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// Overture ~ Hymns of Harrowing 
// Story: Ein Sof Zealotry 
// by ZhaoZoharEX 
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Perched atop this throne of ethereal gold and silk, I stand tall, overlooking this world of my own making, I ponder the significance of my exploits; my ceaseless journey from womb to grave, my fate from fortuitous to tragic, through no fault of my own I have been inspired, empowered in death to fulfill the aspirations I have long sought in life.

All the Heavens above through the Hells below, stagnation is perpetuated in the earth, born from minds too small and thoughts too big. Wherein my contemporaries lack ambition, even shun it, I seek a world in which the opposite is present. I know not to what end this may be achieved or by what capacity is possible. Merely, one is limited to so many possibilities presented in a single lifetime, in which so many are within hoof’s reach and even fewer presented in eye’s view, to say nothing of opportunities squandered in ignorance or malice.

Reminiscent of their old ways, the powers that be insist on a system flawed and antiquated that the shades of the virtuous and of the righteous require a pilgrimage to the Earthly Paradise to immigrate within the ranks, a test not of the quality of one’s sacrifice, not of the capacity of one’s diligence, but of one’s measure of faith; a system in which one by one my new brethren graduate with incomplete and inaccurate interpretation of the design of the fickle minds of the living and post-living.

Are the Shades to believe they can be saved? Perhaps that is not out of the question. The Ponies and creatures under my protection have only one chance in life to prove their worth to the ministers of the Empyrium and the departed ancestors, that they belong within the gates of the upstanding; a misstep in morality jeopardizes their one opportunity of a rest well earned, that action of wrath or relapse in greed would seal their fate and deny them respite, a fall from paradise inevitable.

Despite this danger present in one’s soul, many in my homeland and beyond continue to ignore the call for virtue and faith. And why shouldn’t they be the least bit dismissive when the incentives do not hold meaning in this flawed society? This push for friendship and harmony are little more than a movement devoid of substance, serving no real purpose if acquired under false pretenses. Honesty, a gesture capable of splitting as much as stitching. Loyalty, a concept circumstantial by definition. Generosity, a mindset self-damaging by intention and foolishly exchanged in earnest. Kindness, a sentiment exploited with ease. Laughter, an action displayed both by the ignorant and the arrogant. These tenants of Harmony, intended to foster friendship, are easily perverted by the predator, so damaging under imperfection; for friendship is rarely an unconditional pact.

I admit to being absent of the joys a friend would bring, for I have always shunned society. My burden of diplomacy has tainted my views, dissuaded my opportunities for personal companionship, platonic and beyond. Were it not that I was brought into this profession, I would only blame myself for my social incompetence and disinterest. Alas, I was robbed of my choice of career, through no true fault of my own. 

Spiteful, my fractured soul post-mortem; fearful, my foggy mind mid-mortem. A betrayal, not fully unforeseen, but sudden and painful all the same. My broken being, laid down bloodied and shattered beyond repair, scarred my expression, limbs shredded and unusable. Never was the high noon so dark in vision. And yet, amidst the chaos and violence, the true assailant responsible for this atrocity was absent; a monarch so cowardly in their reproach, dismissing the notion to carry out the deed in person.

Ever closer did Death herself draw near, taunting with the assurance of rescue, flirting with the prospect of retribution. Neither were the reality. Unresponsive my limbs, I lay unceremoniously abandoned, base of the mountain, known only by my assailant and unknown by my savior. I know not for what length I laid, four, perhaps five agonizing hours, broken and dehydrated atop the torrid earth beneath that coward’s blazing light. My distress and torture had very soon passed, replaced only with a dimishining sense of longing and pity. I stood in the courtyard at Death’s door, with no choice but to approach and seek refuge.

My first memory of the afterlife, emerging from a thick fog, standing above my mortal coil. So surreal was this experience, to see my wounds and bones lay sprawled before my very own eyes, to see the extent of the damage done. Exiled from flesh, mangled and grisly, I stood unprepared for this direction. How could one ever be prepared for this unknown? Alas, I was not allowed the luxury of reflection for in that moment, she appeared: a minister of grace from above, adorned in her scarlet attire and skin marbled pristine, the majestic ring of clouded glass and polished metal suspended atop her head, and ribbon-esque wings unrivaled by any wonder of the world.

Until this moment, never in my existence have I experienced conflicting emotions of admiration and intimidation. This mighty being radiating excellence in her disposition yet soothing in her graceful touch, warm and inviting. Reassuring she was not merely a mirage, her exclamation of “Fear not” echoed throughout my antechamber of the departed, almost commanding the uncertainty to scatter. 

Simplistic my surroundings, deeply contrasting her regal splendor, a terrain devoid of feature and infinite in acreage presented itself before my eyes. A mere silhouette of the shell of the world long lived left behind, discarded and exiled, unrecognizable yet familiar. Pleasant was the aroma of earth and flora accompanied with an almost invading alabaster hue, sans a gate of gold and ivory alongside an equally extravagant podium, flanking her ministry of grace.

