Chapter 1
Rebounding from the deeply obsidian walls came the resounding treble of a closing heap of pages held together by some thick material. The isacoustic vaults that traced along the ceiling allowed for the un-sequestered flow of this deep thump as it travelled through the darkened hallway. Yet as the gaze would move to agape at the baldachin it would be found that the vaults were merely the base for massive ramparts, which themselves hold vigil below an even greater expanse of what appeared to be an endless melanicism.
Upon those darkened vallations did move about teemisties of phosphorescences each in pairs and of regular dimensions though of colours ranging from luteous towards a moreover zinnober luminosity. Further still, each pair traveled in tandem with a second set marching circumbilivaginationally about the great expanse below. In the centre of each was there a dark vertical strip that tapered to each end, widening near the centre. The appearance of the cat’s eye was markéd in these curvilinear lanthornes; the orbs of the Nightholm guards upon their usual rounds.
The only light that sought to cleave the caliginosity was a lone candle atop a simple table of lustrey mahogany which shone of the illuminant it bore. To be found juxtaposed, was that of a singular figure, who now regressed to the tome lined walls. Garnishing the walls, twixt the shelves, were there tapestries depicting the antecedent. Directly behind that of the desk was there an arabesque giving recollection to the Lunar Lady: Princess Luna in her full splendour, an image of gibbous moon the only background to permit the fore so honourably. An aura of leucochroic magick that mirrored the figure's own pallor engulfed the magnum opus of some obscure scribe as it levitated abreast of the individual. The steady clack of the nadir with which he trode upon the onyx floor repercussed to fill the gaping quietude left by the afore confinement of knowledge betwixt it’s sewn covers.
The candle from which he digressed did not divulge much in the way of luminescence, and one who looked would find that rather than the light be reflected by the queerly glassy walls, it seemed to dull it, removing completely the burnished effect that could only be hinted at in the otherwise pitch room. From what could be viewed of the room gave hint to looming shelves of ebony whose lines were filled with more volumes of many other books, some as thick as the one to be returned, others slighter than, some twice as so. The coverings of these tomes did not shew of the myriadal colours of the spring time, nor of the summer, but of chromations dull and dark.
The ambiance of the room, however, did not share the bleakosity of its superficiality, but rather by the pleasant warmth of the atmosphere, as the ilke of some great subterranean structure, and steady returned soundings of hoof-falls, did it give to the idea that the darkness was that of a welcome summer’s night. Nor was the silence by no means consuming, but peaceful, for this enclosure was, even to the un-expertéd eye, an anthæum.
The desk now barren but for the flambeau, the obvious stress marks of the years could easily shew themselves as the dips and warping of the wood gave incidence to the heavy livrets that had laid its burden upon it. Of the figure, however, age, though present, did not shew as it did in the desk, but rather seemed to be set upon his features without much conviction, as a garment ready to be thrown off at a moment of comfort. They were, perhaps, simply the burgeoning signs of what was to come.
Having returned the book to its perch upon the seventh row above, the aura of his capabilities engulfed yet another from the eighth and it eased downwards as he faced about, returning to the table he had left. Only the castory barrateen vest adorned his aligerous his and, with back toward the shelves, the dodrantal that protruded from the centre of his forehead, mirroring the pallid envelopment of the tome, become obvious. His form, bordering upon the æthereal, did little in the way of encumberment as he regressed and the shadows that formed upon his face in the deficient lighting resulted in an almost shade like appearance. The artisan mark upon his flank depicted an image of a line with five brachiations at irregular intervals. Three of such were present upon the sinister, with two on the dexter, all of which surrounded by a queer sort of circle incomplete yet jagged, and of a geometry so foreign as to be indescribable in its baffling contours.
The expression below the diligently kempt castaneous hair, with a collection of slimikin patches of taupe making their latibule about the ears completed by a set of ecru eyne, was one of stoicism. This held true even as he placed down the book that he had chosen and, rather halcyon, leafed through the folds of pages that canvassed the words which he perused. Again was all silent in that library that he seemed so apart of, perhaps even more-so than the books which littered the walls.
