Prologue
The wick of a candle glows softly in the dim light, wrapped in a shimmering blue aura visible only to a few. The aura lasts only a moment, swiftly replaced by a small, yet significantly more bright spark as, with a barely audible pop, the wick comes alight with a steadily growing flame. Its light reveals other candles placed equidistant around a circular diagram.
Intricate lines cross to and fro, each glittering with gem dust, like lines of stars winking in and out in concert with the dancing candlelight. Patterns of runes and ancient mathematical symbols fill the rim of the circle, interrupted by five short pillars, each carrying an item. The pillars are each surrounded by yet more runes and symbols, with lines of chalk and gem dust radiating inward to a smaller circle of five crystals, humming softly together in a discordant melody, barely perceptible.
In the very center of the circle, curled up in a sleeping position, is a young unicorn filly, no more than nine years of age, with a beautiful ivory coat and soft, yellow mane and tail. Her eyes are closed in peaceful slumber, her form completely and utterly still. No twitch of an eyelid, no flick of an ear, not even the steady expansion and contraction of her barrel. She lay there, undisturbed by the motions around her, as candle after candle is lit.
The filly's mane is disturbed slightly, as a large, midnight-blue muzzle parts the yellow strands beside her ear, planting a small, loving kiss upon her head before departing. The same blue glow from before gently guides her mane back into place, as though it hadn't even been moved. A voice spoke, deep and smooth, with edges of sadness and desperate hope lending it the slightest jagged edge.
"Soon, my sweet flower. I'm almost finished. We won't have to wait much longer."
The speaker, a unicorn stallion, walks away, his steps quick, but not uncaring. Everything must be perfect; not one hair out of place. If a single thing were wrong, if a single variable was left unaccounted for, the ritual may fail, and the stallion will have nothing left.
He returns swiftly, a large, silver tray floating with him in his aura. Upon it, five items are neatly arranged, perfectly equidistant from one another, with not a single item touching another. One by one, the unicorn places them on the pedestals.
A silver bowl, containing shards of a strange, almost ethereal metal. Its surface is like obsidian, absorbing all light shone upon it save the smallest glimmer of silvery moonlight, otherwise unreachable in this dark place, which the shards seem to almost produce of their own power.
A tall, ornate hourglass, glittering with gold and jewels. Inside rests a pearl-white sand, seemingly frozen in the act of passing between each half, while simultaneously flowing in both directions, as though unconcerned with the standard passage of linear time.
A small, stone bowl filled with water, its surface perfectly smooth and still even as the unicorn places it on its pillar. The room is reflected on its surface with perfect clarity, as though it were not a simple bowl of water, but a window into another place. As the stallion turns to retrieve the next component, his reflection stares, watching him go before stepping out of sight as well.
A small disk, much like a tray for incense, upon which rests a small mound of glittering powder, like gem dust. The stallion is careful to retrieve the pile with a hoof, not daring to light his horn around the sensitive substance.
Finally, a single page of a book, old and yellowed. The material is thick and durable, like hide, the ink seeming to swim across its textured surface in confusing patterns of red symbols and diagrams. The page seems to shift contents, at one moment showing a neat dissection of an equine skull, the next, a pattern carved into a curled ram's horn, glowing with power, then a bell, cracked and worn, with dark smoke billowing around it.
With all five items in place, the unicorn lights his horn again, floating a thin knife to his pastern. With a quick slash, blood wells up from the limb, dripping down the stallion's hoof in a steady stream as he walks around the circle, pouring the fluid into the lines of dust surrounding the deceased filly, careful to not let a single drop spoil her coat. His task complete, he binds the wound, then sits beside the circle, facing her.
His horn lights again, and the circle reacts. The pedestals begin to glow, lines of light drawing through the dust towards the five crystals like oil through thin channels. The hum intensifies as the crystals glow, slowly rising a few centimeters from their resting place, thrumming with power as the rest of the circle glows as well. The stallion begins muttering in a language he doesn't understand, the words seeming to make the very air shudder with each syllable. His aura darkens, shifting from its standard blue to a deep midnight, almost pure black, as energies swirl around the filly. The corpse is lifted up, dangling from invisible threads as the ritual continues, a strong breeze buffeting everything in the room.
One of the pedestals ignites, ethereal blue flames consuming the hourglass, burning the sands inside. The corresponding crystal glows a brilliant white, rising to the same height as the filly as the fire goes out. The filly's body changes, mane and tail growing longer, body growing taller, until she appears to have aged four years in as many seconds.
A second pedestal ignites. The metal shards dissolve, thick black smoke pouring forth from the ruins. A screech of hatred and rage fills the air, drowning out all sound as the crystal glows with blackened moonlight, rising to meet the first.
The ritual begins to destabilize, waves of powerful magic slamming into the stallion's horn, nearly forcing him to lose his grip. With grit teeth, he ignites the third pillar, consuming the crystalline powder in a flash. Its own crystal rises, glowing a shimmering pink with flecks of sky blue and purple, and the screaming stops. The filly's mane and tail billow in an ethereal wind. Contrary to the buffeting waves of air that rack the rest of the building, the rapidly whitening strands flow coolly and evenly, like Celestia herself, before slowing greatly.
The fourth pedestal does not ignite. Instead, the liquid in the bowl rises, spreading out in a thin sheet over the center of the ritual, pointed down at the filly like a lens. The whole room is reflected in its surface. The filly is not.
Finally, with a rumble not unlike a dark chuckle, black smoke spills forth from the final pedestal, the page rising into the air beside the stallion. The constantly changing symbols solidify, and blood streams up from around the circle, flowing into the dark spaces where characters are forming. When the blood runs out, the stallion rips open his bound wound, letting yet more blood flow, completing the script. Once every symbol is filled, he clamps the wound shut again, not letting a drop escape as his eyes drip with smoke and tar.
