It was an idyllic isle, where no human had trod for centuries. Timeworn wards repelled all who were not already privy to the domain's secrets. Mighty glamours, the forebearers of the modern day Fidelius Charm, erased its location from history. This was a place of power, a place that many had fought and died to possess. Jealous protections had been placed to hide it. Unfortunately, when the casters had died, the secret had not been passed to even those who truly needed it.
Even the most ignorant of muggles had heard tell of regions where two or three ley lines intersected, places where magic operated at elevated levels. Here, five lines converged. There were only seven such regions on the entire planet. Atlantis had one, as did Shangri La and Mount Olympus. There was one in the Forbidden City, yet another in Northern America, and the last in South America.
There had been a terrible accident at the northern one, leaving a tremendous rent in the earth so large that people still came to marvel at it to this very day. But, like its brethren, it too was lost to modern magic users. Those who had once held sway over these nexuses had been determined to take those secrets to their graves.
This place had once been called Avion. It was a small island misplaced in a body of water, too insignificant to be noticed by cartographers, mentioned only in the most obscure of legends. On the isle was a pool of water, undisturbed and tranquil for a time unknown.
Its true power had by no means been forgotten; unlike the previous masters of the land, they remembered, as did their children, and their children's children. They lived among the trees that dotted the perimeter of the pools, tweeting what most would consider nonsense. The normal ones of their kind would have taken up residence on the ledges of sheer cliff walls, but they thrived on the isolation that the magics provided.
Truth be told, they had never seen the one who emerged from the pool before, but they recognized what he was. They remembered what he was meant to do in this place. They remembered his purpose.
As one, from every nest in every tree, they lent their voices and trilled a greeting. As one, they articulated their approval.
Vengeance had arrived.
As he covered his evidence wall, he reflected on how his life had taken a turn for the better. His dreams had been realized. Magic was real. The hidden society was real. He could understand why they had slunk away into the shadows. He just needed to make them realize that those concerns had faded into the memories of time. They would be welcomed now.
Yes, there would be those who would hold onto the prejudices of the past, but they would be a small minority. This generation grew up on the ethos of Star Trek, voiding the hate, voiding the tribalism. This generation was ready for the diversity. Humanity could be made whole once more.
He would be a herald for the changes to come, he and his new girlfriend.
Together, they would reunite what had been sundered. They would bring a new age of prosperity to all. They would show the world that the truth was out there.
What the two worlds could accomplish together, neither could do alone. They should be brought together, no, must be bought together. United, they would usher in an age of miracles.
Girlfriend. That was a word he never thought he would be able to claim as his own. Life was so much better now that he had found the half his life had been missing.
Now, if only his mother would stop giving his girlfriend those little inflatable gifts. Impregnable or not, things would happen when they were meant to happen.
From the quiet upstairs study, she raised her head and perked an ear. Her herdmate had just called her name, and there had been an unrecognizable feeling projected in the call on top of the obvious urgency.
“Yes?” she hollered back, worried. “Is everything okay?”
There was silence, and she was well on her way downstairs before her herdmate replied, “An owl just flew in here. It had a letter addressed to us.”
“A letter?” she questioned, still unable to place the strange emotion in the air. “An owl?”
Tension mounted before the response came. “It's from our daughter.”
The level of worry rose sharply, and her voice quivered. “Is something wrong in Manehattan?”
“No.” Her herdmate's voice also quivered. “Our other daughter.”
She froze, mid-step. Memories flooded her mind.
A frisky filly.
A charitable soul.
A hard worker.
A joy to be around.
A determined go-getter.
Devastated over rejection, a villainous conspirator.
A perpetrator of the most unforgivable of crimes.
“My baby!” she screamed as she tore down the remaining stairs.
It had been ten years since she had seen her daughter.
Ten years since the princess herself had laid down judgment.
“My baby!” There was a piece of furniture between her and her destination.
Ten years since her failure as a parent was made known to everypony.
“My baby!” The couch never stood a chance.
Ten years of not knowing. Ten years of praying for the best. Ten years of fearing the worst.
“Myyyyy Baaaaaaaaby!” Hooves were not made for polished wooden floors.
Ten years of grief and regret.
“My Baby!” She snatched the letter from her herdmate's grasp.
Tears rendered the action moot.
“My baby . . .” she whispered.
In a dusty storage room, somewhere in a respectable museum, sat a box. It contained a curious artifact, the purpose of which had never been divined. The fact that it was made of gold and gems had categorized it as art, albeit art that was atypical for the region and timeframe of its creation. Too valuable to dispose of and too abnormal to display, it sat in storage, seeing the light of day only when curious academics unearthed it to marvel at its uniqueness.
It glowed red, fulfilling a part of its purpose.
No one witnessed it siphon the energies from the victim.
No one witnessed it prepare the next stage of the plan.