Tenderness and breathlessness, a duo of feelings yielded by movement on my part, my injuries even beyond the grave taunting me. Her ministry gave notice of this plight, halo radiating with a warmth comparable to the bosom of a parent long departed; such was the warmth so calming and welcoming, melting the hesitation, my pain decisively vanquished. 

“Breathe, my child,” her ministry of grace thus spoke, “your decades of strife are behind you.”

Enticing was the prospect of afterlife, the promise of sanctuary from walking a tainted road. I had nothing to return to, unable to return evenso in a state emancipated. I was tired and willing to relinquish my hatred, her ministry of grace granting entry into the fields I would call home.

Drained of my energy, my dreary soul living in absolution, having found peace within this new abode of mine, overlooking the ethereal hill of the ministry; a citadel vast in size and immaculate in structure, the parliament of paradise erected in honor of her Great Grandmother of the realities, visible from my balcony. This night, chilled and filled with the calming chirps of crickets and buzz of cicadas, illuminated with the fixed stars shining from within the primum mobile, my comforting place of rest had beckoned me. A call for such rest I was all too eager to answer, to lay in bliss surrounded by my literary haven and historical pages of wonder, the light of the fireplace providing light and sound for my first night of sleep in paradise.

Enlightening was my time in this bliss, my face and injuries healed in the night. Neither wrinkles nor tendons visible from flesh so mangled, no bone fractured, not a hint of fatigue to be found in the morning following my arrival. Such a rest I have never had in my living years, one so healing even my feathered appendages saw a miraculous regrowth. This new afterlife of mine would surely be a time of true reflection. I had my books, I had my journals, and I had nothing but time to review all of it.

For the first many fortnights following my departure, I stayed comfortable within my home upon the hill content with the presence of the literature from within the mortal coil had no time to seek. I do not, however, remember how much of my time was spent on this pastime. It was not long before I grew restless and uninterested locked up in my home. Perhaps it was this point I chose to explore this paradise, vast with places unique and promising such experiences. The Grand Metropolis, the River Prudence, the Gardens of Eden, the Library of Babel, so many sights enamoring and enlightening, populated by many astute scholars, diplomats, intelligent souls I could possibly call acquaintances. Such individuals living here for far longer than fathomable, happy to accept a mind hungry for knowledge in exchange for interaction. More than I could ever hope to gain in the lifetime I could spend here...

In spite of such sights and every soul, however, there was a piece missing. My home - my old home - still remained a mystery to me, a world I could no longer so much as think of visiting again, a world with no prospects of exploring its wonders, such was the fate of my predicament as a shade, emancipated from the old life. I knew not of the events having occurred in the time following my passing; perhaps I did not need to worry about such affairs in my state, yet such lack of knowledge was the source of a yearning insatiable. Thus, when I learned of the pond - this mesmerizing body of reflective water deep within the Empyreum - capable of viewing into the outside world, my curiosity won out in the end. 

Never would I be able to turn back and live my stagnant afterlife, my stale retirement, once my window into the old life presented this sight so infuriating. Long after news of my passing, my rivals of diplomacy from whom I was martyred had worked to tarnish my image, the work I had sought so hard to push was being pushed back, poisoned by jealousy and abused by greed. All my effort: the relationships I helped established, the policies I co-written, the very legacy I worked so hard to build throughout my career.

Eradicated.

Devastating so was this news, no mercy granted such a revelation. For years, my rest had allowed the seeds of disharmony to sprout and take root and infect the soil. That coward, my assailant, did NOTHING to stop this infestation, and such lack of action was the death knell of society composed of the virtuous crowd and thus the floodgates opened for the elite, the so-called “barons of industry” to steal democracy away from those deserving of a fair and just life. Indeed, what I saw broke my heart...

But it also opened my eyes.

Even still, not all hope was lost. For I have established new oaks in this realm and the fruits of my labor so sweet had demonstrated their worth. Beyond this idle hollowness that binds me lies a road to do right which had been wronged, to fulfil this incomplete journey I’d started, albeit involuntarily, in life that I now seek to see through to the end. I must seek more than this, I must be granted access to the tools I would need to avenge both myself and those who have been left behind in the clutches of such vileness. I must abandon this luxury afforded to me by my own virtue, sacrifice my pleasures allotted to me and take up the mantle to fight back. I refuse to stand back and witness this assassination of my character.

For all that is honorable and virtuous, in my own regard, I must join the ministry of grace.

Observing such trials granted to those who seek similar appointments, it was with her that I must request: the Mother of the Empyrium, the Dogma of the heavens. She, whose words would emasculate and destroy the egotistic, would have to grant me access to the Earthly Paradise to join the ranks among them.