Darkness spills forth from the page, flowing into the liquid lens, altering it. The reflection changes, showing a vast, dark expanse, with mist stretching out in all directions as far as the eye can see. Shadowy, indistinct figures float aimlessly throughout. Some appear vaguely equinal, others completely alien, yet most bear forms barely distinct from the mists around them.
The stallion grabs the lens, tilting and turning it in his aura, searching for something. His eyes roam the vast emptiness, unblinking, as the blood in the page slowly runs out. This is it, the final step. His reagents are spent, his magic corrupted. He will not get a second chance.
The stallion closes his eyes, no longer relying on sight. He searches with his feelings, his memories. A young, curious mind, always eager to learn. A shyness contrary to her natural beauty. A strong sense of justice–right and wrong–with the conviction to act on it. He focuses on these and more, searching beyond the veil for the one he knows would answer the call. The one with which he holds the strongest connection. His beautiful flower.
The page grows dull, the last of the characters bleeding away into the mist. The page drops, and fog begins to enclose the lens once more, slowly returning to a normal reflection. The unicorn panics, searching faster, scrambling to find the one he seeks. He can't fail now, not when he's so close!
Desperate, he broadens his search, casting the lens this way and that. Souls, old and young, enter his vision. He casts them aside. He looks farther, and farther, his focus growing narrower, foggier. He's going to fail. He's out of time.
Finally, a soul crosses the stallion's vision. Young, bright, just, innocent. Familiar. He grabs her with all his might, pouring everything he has into the spell. With a scream, he tears the soul from the lens, throwing it into the body of the filly mere moments before it collapses, shattering into a spray of droplets and mist. The fifth crystal lights up, joining the others, swirling with otherworldly light. The last of the stallion's magic is ripped from him, poured into the crystals as they glow like the sun, searing their magic into the filly. The wind thrashes wildly for several seconds, blowing out the candles as the light seeps into her chest. Then, far more quickly than it began, it ends.
The crystals, drained and transparent, clatter to the floor, a couple shattering completely. Less than a second later, the filly falls, her strings cut. The stallion dives forward to catch her, cupping her in his forelegs and holding her tight to his chest. He presses his ear against her chest. No heartbeat. Panicking, he moves his face close to hers. No breathing. Her body is cold, as lifeless as it had been for the past four years.
Shocked, in disbelief, the stallion looks around at the ruined ritual chamber. Only a couple candles remain, burning at the far corners of the room. The only component not consumed by the spell is the page, lying blank on the floor beside its pedestal. The stallion tries to light his horn, wincing in pain, his head swimming with nausea and exhaustion. He looks back down at the filly. At his daughter, lifeless in his grasp, and he cries.
He'd failed.
The stallion gently sets his daughter in the small coffin. She's larger now, so he'd had to make a new one, making room for her longer legs and horn. It doesn't matter. It's still too small. She was still too young.
The stallion stares at his daughter, eyes wet and cheeks sticky, but no tears come. He hasn't any tears left to cry. He'd already spent hours laying on the floor, curled up around her, crying into her once beautiful yellow mane, now bleached white. He'd failed, and he'd defiled her in the process. After several hours, he'd done his best to carefully brush her mane straight again. He'd paced his home, unsure what to do. He hadn't planned for this. For failure. When he'd returned, and saw her lifeless body, he'd broken again, and spent hours more by her side. He'd spent all night trying hard to build her a suitable coffin. One that would let her rest in comfort after he'd sustained her body for so long. The end result was crude, but it was the best he could give.
Now, seeing her there, curled up as though asleep, he wishes he had more tears to give. Something to break the silence; the quiet despair. Leaning down, he gently parts her mane, revealing her face to him one last time. He leans down, kissing the base of her horn, then rests his head against hers, his horn pressed against hers in a futile attempt to reach her one last time.
"I-" he chokes out the word, his voice raw with emotion. "I'm sorry, little one. I'm so, so sorry."
He holds her like that, afraid to let go. Afraid to accept that she's truly gone. All his hard work. Losing his home, his title, his licenses. His careful maneuvering among Princess Celestia's paladins, among cults of the Nightmare and fanatics of the Necromancer. All was for naught. He feels drained, the coldness of his daughter's body seeming to leech the last of his strength. So be it. He doesn't have anything left.
The sensation increases, growing stronger with each passing second. He feels a chill up his spine, and a draining sensation, as though the last of his life were being sucked out through his horn. It starts to hurt, and he moves to raise his head, but finds he's unable. He can't move.
He opens his eyes, seeing his horn glowing, feeling power flowing out of him. He opens his mouth to scream, but stops when he sees her eyes.
Her open eyes.
The stallion watches as color gradually returns to her. Her eyes, once dull and lacking life, grow brighter and more vibrant. Her coat seems to shine with new life, her mane slightly fuller. He feels air on his muzzle as her barrel expands and contracts. She's breathing!
Feeling a surge of hope, the stallion stops holding back his magic. Pressing his horn against hers, he opens the floodgates, pouring out every drop of energy he'd regained since the ritual. When that runs out, he stays, feeling as his very life is drained from him. He nearly screams as seemingly every nerve in his body is sucked out through his horn. He gasps as his muscles begin to atrophy, his skin begins to thin. He feels years of his life draining away, filling his daughter, bringing her back to life.
Finally, just when he feels he may die, the draining stops. The stallion falls away from his daughter, panting and gasping. He takes stock of himself, feeling as though he'd just aged a hundred years, then slowly climbs to his hooves and peers into the coffin.
Two beautiful blue eyes stare back at him. Two beautiful, wet, unclouded, living eyes meet his own. She opens her mouth to speak, and once again, finally, the stallion cries.