Ironically, Somber Saturnine was not an evil pony in any fashion.
In fact, my father was well renowned as a noble stallion of kindness and generosity. However, my father was not a very introspective pony, nor was he very wise. He was merely... vigilant. Always watching for any evil that might need to be fought and destroyed.
Yet, then as now, true evil was a very rare thing, even among the most dedicated villains. And certainly, my father knew it did not dwell within his own home. After all, how many lords of even a minor house, much less a knight of the realm, would acknowledge and take in their mistress’ son?
Not many. Well, not many then. I suppose such things might be commonplace now. After all, I speak now of days long gone by, and the world has changed greatly since my time.
My life was not made easier by my being unlike my ‘true born’ siblings in so many ways, even beyond my lack of horn. Where they were lean, I was stout. Where their manes grew stately, in various shades of flaxen and spun gold, mine grew dark and wild. A dark earth pony among unicorns, I was rarely spared any reminder of the albatross Father had brought into his sparrow’s nest.
Moreover, I often considered matters carefully before deciding upon course of action. This was often mistaken by my family for indecision. My siblings, by contrast, simply acted on instinct. And regardless of whether their instincts were actually correct, they had the well-lauded virtue of acting quickly, and with conviction.
Thus it was that my half-siblings, following our father’s example, would continually remind me of my own standing in the world. Because I was larger than they, I must be clumsy. Because I thought more than they, I must be slow and unsure. And, above all, because I had not their mother’s blood, I must be less. Silly little Sangre Spell, always living in the shadows of his betters. And, of course, such reminders were not always limited to words.
Throughout our childhoods, my brothers and sisters trained with sword and shield. While I sometimes might participate, for the most part I carried and fetched what they needed. I envied them their training and skill, but such was never for me. I might one day become a squire. Perhaps even a chamberlain for Oaken Lance, our eldest sister and heir to Father’s title. But nothing more.
For his part, Father was loud and blusterous, ever proud of his foals as they trained. He often spoke and bellowed of chivalry and its knightly virtues. Loyalty, that a pony might know their place, and be relied upon by their betters. Generosity, to give when other ponies might need, asking for naught in return. Kindness, to shelter the weak. Honesty, for a knight’s word is his bond, and everything he says is a promise. But above all, my father praised courage. Conviction. And he detested those who gave in to fear.
Unfortunately, as a foal I had an overwhelming fear of storms. The very sound of thunder would all but paralyze me, my blood running cold as my heart hammered in my chest, as if it were seeking some desperate escape. Lightning would inevitably drive me to my room, to curl up under my covers, shaking. Even in sleep there was sometimes no escape. My greatest nightmares were always of whirling, laughing tempests surrounding me, with no shelter in sight. Only when a darker shadow would emerge on midnight wings, holding me in soothing shades of blue and ebony, would such terrors finally release me from their thunderous talons.
And so, Father would simply sigh and shake his head knowingly at the thunders’ distant peal. He and I both knew the shameful dance that must follow. We all did. Inevitably, I would make my excuses to depart, ever adding to his list of disappointments in me. And if Oaken Lance and the twins would take their opportunities to add to my torments over the matter, Father, of course, did nothing. After all, each pony must learn their place. And Father knew would be doing me no favors by encouraging such weakness in a child.
Even his wife, Steadfast Star, was only too ready to allow childish corrections to transpire beneath her unwavering gaze. Indeed, her very gaze encouraged them. On the rare occasion when she was present, those sky-coloured eyes would widen slightly in triumph whenever I was struck down onto the cobblestones.
Throughout all this, I tried with all my heart to find something, anything, that I could do better - or even as well as - my siblings. The sword. The bow. The spear. The axe. The ways of armour, and the shield. I tried learning how to make the tools my siblings would use, if I could not master them myself... but, the smith sent me away with a shake of his mane at the hopeless foal he saw in me. I even tried my hoof at music and the arts, inspired and hopeful after reading a few books on misunderstood artists and wandering bards. But fate was cruel: there was no gift I could offer to fill the void of my failings.
Indeed, if there was kindness to be found anywhere in my foalhood, it was in Balder Heart.
Balder Heart was my age, the second-eldest among them. He was my only solace. Balder would bandage my hurts, dry my tears. When the rest of the family could not see or hear, he would whisper encouragements. “Even Father can be wrong, Sangre,” he wold whisper. “You have your own strength. It just isn’t like theirs, so they don’t understand it.” Sometimes, he would hug me, saying something like, “You’ll find your own way. I know you will.”
