Tirek by palaikai
Thousands of years ago, a wise and much-loved king was lying on his death bed; before passing on to the next world, he had his son and heir brought to him to impart one last piece of insight before his elevation:
“Rule with love,” he said, “not fear.”
The son, as is so often the way, ignored his father and chose a different path. A darker path. Everything and everyone in his new kingdom, even the animals, was terrorised into submission. They lived in harmony of a sort, obeying the whims of their lord lest they risk his … displeasure. Despite this, the king was not content. There were still those that chose to defy his wishes.
The elements were brought to heel; the wind, the waves, even the passage of time were in his grasp. Controlled, enslaved, made to serve his own ends.
But there was one force that refused his summons, one aspect that would not allow itself to be controlled. Music. It could not be constrained, and it could not be reasoned with, so the king had it exiled to the dark places beyond his dominion. Without music, life's sweet harmonies and rhythms died away, becoming a drab, squalid thing with no purpose.
The people could not sing away their troubles; the king's guards were haunted by silence, even in the midst of their many, many battles. With no way to express their love, the king was driven to madness by the haughty silence of his many wives. What little joy remained had been robbed from his world and he sought to put things right.
When his messengers did not return, when his calls went unheeded, it was left for the king himself to make that journey into the darkness which lay beyond the known. Somewhere between life and death, between madness and reason, the king found the music and begged, wept, until it agreed to return to his land.
He awoke from a long slumber, tired and weakened from his experiences, to find that the music had indeed returned … discordant, violent, malevolent. His subjects' every word caused them untold agony. Birds fell from the sky, their songs catching in their throats. Waves crashed and died against the shore.
Before the king died, the music explained:
“In the darkness to which you cast me, I learned the meaning of fear.”
*
“Octavia?”
“Yes?”
“It's a little … grim, don't you think?” said Vinyl Scratch, struggling to comprehend exactly what it was she had just read. Despite Princess Twilight Sparkle's victory, a lot of the wounds Tirek had caused were still raw and bloody, and it seemed that they were getting to her marefriend in particular. As of late, compositions of this sort had been almost the norm. They were such a marked contrast to her usual, beautiful melodies that Vinyl was beginning to worry about Octavia's mental state.
Octavia inclined her head slightly, surrendering herself to Vinyl's embrace, snuggling close to her warm chest for comfort. “I'm still having nightmares. Without my cutie mark, without the ability to create music, I felt so … lost. Your purpose, your entire sense of being, stolen from you in an instant.”
Vinyl's hoof stroked Octavia's mane. “I know. I felt the same way. I imagine everypony did. But things worked themselves out.”
“But what if they hadn't?”
“There's no point worrying about that,” Vinyl replied with a shake of her head. It had scared her to find her talent taken away so easily; there were many ponies who were looking to the princesses for answers, for assurances that it could never happen again, but of course, they couldn't. Tirek was still alive. Imprisoned, but alive. There were many who felt that he deserved a harsher punishment. It was not the Equestrian way to seek vengeance, however.
“Vinyl-” Octavia hesitated.
“Mm?”
“Would you still love me if I wasn't a musician.”
“What sort of question is that?”
“One that I'd rather you didn't try to deflect.”
Vinyl Scratch took off her sunglasses, looked Octavia in the eyes and said, “I adore you for your talent, but I love you for the pony you are inside. Nothing, not even Tirek's magic, can ever take that away.”
“Thank you,” Octavia said, kissing Vinyl softly on the cheek. Tears spilled down her eyes. “Sorry, I know I'm just being silly, but I really needed to hear that.”
This is still amazing. Romance, epic saga, and angst; mixed together in a fine concoction the reader can enjoy, like herbal tea.
A tragedy fell upon pony this day,
yet the dream stands stronger still.
For when the sun still rises high,
when love so dear still holds you tight,
the darkness shan't reach you
even through the night.
Excellent work dear Author!
May you be prolific soon.
5188253
That's quite all right.
5188208
Once my hand gets better, I'm gonna update a few things.
5188619
Then I hope you fully recover soon.
5188619 Hope you get better!
5188813
5189353
Thank you, both. It's feeling a bit better now, so hopefully in another day or two I can start writing again.
5189364
You're very welcome. Have a pleasant recovery~
5189387
Is it ever pleasant to recover from something, though? Being recovered is awesome, but the actual process of recovering ... ugh. God, I remember this one time I had the 'flu so bad that I was completely bed-ridden and passing out all the time.
Sorry, I'm rambling.
5189396
It is an ideal to ever have a recovery which is pleasant. That's why I wish it upon you.
It's quite all right, dear.
5189433
I suppose if I had a couple of minions to tend my every whim, it'd make the process more bearable.
5189438
Or a horn! Don't forget about magical
5189450
I'd love to have a horn. The endless fun I could have running into people and jabbing them with a pointy spike.
5189478
As long as you don't murder, playing with your horn would be fine.
5189488
Nah, no murdering, just lots of repeated jabbings.
5189503
As long as you don't murder~
Horns are to invade with
5189520
Invade what?
5189531
Everything.
5189553
5189564
Pain flow, love spill~
In the near future when the biblical pony war arrives and the world as we know it will be plunged into horse-based terror, these stories will be the one thing we have to prove our allegiance to the pony side and be spared from a fate of cupcakes and magic.