You know what's great about gaining the ability to warp into a being of pure, raw, arcane energy? When you die, you literally become a part of reality. When I was walking and talking I was like a force of nature, but now that I'm dead I am a force of nature. I could sense the swirling masses of power ebbing and flowing all around me and witness the incandescent spirits travelling from one existence to another. I now existed in all places, granting my life force to the universe, helping life flourish and seeing hope and a future blossom...I don't want to sound narcissistic, but this must be how the goddesses and gods felt when they made everything; I existed in a state of bliss! In between my dreams I was able to grant an inkling of my former power to beings still in the world of the living. I would most likely never know what they'd done with my powers but I'd always only given enough to do serious good or very little evil. I'm all-powerful, not stupid. The pain of dying was horrendous, but upon reflection, being stuck in the mortal world was torture compared to the wonders of magical nirvana.
Time had no meaning to me anymore, it could’ve been days, weeks, years, aeons and seconds since I arrived and I loved every moment of it. It's strange being conscious of your demise and eternal fate, I should be bored by now...But no, being a needle and thread to the tears in the fabric of reality is immeasurably pleasurable in every sense of the word...Yes, death seemed to be pretty-
"Oh fabled and lost Conjurer..."
What?
"Hear me wise and ageless sage..."
Is...Someone else like medead too?
"Return from your primordial slumber, father of knowledge!"
Return from...Wait, no!
"Rise old lord of lore and powers of yore! Return to the mortal realm, so that your children, you may helm!"
I don't want to go back there! W-Wait...What's happening to me?!
"Correct the folly of our rulers!"
No! Stop! Don't rip me from this wonderland! Why am I powerless to stop this madman?!
"Shepherd the blind and faithful alike!"
I forsook the blind and faithful, I gave up on you long ago!
"Return to us, Lord Hierophant, anew!"
And, with little warning, the long dead former Human was back in the world of the living.
To an onlooker, the moonlit coven of cloaked cultists standing amidst the crumbling stone of a long dormant citadel praying to a weathered and colourless coffin covered in forgotten script would appear suspect to say the least. The melodic chanting, bowl of azure-burning incense, and scrolls of bloody writing made it all the more daunting. The room they'd turned into a shrine and altar no longer served a purpose. Rows of broken stone shelves housed burnt and torn tomes, a large throne sat behind the coffin obscured by centuries of weeds, and the holes in the roof allowed the silver rays of moonlight to shine upon the hundreds of mages. Some were Equestrian, some weren't, but they all had one thing in common: They all worshipped the same fallen deity they now sought to bring back.
"Return to us, Lord Hierophant, anew!" Cried out an aged, thundering voice over the sombre singing of his assembly. And, with a tap of his steel staff against the stone floor, they all ceased their singing. The strange, hopeful crowd watched their leader as he raised onto his hooves and turned to face the crowd, his glowing eyes being greeted by two hundred sets of weary faces. As he began to pull out a thick book of scripture, the tomb behind him began to vibrate slightly. All watched as the empty coffin which bore the likeness of their god shined a soft, silver light between the crack of the lid and case. The pale light exploded into a rainbow of magical hues that danced around the chamber. Along with the dazzling display, they all listened to a booming symphony of music and battle that seemed to be audible only in their minds. They gasped as the light swirled around them, embraced them, only to be sucked back into the coffin and out of sight.
All were still and silent, as the lid slowly eased off of the stone effigy and onto the ground unassisted to show nothing but a swirling mess of colour. It was shapeless and held no tone, colour, or form for longer than a second and moved in a chaotic dance as it hovered above its instrument of rebirth.
"What year is it, where am I, why have I been brought back, and who did you kill to bring me back? Necromancers require an enormous amount of magical energy to resurrect a long dead spirit, don’t lie to me." The fog ordered in a calm, almost bored voice that was pleasant, soft, and held a smooth accent after a long, strained sigh. Despite the welcoming voice in their heads they couldn't help but feel unnerved, as if they'd angered their idol.
"Lord Hierophant, it's been aeons since you were last in the world of mortals… approximately four millennia." The old leader informed, struggling to contain his glee as he removed the golden cloak covering his silver body and blue mane. Although his eyes were milky and scarred, the sheer might of the incorporeal being projected an image into his mind and the sight of his only master, along with the sound of his rejoicing followers' thoughts, brought tears to his eyes.
"Truly?...It Feels like days since I was slain...Where am I?" The Hierophant asked, which surprised everyone gathered.
"We're gathered in what remains of your throne room, though it has fallen into disrepair and ruin since your banishment. Many tried to ransack what was left of it and the Equestrian Army tried to gain access long ago but many of your wards still remained and when we found our way past the inner walls we reinforced it with our own traps and spells." The old sage continued, lamenting the state of the old archive-turned-hovel.