Father, for his part, was neither kind like Balder nor a sadist like his spouse. Nor was he an ignorant child, aping his elders. A simple stallion, he considered himself a realist, nothing more. It was the world, you see, which was cruel. And anypony who was not prepared to endure its cruelty was doomed to suffer far worse than a few childhood hurts and scrapes. Bleed in training, laugh in battle. That was his navigator’s star as a trainer, as a knight, and as a parent.
”Try to be strong, Sangre, for your ancestors’ sakes,” he would chide me. “Strength of frame is never enough. All true strength flows from the heart.”
I tried, of course. I was but a foal, and I desperately craved my father’s approval. But it is impossible to be strong when your efforts are motivated by weakness.
I remember the turning point in my life perfectly. Sword practice had turned into another game of Round Robin, with myself in the middle of course. By midday, I was covered with bruises and welts from my siblings’ practice wapons. Balder left with the rest off them; none of the marks on my body were his, but even he did not dare be brazen in his mercies. And as my siblings’ chatter faded while they entered the house to take lunch, Father stared at me with simple, utter contempt. Then, he spun on his heel, turning his back to my tears and excuses, condemning me utterly as he walked away:
“By all the powers, child. Even the stars hate a coward.”
I will admit, his words affected me deeply. But I think I can be forgiven that much. I was, after all, yet a child.
It remains, however: I was nine years old when I lashed myself to the tree.
It was nearing midnight, and I could hear the storm approaching. I had deliberately chosen the largest oak on the estate; I knew nothing else would do. Shaking violently, I pulled the last of the knots taut with my teeth as the snow began to fall. Then, the storm began in earnest, huge flakes freezing my skin as they melted, lightning flaring. Sometimes, it flashed as if to blind. Other times, it crawled lazily across the sky like a giant snake, searching me out. The thunder was close enough that several times I thought I had been struck deaf.
This was death. I was sure of it.
I cried, and the rain filled my mouth. I screamed, and the winds drowned me out. I disgraced myself multiple times, but the storm washed the filth away. And through it all I prayed. I prayed to my ancestors, to the Two Sisters, to the stars, to the very darkness itself. I’d been a fool, I cried. I would do anything, anything, even gladly accept death, just please let it stop!
And, then... I fell silent.
Though I had known it in my mind before – else I would never have hung myself thus – only now, in my very soul, did I understand the truth: I needed no higher powers. I needed no one, and nothing. Had some god or spirit offered aid during my silence, I would hurled it back in scorn.
For it had been through my own will that I had secured myself thus. And it was by my will that I was being dragged thus, through my deepest, most powerful fear. And now, at last, fear was being burned out of me.
And afterward, fear would be gone. Only my will would remain.
It probably only took a few minutes for me to begin finding my strength, though of course it seemed like an eternity. Regardless, once my screams abated, the hours continued to pass. The snow turned to sleet, punishing my skin in its endless tattoo as the wind raged on around me. One of the tree’s larger branches tore loose with a sound to rival the thunder itself. I felt the trunk split against my back as it fell away.
Throughout it all, I did not move.
It was sometime after dawn that the sky finally cleared. Balder found me, waiting, still half-crucified by my own ropes. He gave a gasp as he ran up to the tree, his horn already aglow. He was both horrified and angry, doubtless thinking that our siblings had placed me there in some new and innovative torment.
But I shook my head. “Don’t bother.” Though bruised and sore, I wriggled out from under the soaking hemp easily. I think Balder sensed the difference in me when I landed before him. I wasn’t clumsy or slow now. I was calm. I was graceful. I was wise. And most of all... I was powerful.
And, almost against his will, some part of Balder recognized that.
When Oaken Lance galloped up to us both, we were already on our way back to the house. She started in on me, “You idiot—”
With a single leap forward, I smashed her in the face as hard as I could. Blood spurted out and she fell over backwards, crying. Balder cried out her name and knelt beside her, then looked up at me in pure betrayed hurt. I had crossed a line, and I knew I had lost any sympathy he had ever felt for me.
Yet, while that knowledge brought me no pleasure, it was certainly something I could bear.
Father, of course, was less than pleased. Especially when the chirurgeon pronounced that his precious firstborn had a broken muzzle in three places, and would wear face bindings for the next month to heal.
But there was no penalty Father could inflict that would affect me now. I could endure anything. And when my punishment was finally lifted, I threw myself into my studies as never before. To Tartarus with chivalry. I no longer craved knightly ways. I had my own.
And while it would be a long time before I took up my true name of power, it was that night that Sangre Spell fell away, like the chrysalis of an insect destined for flight. In the way that a weanling’s first steps ensure that they will one day canter and run, I had taken my first step on the true path of my life. The path that would one day lead to my ascension as undisputed King of the Crystal Empire.