luna had now sunk up to her neck. Her head was tilted back, desperately trying to keep her muzzle above the surface of the pool. Tears streamed down her face as she looked pleadingly at her sister.

“Please come back for me… it’s dark… so dark… sister… please…”

Celestia strained harder, pulled until her shoulder muscles wrenched in agony, but at last she broke free! Leaping forward, she reached out both hooves to Luna.

It was too late. Luna screamed her name in the last moments before she was swallowed up by the pool.

“Luna!” Celestia plunged both hooves into the liquid to try and pull her out, but found that the pool was now less than an inch deep. Hysterical, she splashed and struck the liquid until her hooves ached, calling her sister’s name until her voice ran hoarse.

When she looked back down, the pool looked different. White pinpoints of light flickered across its surface, and she found herself looking at a star field, with a full moon at its center. As she watched, the silhouette of an alicorn’s head appeared, its eye staring up at her in silent accusation.

Celestia fell to her knees, her body wracked with sobs. She whispered apologies to her sister and wished that the pool would swallow her as well. Anything to reunite her with Luna.

Clip.

Clop.

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Clop.

Clip.

Clop.

Celestia’s head shot up. She recognized that sounds: the echoing of hooves against stone. Something was coming. Her eyes scanned the darkened room, but she could see nothing. “Is somepony there,” she called. “Please, I need help! My sister-”

Clip.

Clop.

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Clop.

The room was still dark, still empty. But gradually another sound joined the approaching hoofsteps. A harsh, pained breathing. The sound one would make when breathing with cracked ribs.

The sounds were coming closer. They were… behind her! She tried to turn, only to find that she was once again stuck fast in the ichor. The steps drew nearer, the breathing louder and heavier.

The hoofsteps stopped. Celestia felt a hot breath wash over her shoulder, followed by a hoarse, croaking voice.

“Sister…”

She looked over her shoulder to see Luna standing beside her. But her sister had changed.

Her coat was midnight black, her mane shimmering and coated with frost. Her eyes were slitted and had taken an unblinking, reptilian sheen.

Luna grinned at Celestia’s terrified expression, and her mouth opened wide. Celestia could see her jaw lengthening, razor teeth extending from the gums.

Her vision went dark, and she could hear shattering glass as her own window exploded.

She awoke with a scream, bolting upright and gasping for breath. She looked around wildly, relieved to see the familiar sight of her bedroom. Drenched with sweat, still feeling that hot breath on her throat, she tried to calm her racing heart.

‘It was only a dream… it was only a dream…”

She sat there for several moments, staring blankly at the wall while the tears fell freely. Memories of the nightmare filled her thoughts. It had been nothing like the actual events that led to her sister’s banishment. But the emotions were all too alike. The grief she felt at Luna’s fate, the guilt at having failed to prevent it, and the terror of the twisted monster that might return in her sister’s place.

She buried her face in her forelegs and continued to weep. She had dreamed of Luna many times, but never like this.

The sound of blankets rustling came from the foot of the bed. Celestia lifted her head, and was surprised to see Spike awake. The baby dragon had managed to crawl almost to the edge, and was propped up as far as his newborn forepaws could put him.

Carefully so as not to startle him, Celestia scooted closer and pulled him against her side, comforted by the warmth of his body against her fur. The dragon gave no reaction to her presence, but continued staring ahead, looking out through the window at something beyond on the horizon.

She followed his gaze, trying to see what had captured his attention. The night was still, and peaceful. But the more she looked, the more she grew uneasy. It was a strange anxiety in the back of her mind, a small and frightened certainty that something was coming.

A sound like a muffled thunderclap rumbled in the distance, and Celestia’s stomach gave a nauseous twist. Spike tensed up; she could feel his tiny body shaking against her. She looked down, and in a strange trick of the light, his eyes seemed to flash to another color, and she swore his lips moved as though he was trying to talk.