No one witnessed the counterattack, centuries in the making, build up to its release.
No one marveled at the forethought of their ancestors.
Paranoia was vindicated.
He stood in the dappled shadows of the forest and observed his prey. His large frame was easily concealed by the darkness.
In the glade, the protector, well aware of his presence, sent a challenging stare back. The pristine white stallion stood protectively in front of the young witch that had befriended it. This was not the first of its kind to attach itself to the young and innocent. This was not the first that had come to the aid of such a child.
However, now was not the time to strike. He would bide his time until the girl returned home and was vulnerable. Once he had the child, the protector would follow.
He just had to wait.
When the time was right he would act.
In the near future, his master would be revived, and his memories of the days of glory would become reality once more.
In a private conference somewhere in the Wizengamot headquarters, a group sat around a large table and made plans.
What they had predicted had come to pass.
Their opposition had done exactly what they had anticipated.
Their enemies had not only taken the bait but also swallowed the hook.
What was once a toehold was now a staircase.
The most pessimistic among them predicted that blood would flow.
The most optimistic among them worried over increasing security.
Now was the time to act.
They would keep the people safe.
They would help the people prosper.
The memories of how they were mistreated were still fresh.
The old rules that favored the few were in their sights.
The old traditions would be overturned.
The older laws hidden by the corrupt would be revived.
The Iustitia est Infirma was only the first weapon in their arsenal to be discharged. Usable only against members of the Wizengamot, it was a simple yet powerful rite. Its sole purpose was to adjudicate trespasses made by lawmakers. The true strength behind it was in the oaths of office each of those in power had to make in order to hold that position.
Now the laws were no longer hidden. They had already ordered and paid for a run of self-updating law books to be made available to anyone who asked, free of charge, freely given.
Far from the jurisdiction of her pursuers, her newest residence was of a higher quality than the one she had inhabited not long ago. However, it was not a home.
She had more money than she had acquired in all of her previous lifetime. However, she could not go home.
She was without allies; all she dared to contact were in custody.
She was without country; what had been her government had mutated into a ravenous beast, eager to eat her alive.
She remembered how it used to be. She remembered how it was supposed to be.
The filth had claimed what was rightfully hers.
Those who were beneath her were now in control. She could do nothing to rectify that. The ones whose loyalty she was supposed to rent had been priced beyond her means. The usurpers had persuaded them there were things worth more than mere galleons.
Even with her newfound prosperity, she didn't have enough to pay for the removal of all those who would stand in her way. Worse, they could out bankroll her if it came down to that. How many of them would drop before they reciprocated in kind?
The mongrels would need to be brought to heel, but how?
In the quaint cottage on the edge of civilization, he couldn't believe his luck.
He had been taken in by the kindest individual he for whom he could have hoped.
The strange little horse had healed his wounds and given him a place to stay.
In a bizarre parody of the stereotypical cat lady, his benefactor had collected more types of animal than he could shake a paw at.
Best of all, he had gotten out of Britain.
He was safe once more.
Safe and well feed.
The yellow pegasus had not been back for a day or two, but she had a friend who showed up and saw all of the animals fed.
The feeder was weirder than the yellow one. Whoever heard of an animal with rainbow hair?
Regardless, he was free to do his three favorite things -- sleep, eat, and the inevitable aftermath.
The only excitement had been when the orange flightless horse had shown up. She had gone upstairs for a few minutes before coming back down into the living room with a triptych mirror.
Then came the big surprise. The orange horse was an animagus witch.
She must have been pretending to be a horse for a long time, though. When she returned to her human form, the dress she wore had obviously been from a time when she was a lot younger and smaller.
He had taken great pleasure in watching her rip it from her body. He had taken even greater pleasure in watching her model in front of the mirror.
Once she was naked before him, he was sorely tempted to resume his own human form to stun her with his master's wand before having his way with her. Only the uncertainty of his current situation prevented him from carrying through with the thought.
Still, life was good.
He could wait for a more perfect opportunity to claim the witch.
The stag wasn't the only one who would have a perfect woman.
In the comfort of the windowless basement, she sighed and laid down her latest book.
So close, yet so far.
She understood the theory, yet lacked the means.
She simply wasn't born with the talent.
She could only watch her daughter with pride.
She could only watch her daughter with envy.
A whole new world had shown itself to her.
A whole new world was forever out of her reach.
She wanted a wand.
A wand would be useless in her hands.
She sighed and fought down the useless tears.
If only she had a means to . . . wait a minute!
Eagerly, she took another form and referenced the first book. Diligently, she again memorized the first spell suggested, but this time with purpose.
She concentrated, scrunched her muzzle and said a word.
Joy filled her as light chased away despair.
A world away, a butterfly flapped its wings.
Events took a different path.
What was supposed to happen didn't.
What wasn't supposed to happen did.