While it could not quite be called pacing, Buttonhooks the mad was crossing the floor repeatedly, dragging his atrophied, legless hips with his powerful but asymmetrical forelegs. “As such,” he continued, “I have reviewed every volume of the unicorn dueling hoofbook in excruciating detail and come to a conclusion.”
Necrophile of Canterlot blinked. “You read them all? Every single one?”
“Yes. Being a masochist is a fundamental aspect of my being, and I must say, the agony of that particular adventure was...well, excruciating.”
“How disturbing.”
“Hardly. If you want to know where I stuck a piece of rusty rebar while I was reading, THAT would disturb you. It is not where you would expect.” Buttonhooks turned to Sombra, who was listing slightly on his throne. “Regardless, I have ascertained that the outcome of the duel was, in fact, legitimate. Members of the same bloodline may fight for the sake of a challenged duelist. Of course, this largely pertains to the choosing of champions, but the language is notably vague, as most unicorn things are.”
“Or it simply a matter that your earth-pony mind cannot comprehend it,” snapped Necrophile.
“I am, in fact, an Assyrian donkey. Can’t you tell?”
“The rules hardly matter,” growled Necrophilo. “What matters is how the king is perceived in the public eyes- -”
“I care about neither,” snapped Sombra. “If ponies think I am weak, then I shall simply crush them. Including either of you, if need be.”
“I would very much like that,” said Buttonhooks, trembling. “Please wear heels.”
Sombra, in his pain, ignored the impertinence. “There are concerned of much greater importance than the opinions of slaves.”
“Of course.” Necrphilo bowed to the king. “The princess is currently under examination by the parasite. Although my own laboratory would be far superior- -”
“You are a necromancer, Necrophilo. And last time I checked, the alicorn is distinctly ALIVE. You would be out of your depth. I am not in the mood for insolence. Question my decision again, and I shall allow your students to practice their craft on YOU.”
“The bird-pony offered to perform a vivisection,” noted Buttonhooks. “I know from personal experience that he does exquisite work.”
“And we cannot risk it.” Sombra stood, nearly stumbling as he did. Buttonhooks’s eyes narrowed, at least to the extent they could. As well as Sombra knew pain, Buttonhooks knew pain- -and he could see that the king was in a great deal of it.
“My king?” asked Necrophilo. “Are you unwell.”
Sombra righted himself and walked down from his throne. “Luciferian.”
“Has left the Crystal Empire,” said Eternity, speaking in their minds. “I can’t see him anywhere. He’s hiding from me somewhere far away. Like a fish.”
“He must be found. It is absolutely imperative.”
“My lord,” said Necrophilo, clearly confused. “His horn was shattered. We are not like you. Once our horns are destroyed, there is no way to restore them. He is hardly a threat.” A thin smile crossed his face. “Unless you seek vengeance. Then I fully understand.”
Sombra glared at his servant with such force that Necrophilo was forced to take several steps back.
“I care precious little about his horn,” hissed Sombra. “And vengeance is a pointless act. He is a greater danger than a mage with your preternaturally limited vision could comprehend!”
“The summoning,” said Buttonhooks. “Something nearly came through.”
“He was simply generating a construct,” dismissed Necrophilo. “A simple parlor trick- -”
He was knocked back by a sudden burst of magic, his default protection sealed shattering in the process.
“Are you BLIND?” snapped Sombra, his horn still glowing with red light. He grasped Necrophilo’s body and forced him downward so that their faces were level. “He was attempting to open a door that must NEVER be opened. Or have modern mages forgotten what my people’s occultists knew since they were children?”
“What was it?” asked Buttonhooks. “It seemed….appealing.”
“It goes by many names. Infinite names.” Sombra’s eyes narrowed. “You may know her as the Horse of Babylon.”
Necrophile, an already sallow individual, grew deathly pale. “My lord, that- -that is impossible- -”
“Luciferian has no idea the danger he is in- -or the danger he has placed us all in. For the sake of not just the Empire but all of Equestria, he must be apprehended.”