"Thank you, it won't take long to get it back into shape when we're done so don't feel too ashamed; considering it's been four thousand years, you've all done a tremendous job that it's still standing at all." The incorporeal being congratulated, observing its surroundings.
"Y-Your praise is not necessary, My Lord, we simply continued the legacy of your old reign. We brought you back because we and the world at large need your wisdom and guidance once more. The new kings and queens have forsaken their people; they seek to repeat the mistakes of the past and destroy the knowledge of former Lords. As it is, many of your teachings have been outlawed in Equestria and the few faithful to your reign are hiding around the world. We beseech you, Lord of Arcana, command us and unite your people!" The leader of the ragged mages begged passionately with an overwhelming sense of zeal. The rush of hopeful thoughts, prosperous hopes, dreams of magical mastery, and reunifying their scattered followers flooded their incorporeal god’s mind along with some less desirable thoughts of warfare and 'punishing the wicked'; the leader of the cultists held these same thoughts and emotions and believed his illustrious deity also shared them.
"That's a touching speech…But two things: I'm not a king, I was a powerful Archmage who commanded the grand Archive and the surrounding lands, but I wasn’t a proper noble as the head of the Archive. Also, last time I checked, most countries were run by Immortals on my level; how exactly will I be able to not die this time, and why would anyone want to follow me after all this time resting… I’m sorry, what’s your name, Seer?" The Hierophant asked, before it floated down in front of their elderly leader.
"Faded Scroll, my lord. Many of those former leaders died from war or infighting, passed on the torch to their heirs or vanished completely. Truly, only a handful of old world rulers remain. And as for the question of your reign, none would argue against the idea that you, an Immortal Mage whose guidance led to a golden age for the Archive, would be unfit to rule. The Gods themselves deemed you worthy of your might and people respected your guidance.” Faded Scroll informed, a faint smile on his scarred visage.
"So, I die when the Empire crumbles and return to fix the damage and supposedly kickstart a country...Wonderful. So, how many died to bring me back? You left that out and I'm not one for trusting cultists, even my own." He demanded to know as he looked out over the still elated cultists.
"No one was sacrificed to bring you back, we gathered effigies, talismans, conduits and those rare people you gifted power to, in an attempt to concentrate your residual life force and magical power in a point of the world where the divide between the magical and physical planes is weakest. Some of your belongings have been in our possession for years and others we have only recently acquired from around the world...Many have died over the years finding, retrieving and protecting these powerful artefacts but it was deemed safer than to risk summoning a malevolent demon or spirit instead of you. We've gone to great lengths to save you." Faded Scroll reassured him, the weight of his words and their losses reflected in his tone, yet his pride and confidence in his decision was clear.
"The use of magical artefacts, incenses, and finding a weaker spot in the rift between planes of reality...You all are smarter than most cults, I'll give you that; most of them resort to blood magic within the first year and demon summoning in the second...I’m sorry for your losses. I didn't want to come back but I might as well do something now that I am back. Do you have any clothes lying around? Being a cloud that communicates through telepathy can be fun for a while but if I have a physical manifestation, I might as well use it." Their god impatiently requested, itching to try walking again.
"Yes, My Lord, we were lucky enough to salvage your old garb and accessories from the site of your battle with Princess Celestia...They're in a state of disrepair but-" As Faded Scroll carefully removed the lid of a large, gilded chest, the faded and heavily damaged black robe, crimson scarf, rusted armour, and some unidentifiable scrap were snatched from his hooves and held within the swirling cloud. In front of their eyes, they saw the robe and scarf return to their vibrant colours and the armour's rust break apart and reveal the shining steel beneath. Metal and fabric materialised out of nowhere and soon an ensemble worthy of an Archmage formed in the air, bereft of its wearer.
"Not too bad given my extended nap...Now comes the tricky part..." He announced with a sense of excitement and nervousness as the armour floated to the ground and stood up straight as if worn. The cultists leaped back when the extravagant armour and formless cloud shimmered intensely and turned pure white as the cloud moved into the unoccupied clothing. Expanding ever so slightly, the cloud gained mass and gradually became solid as the armour moved and flexed its limbs. After a fully bipedal body, complete with hair, was created the shine faded away to reveal the most common form of their master.