Depiction of time was elusive in this great hall, and what seemed to be hours that may have passed to the ill-patient would only have been to number naught but minutes few. After such a span did come the gentle hoof-falls from the door behind this peruser, dopplering the closer to the aperture they became. However, even as the door to what were a set of atramentous steps gaped to allow a mare suited in armour of midnight blue, the ashen continued his prior. Still did he remain unreactive as she marched boldly towards and, halting a number of metres posterior, her eyne a shining azuline, she spoke aloud.
“Prince Lovecraft, Eclipse wishes to see you now.” The voice that articulated itself was a stolid, yet confident, soprano, fit to the position she held as palace guard, and with an authoritativeness of such to hint at aspirations to be greater. This ply, however, caused Lovecraft to close his eyes in an exasperate of the calmest sort.
“Hither come, Bastion of rank Private,” came his reply, his eyes once again open, but merely looking ahead blankly, almost unperturbed, or even blasé. The expression of she, called as such, however, was far from as it took on a worrisome cast, the usage of such nomenclature oft learned to be of displeasure by her sovereign, despite any typical altiloquence.
She moved to just behind him and slightly towards his right side, an injury sustained to her right ear during her training having caused minor deafness, and as such she did not wish to be ignorant of what he would say. When she was once again still did she speak, view slightly askance in the light of the candle.
“Yes, my Prince?” only to illicit further exasperation from whom she had spake.
“So as to prevent the commition of parepochism as forwarded by this one, I ask you to revitalize the recollection of the cycles with which you have served the siege of Nightholm.” Though bemused as usual at his longiloquence, she responded in turn, hoping to rectify herself with promptness of speech.
“Sir, for two years I have held rank at Nightholm.”
“Well. And whereof the rank of those scions that held position as my direct correspondent beforetime?”
“Sir, each held rank of Captain as is customary to the personal guard of the Prince,” but the voice this time had gained an air of regret at the mention of her lowly position. Again with the mention of Lovecraft’s title did come the wincement.
“Why, then, would I fathom yourself as to be qualified enow to hold current the position?” did he say with an accompanying tactile glace athwart. Agape at this question, she took many seconds in order to retort with an answer not to make herself seem any more of a meagre foppotee.
“I cannot say I know, I was not the pride of my troop, nor was I the top in my studies. Were I to lead, I would be the last pony I would consider for this position.” Her gaze dropped minorly in response to her suddenly defeated esteem and felt as if whatever she had done to offend would be the end of her career as personal guard. Lovecraft sensed this in her voice as he collected his breath for what appeared to be a long-winded tirade.
“Bastion of rank Private,” began he, Bastion bracing herself for the loss she knew was to arrive, “all those ere you did not begin their stead as the ranks you know them by, and each in turn held the same rank as you, Private of the lowliest class. Erewhile I had hoped to divulge this nary, but it seems extenuation has claimed hold over the current circumstance,” he aboutéd and shifted his phlegmatic gaze to the glowing orbs beneath the perse helmet that looked toward him questioningly. “I relate this as an attempt to convey meaning to the end that I only choose those of lowly status amongst their fellows as they are those in need of most improvement, you are such. However, to make headlong in such you must begin to understand something that I have mentioned countless time afore,” his cast now of a darker tone, “I am not a Prince of this kingdom, nor have done anything to afford myself such a title. I merely hold the castaldy until…” he gave a sorrowful pause before continuing, “until the return of Princess Luna is at hand.” With that did his head turn to give sideward glance at the tapestry looming behind, a face sorrowful half obscured. “Have I made myself clear, Bastion of rank Corporal?” turning his head back to face the armoured Bastion, as undemonstrative as always.
“Corporal?” she whispered incredulously, eyes darting from side to side in misunderstanding, “Corporal Bastion?” A half smile returning Lovecraft’s listlessness. After this did he return to his tome, retorting with back toward her.
“I understand that such abruptivity in ascension can be one great upon the nerves, and I feel as if a sabbatical for the remainder of the night is in line.”
“Uh, yes! Uh, yes, Sir, Pri…” A cold glance looking aft, allowed for her rectification of speech, “Lovecraft. Yes, Lovecraft,” the turned head looking back from whence it came.
“Give my regards to your father when you see him next and to your inamorato: Mantel, whom should be present in the scholar’s cabaret enjoying a thirdendeal of cider, as is the season.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir” her voice the very image of joviality.