“We don’t have the forces,” said Buttonhooks. “Not that can move freely in Equestria.”
“He’s probably somplace damp,” muttered Eternity. “Nice and moist...”
Sombra looked upward, as if she really were above him. “Can you attempt to track him?”
“Reeks like flowers...maybe. But I can’t watch the kingdom at the same time. Don’t send the troops. We need them here if I can’t see. Hopefully there aren’t ants…stupid ants and their ridiculous language of squeaks and endless churning...”
“My lord,” continued Buttonhooks. “It is not unlikely that he will attempt to return at some point.”
“You did take his horn,” added Necrophilo. “And he clearly desires your throne. He may make a second attempt.”
“Let him come, then. It will make things easier.” Sombra sighed. “But that means all I can do is wait. My patients is substantial, but in this case it is wearing thin.” He turned and began to climb back toward his throne. “Keep examining the arena. And as soon as anything is known about the alicorn, bring that knowledge to me at once.”
“My lord,” said Buttonhooks. “There is still one more matter of importance.”
Sombra stopped climbing but did not turn around. “And what would that be?”
“The contest. The challenge. According to our own rules, those who defeat one of us must take our place.”
Necrophilo’s eyes widened. “You cannot be serious.”
“She shattered his horn, within the legitimate rules of the duel. Her victory is irrefutable. By your own law, my king, she is now One of Thirteen.”
This time, Sombra did turn- -and as he did, the whole world went black.
Sombra blinked, confused as to why he felt so very strange. His body was light and new, and though he recognized the sensation, the recollection rose from deep memories buried beneath countless decades of his seemingly unending life.
He sat up and found himself lying in a bed. Around him was a structure, and though he did not recognize it in the slightest, he also did. The dark oaken logs of the cabin, the simple but graceful arches of the sealing, the course abstract tapestries hung from the walls, and the windows with the barest tint of red- -he was in a small and unassuming chateau. One he had never seen, but that he knew so very well.
Standing, he left the room, passing the magic-driven stove on the far side and entering a narrow hall. He looked out and his breath nearly left him. Beyond the cabin was an endless field of flowers, rising from the black stone of the rocky soil in every shade of red and umber. Enormous oaks stood amongst them, their bark black and their deep red leaves lined with the barest silver.
Far in the distance, he saw the cliffs of enormous, seemingly endless black mountains. Their presence was stunning, and Sombra knew that he was home- -and that this was all impossible. Nothing green had survived in the Darklands since centuries before his birth; he only knew of what his homeland had once been from the remnants of tattered, decaying tapestries in the abandon halls and temples of the great mountain cities. This was a world he had spent centuries envisioning, but that he thought he would never see.
“My love, you are awake.”
Sombra turned, suddenly so very afraid. The first fear he had felt since the Heart of Darkness had replaced his own, for he knew what he would see.
She was standing beside him, draped in the sashes of umber and black of his people: a pure white unicorn with the clearest and kindest of blue eyes. She was a match to any of Celestia’s purebloods, but not one of them; she was free and pure, and more beautiful than anything Sombra had ever seen.
“Hope.”
She laughed softly. “You say it as though I am new to you.”
Sombra smiled. “Because every day is like the day we first met.”
Hope giggled and blushed slightly. Sombra could remember the day, high on the mountains, when they were still young, and how he had been so nervous he had slipped off a crag and fallen halfway down the mountain. She had found him in a panic and tried to nurse him back to health- -not knowing that, as a dark unicorn, his body would heal from far worth.
Except that was wrong, and Sombra knew it. Hope had been purchased from a vendor and systematically broken down physically and mentally, built back up from her shattered state to serve as one of many concubines, her only purpose to be humiliated to demonstrate Sombra’s dominance over the so-called sacred white Classicals.
Yet, he knew that the process had been imperfect. He had always known. Because her eyes had always looked upon him the way they did now.
“Daddy, daddy!”