"So, how do I look? Pretty good for a corpse huh?" The Hierophant jested as they did a small twirl to their followers. Where hollow armour once stood now resided a six foot tall human, a race long since believed to have been wiped out, with flowing brown and silver hair. His beautiful, soft face was sculpted by him, though his stunning yellow and blue eyes were a mystery as none of his old fables detail him having a yellow right iris or blue left iris, instead having a pair of purple eyes. Their head was cloaked by the hood of his black and silver robe, it covered almost all of his body but was left unbuttoned to show off the light armour underneath. The silver runic symbols etched into the cuffs, hood, and hem of the robe were the least impressive sign of its wearers mystic powers, as the inside of the jacket resembled something similar to the hypnotic, colourful haze of the Hierophant's true form. His left shoulder was decorated by a small silver pauldron in the shape of a lion's head with a starry blue mane that seemed to contrast with the magical robe. It was connected by a chain to his layered steel chestplate that bore the insignia of a golden lion and silver raven circling each other in front of a black shield. His right hand was covered by a matching steel gauntlet while curiously his left was uncovered, allowing people to once more see the indescribable mess hidden by the robe. Their legs were covered in a pair of tight, black trousers protected by steel plating that hung off his thighs. Along with all the armour, underclothes, and robe he also wore a massive, fuzzy and cosy crimson scarf that he'd wrapped around his throat. The fiery fabric obscured parts of his lower face and the one long tail of it fluttered in the wind like a dancing flame. Always one to favour comfort over style, he wore clean, simple hide boots. All in all, the coven thought he was as awe-inspiring as the ancient illustrations of them sitting upon their old throne.
"You're simply exquisite, Hierophant, just as the legends described you." Faded Scroll complemented, grinning despite his best attempts to remain stoic.
"Thanks, you're not too shabby for an old pony. Oh and call me Alistair, it's my actual name. I noticed I don't have my weapons, are you holding onto those too or have they been lost?" Alistair joked before asking as he placed his unarmoured hand on his old throne, watching the plant life retreat and wrap around the base of the chair while the seat itself reformed into the cushioned, stone throne that once sat proud; the immediate area surrounding the chiselled chair likewise reverted to its former pristine state.
"Yes and no, Hier-Lord Alistair. We have your old notepad and your grimoire, but your family's sword is unobtainable." The old pony told Alistair, bewildered by the rapid and effective powers his ruler displayed.
"Really? Who took it? Was it the royal bitch Celestia?" Barked Alistair, saying her name with venom, as he sat on his old throne and rested deep into it.
"N-No actually, Queen Chrysalis took it from the Equestrians, quite recently in fact." Faded corrected, taken aback by their harsh words. Alistair for their part seemed to smile fondly.
"Chryssie huh? The Queen always did have a soft spot for us...So, where is she now? I imagine she'll be ecstatic to see me loitering in the real world again." Alistair asked, a hint of nostalgic fondness in his voice as he smiled wistfully. Meanwhile, Faded Scroll approached him with two large books wrapped in sacred cloth.
"We believe she's established a hive in the badlands not far from here."
"Badlands?" Alistair questioned.
"After you died, this region fell into disarray and warfare. The loss of your life sustaining magic, combined with local struggles, left the territory largely barren and unwelcoming." Faded Scroll explained as he knelt before the study chair-turned-throne and used his magic to unwrap the books. "Lord Alistair the Ever Changing...Your ageless grimoire and notebook." Despite his inability to read their thoughts, Faded Scroll knew Alistair was overwhelmed at the sight of his old tomes.
"Huh, don't need my magic to keep you two in top-notch shape, huh? Thank you so much, all of you." He thanked the gathered crowd with a soft smile as he grabbed the leather bound, arcane book. Its cover bore a sigil of a white alicorn rising from a circle with a human hand coming out of the bottom. A glowing blue flame in the circle separated the hand and alicorn. On the back of the book was the same symbol as his breastplate, complete with the shield. The pages hummed softly as if alive and had waited for his touch. Hooking it to the belt obscured by his robe he examined the blank yet meaningful notebook of white paper. The book was dull and to the layman would seem completely devoid of magic. Despite this, he placed it on the armrest of his favourite chair and hovered his right hand over the paper. Within his pale palm an unseen rune appeared and hovered a few inches above the skin before blinking out of reality. The once blank page was now replaced by a small, detailed paper alicorn figurine that moved on its own accord and stared up at Alistair. In response, he carefully picked it up and placed it in his right gauntlet and held it up for all to see.
"Lord Alistair...What would you have us do?" Faded Scroll asked as his followers stared up at their god, hopeful and determined to prove their worth to their Lord.
"Contact Chrysalis' hive if possible, use whatever magic you can to aid me in rebuilding these archives, try and contact your cells across the globe and order an exodus here..." Alistair stopped giving orders so they could look down at the figurine as he wordlessly casted a simple fire spell that covered his gauntlet, and the paper figurine, in a purple fire. He watched the figurine crumbled up and burned into nothing.
"...We're going to be very busy rebuilding." He finished after blowing the ashes of the figurine away. A small, bittersweet smile adorned his face as he sighed and thought about how cruel fate was.