“Aroint, and let that be enow.” As she began to leave, attempting to disguise her otherwise obvious excitement, there came an additional from the lips of the steward:
“Oh, and Corporal Bastion,”
“Yes, Sir?” she said halting and looking behind her at the still athwart individual.
“The next time your gentleman caller attempts verbal sparring with this one, perhaps he should be a little less alabandical.”
“Of course Sir, he hasn’t heard the end of it from me since he did.” She waited for a response at this, but after a few moments of none, she believed him to be engaged once again in the interpretation of written-word. With her avaunt made and portal closed in her stead, fading hoof-falls heard in the distance as she proceeded down those obsidian stairs, a hearty laugh flittered down from the ramparts above.
“Ye shouldn’t toy wit’ me granddaughter t’at mooch, ya know, she’s only jus’ startin’.” The accent that floated down from a pair of auburn eyes was of an obviously Ponytzpass take.
“You know well I do such to all who take this position, including yourself Múr. Additionally, am I not given allowance to engage in merriment of mine own taste?”
“Aye, ye may ‘ave t’at foor ya, and I remember well when t’at Mantel o' ‘ers was a drinkin’”
“I stand by my previous sentiment: if one wishest to engage in any sort of dialectal fray intoxicants should be abstained from one’s system, in preference of a more aquabibilous habituary.”
“Aye, but I prefer intoxicans” At this another hearty chuckle sounded in tandem with a few sparse chortles from about the ramparts, in addition to an amused shake of the head by Lovecraft, to mirror his only slightly titillated humour. With the ending of the laughter did again come the silence, but unlike before it would not last, for, the door to the stair well once again swung open to admit a darkly coloured colt with mane of emerald green and coat of profound blue. His eyne did not shine with the luminescence of the usual populace in their maroon chromations, and the artisan mark upon his flank bore a sun eclipsed by the moon, hinting at birthing without Nightholm’s population.
“Private Bastion seemed pretty happy on the stairs,” gave the voicing of tone light and amused, now aside Lovecraft and gazing over his shoulder at what he read; a history of the Canterlot Crystal Mines.
“Corporal Bastion, Eclipse, she is henceforth Corporal,” he replied, closing the book and giving an un-amused look toward Eclipse, who smirked in return.
“About time that happened.” Arising, Lovecraft returned again to the wall of books, repeating as afore, but, in contrast, selecting a new piece from a shelf hidden from view on the aft side of the shelving, a series of other writings removed to reveal its former latibule. Eclipse waited patiently as this transpired, his intrigue at why this had remained hidden as obscure a thing as the books resting place. He said nothing further until the one who shared the floor with him was from thither, placing the lexicon upon the console he had poured over in the passing moments. “It’s nearly night,” moving as he spoke to look upon the scribings title only to find it froward, “almost time to raise the moon.”
“I am well aware of both the time and my duty, but am gladdened that you see it well to care for my agéd mind,” making movement toward the door as if to leave, he continued by saying, “Please await me here whilst I do what I am bidden.”
“See you when you’re back, Lovecraft,” came his pliant acquiescence, and as the door opened for a third time, this with the use of the magick of the one who made motion to leave, a solemn addition came from the previously whimsical colt, “Oh, Lovecraft. It’s today. The memorial I mean, Princess Cadence will be expecting you as usual.” Lovecraft stopped at the precipice of the now opened door, and, without a head’s turn athwart replied:
“I am aware.” Having left the room fully, the egress shut slowly and in a silence, the only indicator of such the very sight of its closing. Yet, unlike the others, the dopplering reverberation of his hoof-falls did not sound as he departed down the companionway, telling either of the adiposity of he, or rather the lack thereof, or the heft put into his gait. However, the one who had been left seemed unperturbed by this as if accustomed to the light steps of his peer and, after many moments of making motion with his head as if counting, moved toward the desk that had atop it a book he could only wonder about. From pure respect of Lovecraft was his curiosity quelled to disturb the tome on its perch, and he merely looked about the library, wondering at the contents whose depths each had been plumbed on many occasions by the one who spent all hours of the day and night studying them, and the time spent to complete such a multitudinous collection. He marveled still at the knowledge he could at any moment summon from the recesses of his mind to answer inquires any might plague him with, and further still his ability to infer from those past readings solutions to seemingly unrelated conundrums.
