Brother Librarian

Thought for the Day:

Without peace, how may we enjoy the pleasures of war?

He calmly took a sip of his tea, while turning the page of his latest acquisition for his personal Librarium. He had decided to spoil himself, just a bit. Today marked the 7 year anniversary of his death and rebirth, after all. A fine bit of overly-priced imported tea from some backwards nation in the middle of nowhere and a thoroughly enjoyable (albeit forbidden) book on ancient rituals and spellcraft was an excellent way to unwind. He may not be a Librarian of one of those fancy Librariums at Canterlot or Trottingham, but his was still a stressful job. Nothing at all compared to his previous occupation, but still.

The book he was reading was about some terribly ancient group of unicorns who, in their misguided attempt at immortality, slaughtered and sacrificed many, the blood of the old and young, innocent and guilty, evil and good, all spilled for a fallacy. They failed, obviously, or else he wouldn't be reading about them in a forbidden tomb. Nothing of the like would exist today, and for good reason. This ancient manuscript went into almost excruciating detail, all about their rituals and what they hoped to accomplish. The spells and rituals themselves would never work, mostly because what they were geared towards was impossible, but one can learn from the mistakes of the ancient. A book this fine, and dangerous, would never see the light of day, sadly, it would go straight into his vaults after committing it to memory in a way only he and his brothers ever could.

But it was his anniversary, not at all a time to reflect on old fools who's bones have long since withered away to dust, and the dust scattered in the wind.

He remembered, he would always remember, that last battle alongside his friend and Captain. His own death, and the death of his brothers. The reinforcements that arrived in time to kill the Great Enemy, but not in time to save lives. The sounds of battle that he could hear come from just out of his sight. He had held on long enough to know that much, at least.

He silently offered a toast to fallen brothers, fallen heroes, and lamented the greatest leader he had ever known, and regretted not dying in his place.

He sighed, and stood from the table. He went to the window and gazed out from it. He saw the gleeful faces of foals as they ran about playing their games, the smiles on the faces of the townsponies greeting their neighbors, the scowls on merchants dealing with a hard-bargainer, the sight of ponies stupid from love.

He would never know the joy they felt on a daily basis, but he was trying.

He remembered back 7 years ago, appearing in a land not his own, in a body not his own, in a land of xenos yet not xenos, of pyskers yet not psykers, stumbling into the town in a daze brought on by both blood-loss and pure unadulterated shock, how the ponies fled from his blood-soaked visage, despite much of it being his own, how he collapsed and blacked out, how he woke again but alive, the sheer terror, the shock, the anger, the hate, the urge to kill, to rend these non-believers limb from limb, to tear into them as a hurricane, the urge to destroy, to rend, to flay, to murder, the urge...

But if he were to simply give into his instincts, rightful though they may seem, he would be a beast.

But he was not a beast, he was a Man. Homo Sapiens Sapiens.

But he was more than that as well, a higher form of Man.

So he had calmed himself, and stilled his base instincts of wrath and murder.

He tore his gaze from the window, and made his way across the room to a door. This door lead to the basement, where his Vault was located. He calmly walked down the steps at a sedate pace, his hooves echoing in the mostly empty basement. It only contained one item, which in turn contained many items.

He trotted up to the Vault, which was essentially an immense safe in the center of the room. He spun the combination, inserted his horn into the appropriate receptacle, and put a hoof up to be scanned on the hoof-scanner. Only then did the door open.

Inside the Vault lay his most prized possessions, and a gateway into his past. His blue armor with the bone-white shoulder pad, his staff that still sparked with arcane energies, his hood that protected his mind from the invading probes of others, all of it hand-made for him and him alone by great artificers. The Rosarius that had belonged to a Chaplain, the tomes that radiated psychic power, the sword that protected him from many unworthy foes. All of these were his, for none other could claim them. He had this Vault made shortly after acquiring the Librarium, he didn't even put his most valued tombs in the Vault for it could hold none but the most treasured of his possessions.

He noticed a bit of blood that had apparently escaped his earlier cleansings, he carefully levitated up a washcloth and wiped that off. As he did he felt himself drawn into his past once more, his first time in the hospital, immediately after waking.

He thought and he thought. For days in that hospital, he just sat and thought. Even up to the point where the medical staff brought in psychiatrists and professionals, they thought him mentally disabled. They thought his body to be amazing and revolutionary, something they had never seen before. But they thought his mind wounded. They were vastly incorrect. He was merely thinking in such intensity that it required all of his being to work together.

He came to multiple conclusions. Some were happy, more were far less so.

He was a man, in the body of a 'pony' as they called themselves. There was no reason to harm them. Xenos were alien creatures not from Holy Terra, horses were from Holy Terra, though the urge to kill had been ingrained in him for much of his life, it would not pass so soon. He had full access to his abilities, and using this strange body felt second nature to him.

He should have died, he had died, but he didn't stay that way.

He rediscovered himself as a pony, he silently lamented the fact once more. There were a few positives, though they were completely overshadowed by the fact that he was a pony and didn't want to be. For instance: he was fully healed, and completely operational. He was a Unicorn, a being that allowed for the use of magic. He was apparently extraordinarily powerful, as far as Unicorns go. He was still vastly inferior compared to the Princess Celestia, apparently. The fact that she had the gall to go about claiming that she moved the sun and all but declaring her divinity still made his blood boil to this day.

The fact that these ponies spoke some horribly bastardized language similar enough to his own that created only minor misunderstandings wasn't surprising, many species spoke the language of Man.

But at length, he was declared fit to leave.

He found himself discharged from his temporary sanctuary, in a land of which he had no knowledge.

However, he would succeed in this land, or die trying.

For he was Epistolary Jonah Orion of the Fourth Company of the Blood Ravens! And one of the Emperor's own Space Marines!

He was a Space Marine and he knew no fear!