Sombra looked down as the door to the cabin burst open. A filly ran in, nearly tripping over the rough-hewn table in the kitchen but fluttering her soft pink wings to stabilize herself. Like her mother, she was dressed in the garb of the dark unicorns, though it was clear that she was not one. She was not a unicorn at all. Rather, she was a tiny alicorn, her skin bright pink and her hair divided into brilliant shades of white, violet and pink.
“Cadenza, be careful!” admonished Hope, though she was still smiling. “You don’t want to get your horn stuck in the wall again, do you? Or should I get the pliers out in advance?”
“Sorry mommy,” Cadenza- -but her name was Penumbra, she was a weapon meant to meat her end neutralizing the divine enemy- -ran to her father. She was nearly jumping with excitement. “Daddy, look! I found one!” she reached into her mane and removed a rather disturbing insect; it was long and segmented, although covered in hair and numerous shining legs. Its enormous fangs were dripping with fluorescent venom. “I found a scentepede! And you were RIGHT! It really DOES smell like blueberries!”
Hope frowned. “Sombra, should she be playing with that? Is it not dangerous?”
“No, mommy! Daddy said that as long as you don’t touch the first segment where the eyes are, they’ll never bite you, no matter what!”
“No. I said never to touch the REAR segment, if you recall.”
“Oh.” Cadenza looked at the insect and reversed it. She smiled. “There!”
Sombra laughed. “It is fine, my love. When I was a colt I would bring them home from time to time, try to raise them. My mother nearly leapt from her horn when she first saw my collection.” Sombra frowned, because he knew that was wrong. He had never known his mother or father, only the ancient pair of monks who had raised him, the last vestiges of a vibrant religion depleted by centuries without a single new birth. “But...why...”
“Can we look at the guide book?” pleaded Cadenza. “I want to know if it’s the highland kind, or the lowland ones, like in the swamps!”
“Penumbra,” sighed Hope, exasperated. “Have you been playing in the swamps? You know you’ll get muddy!”
She had said it. The girl’s true name. Because she was not a girl. She had never been a child; Sombra had taken that from her. His mind was attempting to reassert itself, to know that this girl had never existed, and that she never would. There was only Penumbra Heartbreak, a living weapon, a machine born to a mother who had paid the ultimate prices to produce an immoral daughter.
“Daddy?” Cadenza looked up with true concern across her face. “Are you okay?”
Sombra’s heart had not beat in centuries- -yet he felt a distant twinge within it.
He looked out the window, and felt the warm summer’s breeze blowing through his mane. He even smelled the flowers, and the smell was beautiful, though the home he had once known had only carried the most distant wafts of it when he had dwelt there.
At the far edge of the field, he saw a pony standing at the cliff, looking out at the view. A black mare. And as she turned, he saw her blue eyes, and understood.
“And they say that I am the cruelest of the ponies,” he mused, softly. “They have no idea, do they?” He sighed. “Though I doubt even you know what you have become, Luna.”
Sombra turned to his family, and they looked up at him, smiling and perfect. He lit his horn, and watched as their smiles turned to looks of horror and betrayal. Cadenza, frightened, grasped onto her mother’s legs. The glow of the spell reflected in their eyes as Sombra directed his magic toward them and watched as the illusion was incinerated.
Sombra opened his eyes. He was lying prone and looking up into a corresponding set of crystalline blue eyes that were set deeply into a face striped with black and white. Eyes that would respect and value him, but that could never love him.
“Zecora.”
The zebra frowned. “I know I have spoken, but have you not heard? Even you are never permitted to utter that word.”
“My apologies, Crozea.” Sombra sat up, or tried to. There was pain, and it was quite new to him.
“My king, please, lie at ease. Despite your will, you are incredible ill.”
“I was unconscious.” Sombra blinked. “Nightmare Moon sent me a dream.”
“Her magic is never lacking precision,” said Crozea icily. “And I assume she sent you terrible visions.”
“Waking up into this pain is actually a relief.” Sombra grabbed at his chest. He still had no pulse, but there was pain inside him. Part of it was injuries from the fight with Luciferian, but there was something else. Something inside him was burning. “How long?” he demanded.