After standing stupefied, as he had done on many occasions afore, a voice flowed down from the hidden vallations above and the guards that circled them, this not of the argot of Múr, but of a Nightholm commonplace.
“He wants you to read it, ya know.” Looking above, Eclipse hoped to find the pair of eyes from whence the voice arose, but he could not, for multiple eyne looked down upon the room. Unable to know each of the populace by voice alone as could Lovecraft, he was forced to address the group as a whole, the speaker amongst them otherwise unknown.
“How do you know,” taking a pause before furthering his query with, “and who’s talking?”
“Sergeant Aponius, Sir, and I’ve watched Lovecraft in the Library for quite a while; he never leaves books out. Always puts them back, no matter what,” a murmur of concurrences enforcing the validity of what he said. Looking down toward the bound scribing for a moment, he gazed back at the black depths overhead as he told:
“Are you sure?”
“Yep.” Turning a final time toward the tome, he moved closer and turned it so that the appellation might be visible. Not one to dawdle, the act was completed in seconds, and he read aloud what was sew into the cover with brown stitching, hoping that they who had been so fain to aid him would continue to do so.
“Prince Morel: Primum Princeps Canterlot. The first Prince of Canterlot.” Many vociferations bombarded Eclipse as he said aloud the name.
“That traitor!” shouted one Guard.
“King Morel is more like it,” came another. Upon the defensive, he retorted to the chorus of discontent stallions superior, his voice aquake in incredulity at such a display.
“What has…this Prince Morel, done to you?”
“He betrayed us, his own! To live with those Love-eaters,” spitting out the final epithet with disgust.
“That spawn of Sombra went to be with things like himself, leaving his subjects behind to fend for themselves. If Princess Cadence or Lovecraft had not been around we would have been leaderless,” shouted Sergeant Aponius the most vehement of the group in his dislike of Prince Morel. Shaking his head, appearing as well slightly sickened at the glowing orbs that spat out their abuse so willingly. He replied with same conviction as they:
“I would of never thought that Equestrians could have such hatred for another, especially one of their own Princes.”
“He was only our Prince because of the kindness of Princess Celestia on her death bed giving the throne to her son, however it was he was conceived, that Sombra-spawn. It was before your time foal. I was there for his rule, and his betrayal. Read and you’ll know why that name disgusts us!”
“T’at’s enough Sergeant!” roared above the rest the voice of Captain Múr, “Back t' yer posts! All o' ye!”
“You were there with him Múr, you were a part of the company that he took with him when he left us.”
“I said, back t’ yer posts!” his tone biting as a sword cutting across the ear, “And t’at’s Captain t’ ye.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Yes, Captain what?”
“Yes, Sir, Captain Múr, Sir,” an obvious disdain in the words as he spoke them aloud.
“T’en back t’ yer posts!” the authority coupled with his seniority enough to disperse the previously raucous group and quiet their cruel soundings. The remainder gone, only the auburn eyes were left to glow in the darkness where the others had pooled only moments or. The slit irises then turned downward to Eclipse who waited there, jaw clenched in fury at the uncouth reactions so uncharacteristic of not only guards of Nightholm, but citizens of Equestria.
Speech now calm after the confrontation with Aponius, Múr waited a moment so that Eclipse could also quell his anger, but finding it still at full force from what he could tell spoke either way.
“‘E’s right, ya know.”
“You share their hatred?!”
“Nay. Read ‘n’ know t’ story. I watched Lovecraft write t’at. ‘E’s moore a Prince t’an even ‘e knows.” What was said put a stagger upon the animosity Eclipse had felt at their words, in addition to righting the nausea that had began to take hold during the engagement. As the skyward eyne looked down upon him, he approached the book and opened the front cover and gazed upon the name of its author, penned in his own highly developed calligraphy: H.F. Lovecraft. Continuing onward, he began his scrutiny reading to himself the foreword:
The following foreword is taken from the journal of Prince Morel so as to better understand the mind he who ruled over Equestria as Sovereign of the Sun in the years following the reign of Equestria…