The nausea increased. Waves of steadily building pressure passed over her, like ripples in a pool when a heavy object is dropped in. She closed her eyes and gasped for breath.

Then the moment passed. Her nausea subsided, and Spike let out a tiny yawn and flopped onto his stomach, snuggling against her side and falling into an easy sleep.

Celestia blinked, feeling as though she was emerging from a trance. What had just happened? She remembered awakening from the nightmare, but then what? Head pounding, she looked back and forth between the window and her son. Had something else happened?

Unable to remember, she settled back into bed, draping the blankets over Spike and herself. Closing her eyes, she let his calm breathing lull her into a dreamless sleep.

But what she did not know was that she was not the only creature to wake screaming that night. All across the world, everyone from ponies to dragons to griffins found their dreams vexed to nightmare.

And though none of them could explain why, they knew deep in their hearts that something was terribly wrong.

They were right.

Far to the west of Equestria, a remote mountain pond shimmered like glass in the moonlight. Though no wind blew, a ripple passed over the surface. The pond’s water boiled and bubbled, then turned an inky black. The churning mass of blackness suddenly let out an echoing boom, and the liquid spiraled into a whirlpool leading down into someplace dark and horribly deep. The smell of sulfur burst up and out of the portal, followed by bellows of fear and screams of pain from within.

Trees around the pool began to wither, their leaves crumbling to dust and their branches rotting away. The grass turned grey and brittle before it was carried off by the wind, and the rocks beneath were stained black by the vile liquid that splashed and roiled out of the pond.

Somewhere miles below, a figure climbed out of the lightning-streaked depths. It was something misshapen, something vile, something that had no place in this world. The light of the moon illuminated its shape as it pulled itself free of the steaming pit.

It was like nothing ever seen before. It resembled a dragon, if only in the way it walked upright, but any similarities ended there. Its arms were too long, wrists too powerful, claws too narrow, legs jointed wrong, torso too thick, toes oddly splayed, neck elongated, head misshapen, face monstrous. It moved with a hunched, loping posture that seemed to radiate violence and danger. Its eyes surveyed the world with cold intelligence, with malice and utter disregard for life.

The figure bent over, its body going into violent spasms. It shifted and contorted like a circus performer. Bones popped and cracked.

It fell to all fours, its limbs shrinking in length and width. Its muscled torso contracted, fur sprouting across its chest and back. A mane emerged, a tail shortly after.

The transformation ended, and a unicorn stallion stood in place of the former monstrosity. Tilting back his head, he breathed deep, savoring the taste of this new world.

HIS world.

He stepped out of the shadows, and a ray of moonlight illuminated the cutie mark on his flank, the symbol looking as though it had been carved directly into his skin.

Breaking into an easy canter, the stallion began descending the mountain. He had no idea where to begin his search for Alduin. He knew neither the city nor the country where the dragon could be found. He did not even know the direction in which to travel. He had only the image of Alduin’s new form and that of a unicorn filly, her coat a vivid purple, her mane streaked with pink and violet.

It mattered little. He was a patient deity. He would search this world from pole to pole, corrupting all in his path until he found them.

And then, then the real fun would begin.

Draconic Translations-

Wuld Nah Kest-

Whirlwind, Fury, Tempest (Draconic Shout for instant travel)

Yol Tor Shul-

Fire, Inferno, Sun (Draconic Shout for breathing fire)

Bah Ag Du-

Wrath, Burn, Devour (Draconic shout for breathing a single fireball)

Well, there it is. I've been a bit hesitant about posting this one. I tried to do an alternating rhythm to the PoVs, going from upbeat to ominous and back again, but I don't know if I succeeded at creating an overall sense of tension through the whole thing. I hope that Jyggalag's speech was aloof and menacing, Celestia's nightmare was at least a bit emotionally disturbing, and that Sheogorath went out like a badass.

At any rate, hope everyone enjoyed!