“Eight hours, maybe nine. And in all that time, not one vital sign.”
“The Heart of Darkness powers all my vital functions.”
“Forgive me for my hurry, but seeing you like that...how could I not worry?”
Sombra sat up, ignoring the pain, and put one shaking front leg around her neck. He hugged her closely, if only for a moment.
“I am more durable than that,” he said, softly. “I am not ready to go. Not yet. I’m not done.” He released her. “What has happened to me?”
“We have examined you as closely as we could. My king...Sombra...the situation is not good.”
“We?”
A clicking noise sounded from the deepest shadows. Then a tapping of strange hooves as Al’Hrabnaz descended from the ceiling.
Sombra knew the situation was dire from looking at the pair of them, and it displeased him greatly. Crozea had removed her outer robes, reveling only the hard uniform she wore beneath and her bandoleers of potions and tools. Al’Hrabnaz was accompanied by neither his birds nor his signature black feather-lined robes. Instead, he wore only his pressure suit, fully revealing his rather hideous form.
Yet, in a way, Sombra was relieved. Of those in his ranks, these were the two he believed he could trust the most- -one for her respect, the other for his near-fanatical loyalty. They were also the two most experienced in pony medicine, apart of Twilight Luciferian.
“What is wrong with me?”
“The question is more what’s NOT wrong, really.” Crozea frowned deeply, but still met Sombra’s eye, even without her mask. “You are infected with deadly magic, and it is propagating quite freely.”
“Luciferian. From the demon he summoned.”
“No demon was that horror,” growled Crozea. “That spirit was something far MORE...”
“Nor is it the source of the contagion,” said Al’Hrabnaz. His voice was rapid, even pained, in start contrast to Crozea’s measured tone. “I have isolated the signal and traced it. It does not match the object that the filthy primitive attempted to summon, or the rift he used to do it.”
“Mind your words considering a unicorn. Do not forget that our king also bears a horn.”
“Filthy sun-dweller! How dare you even consider our beloved king with such horrible creatures- -”
“Gxurab. My condition.” Sombra lifted one of his legs and flexed it. Crozea had removed his armor, and he felt naked. He supposed he was. “I require a description. NOW.”
“Of course.” The dial on Al’Hrabnaz’s chest turned, and several holograms appeared. “Essentially, your cell structure is collapsing. It is progressive and catalytic, and accelerating.” Al’Hrabnaz pointed at a hologram, not realizing that it was written in his own language. Sombra could read it, of course, and he knew that the situation was not good. “Essentially, the unique aspects of your body that allow for rapid regeneration are turning against you. Your cells are attempting to replicate, but they are tearing apart your genetic code in the process.”
“And the cause? If it not the demon, then what?”
Al’Hrabnaz looked up, and turned to Crozea.
Crozea sighed. “If we are to believe Gxurab’s analysis, then the culprit is your daughter, the princess.”
“What? That is impossible!”
“No, it’s not.” Al’Hrabnaz produced a new hologram. “She saved your life, but the magic she exposed you to is fundamentally incomparable with your biology. It is interfering with your connection to the Heart of Darkness. And without it...”
“I know.” Sombra took a breath. His lungs hurt. “Can we attempt to modulate the signal? Your control scheme, I invested eighty percent of our GDP into its production- -”
“It is not a matter of the signal. Your body is rejecting the magic. I am sorry, my king, but you...you...”
“I am dying.”
Both of them fell silent. After a moment, they looked away, and Sombra felt so very alone. Yet he had grown accustomed to it. As king, it was his duty to lead, even when times were dire.
“How long?”
Crozea looked up. “With my potions and the best treatments I can do? One year, or maybe two.”
“Is there a treatment?”
“To ease your pain. To slow the sickness’ gain. But of this we are sure: there is no cure.”
“Except...”
Sombra’s gaze snapped to Al’Hrabnaz, who recoiled from being looked directly upon. “Except what?”
“It is not within even your powers! Do not waste the kings’s precious hours!”
“But my theories are VALID!” cried Al’Hrabnaz. “I have checked and rechecked the math, and I am correct! I have no doubt!”
“Concerning what?” asked Sombra, though in a sense, he already knew. He was well aware of Al’Hrabnaz’s theories, and the terrifying things he was attempting to prove. This conversation did not bode well.
“That the soul of a pony can be quantified! Measured, delineated, isolated- -”
“It is not something you can draw into a pitcher! What you describe is a violation of the most sacred principles of nature- -”
“And nature is meaningless in the face of mathematics. My lord, the pony soul, it, well...” He projected holograms, attempting to explain visually something that could not be conveyed in the primitive vowel-bearing language of the surface-dwellers. He took a deep breath, and it rasped and echoed through his breathing heaters. “The soul is an object, in a sense, but also not. It is a property that exists in sixteen independent dimensions defined by an incredibly complex set of parameters. Our physical bodies use just one of these dimensions. Sometimes two, if magic is involved.”
“I have read the gist of your theories, Gxurab. Apart from the absurdity of your more extreme ideas, I fail to see what this means in a practical sense.”
“My theories are not absurd,” said Al’Hrabnaz, icily. “My lord, it is simply a matter of severing the extraneous dimensions. Reducing it, controlling it...and transferring it.”
Crozea literally put her hoof down. “That you would even dare speak this to our king, this terrible unholy thing- -”
“Let him speak, Crozea.”
“I can assemble a machine,” continued Al’Hrabnaz, “and I can transfer your soul. To a new body. You can leave your current decaying one behind. I can give you a new one. A truly immortal one.”
Sombra poked at the holograms, adjusting them. “According to these formulas, the task will take an absurd amount of power. More than any known magical source can generate.”
“More than in the dark gray metal Emeth hordes, or in Holder Heartfelt’s sword...”
Al’Hrabnaz smiled beneath his mask. He felt his pointed teeth clicking against his breathing tubes. “We already have more than enough. I was able to siphon a significant amount of surplus power from the Heart of Darkness during your melee with the filthy primitive.”
“You what?”
“My new system. It is designed to prevent surges like the crystallizing event from occurring ever again.” He paused. “Though...the system substantially exceeded its tolerance. We came within a hair’s width of a critical rupture. The blast would have been...large.”
“And I was not told of this? Why?”
“I did not think it was relevant. The point is, the system actually works.”
“It had better,” muttered Sombra. “That device took eighty percent of my treasury to construct.”
“And it would have been impossible without the technetium ore of your crystals. But this is where it pays off! I have more than enough power to complete the procedure. To give you a new body.”
“How much more?”
Al’Hrabnaz faltered slightly, momentarily performing the math. “Sire. Why do you ask?”
“Is there enough energy to test it?”
“Sombra, this device, this process, it is unnatural vice! That you would even consider using it twice- -”
Sombra silenced Crozea with a glance. “My body is powered by a magical artifact linked through a citadel built by an ancient and heretofore unknown civilization. Nothing about my being is unnatural.” He paused. “More to the point, for the first time in my life, I am facing my own mortality. Do I not have a right to consider what is best for my kingdom?”
“But what about what is best for you? This is a thing that once done none can undo.”
Sombra stared at her, and did not break eye contact. “Is there enough energy for a test?”
“Yes,” replied Al’Hrabnaz, hesitantly. “In theory. There is enough energy to perform the process twice, but barely.”
“Then I authorize you to use whatever you require to conduct a single test. If you succeed, I will consider it among my other options.”
“My lord- -”
“But know that you only get one chance. ONE. Even if we could risk recharging your machine again, we have no way to know how to do it. Fail, and there is no energy left for a second test- -and my demise will rest on your shoulders and yours alone.”
“My lord, no! Please!” Al’Hrabnaz begged. “I could not bear that burden! There is no way!”
“Then succeed, Gxurab. For my sake and the sake of the Crystal Empire. Do whatever you deem necessary.”
“Yes, my lord,” whispered the morlock. “I will do it...”