Righteous, for which I would be. Gracious, for which I would stand. Fearless, in which I would walk. I stood before the protuberance, this daunting trial that regal dragon commands of me; this trek would last a single lifetime in isolation, executed in unison among other apprentices of grace, yet an undertaking I and only I alone would proceed with. 

Eight terraces, the seven trials along the road to the Earthly Paradise, on which an apprentice successful would bask in the light of their glory. The antechamber crossed, the first terrace presents itself, a labor for the proud. Under cover the light I’ve grown so distrustful of, my only avenue for ascent, a single weight carried as my sole accomplice. Should the embodiment of her grace fade on the horizon, no further progress should be made, static in a rest. Shrouded in a blanket of stars. Humbling, the intention of this exertion, that no one individual seeks superiority among his peers.

Inefficient. The word I would describe this leg of my trek. One was intended to grow subservient in this action of supposed humility, to see fellow brothers and sisters as equals, ambitions dissolved of ill intention. Merely replaced with resentment.

The first victory awarded, the second terrace arrives to torment me, a labor for the envious. Instantaneous, such a blinding iron etched within my eyes, crowning a robe uncomfortable and allegedly unappealing, both alike smiting akin to lightning. A sightless task lay before me, a perilous pilgrimage to the summit, my one saving grace being nothing seen of that coward’s symbol. 

Might this binding of the senses be excessive? Such barbarism supposedly was to persuade a practice of simplicity, to lack pleasures and to shun desire to attain such pleasures. Yet the ministers of grace, who are hailed as shining bastions live the best of life’s pleasures.

Alas, much time has passed. A second wind has been bestowed, along with the removal of the binds of one’s retinas. Her light was no better prior to the five years spent absent of sight, worse off her light as that sight was returned, as was the accompanying migraine. Past the gates, the third terrace lies in waiting, the labor of the wrathful. Whilst before such blindness was literal, the thickened smoke played a figurative example, less a burden on the eyes but on the lungs.

Years one could spend wallowing in thy own rage before the smoke would clear, anger self-destructive, yet not all anger is unwarranted. Such a system designed by the heavens ignore the activism put forth by channeled fury; indeed such political changes for the better would hold no ground were it not for those masses wronged, by which they rightfully hold the desire to clear this smoldering blanket. For where smoke exists, an inferno sits in tandem. There is no difference, however, in the eyes of the ministry; all flames would be alike in danger.

Beyond to the next challenge, the fourth terrace marking the halfway point, the labor of the slothful. Zeal reigns supreme, no shortage of enthusiasm, the apprentices enraptured in mindless action, tasks worthless in meaning besides a lesson in diligence.

Empty action without purpose breeds aimlessness. The desire to act is valuable, though mindless drones performing jobs outside of their expertise, lacking investment, grow weaker in cohesion; this is in contrast to those who possess a certain loyalty to their work and wish to see it prosper. What is zeal without enthusiasm, and what is enthusiasm without motivation, purpose, or even compensation?

Apathetic in my gait, my journey brings me at the gates of the fifth terrace, in which the labor of covetous. With chains, binding of leg and wing, horn and hoof, surrounded by the most prestigious of earthly treasures, possessions the apprentice could be allowed should they turn back now, albeit limited in holding. Of course, forfeiting passage into the Earthly Paradise, choosing the riches sought by many on Gaea.

Coveting such desires, in my nature, proved to be a pointless endeavour. My soul needs not gold, nor diamond, nor silk. Enrichment equates to scholarship, not wealth, for life in which I have carried out both in the mortal coil and the current of the departed. Furthermore, the attitude towards wealth should not merely be measured in treasury. What of the hoarding of knowledge? What of the accumulation of sovereignty? Perhaps these things are not unrelated.

Hunger has set in, a conundrum not since my younger years on Gaea have I experienced this. An ordeal trailing as my accomplice entering the sixth terrace, the labor of the gluttonous waiting with a colossus of a tree, presenting a numerous assortment of fruit, delectable and nutritious, outside my reach. Though my chains have vanished, my desire for nourishment did not, a torment sprawled and persistent among my kin, apprentices clamoring for even a single elusive pomegranate to release us from starvation. One must take only what is required, to take more was to surrender admittance into the ministry, to be denied from the destination near.

I cannot possibly understand the intention of famishment as a means to cleanse addiction. How was one to be revoked a simple pleasure - no, an absolute life necessity - for the means of advancement, in the effort for reform? Is the complete absence of vice really a catalyst to grace? To filter the unworthy? Or was such a starvation in truth one particle of consolidation through means of discouragement; to persuade the apprentices to concede their bid for the ministry, freeing the incumbent for a continuation of heavenly dynasty?

Ever determined, my apprenticeship would suffer no falter in determination. The final leg of my ascent drew near, signaled with burning arcades for entrance into the seventh terrace, for the labor of the lustful. Earth scorched and air arid, a road entrenched in conflagration intense, no alternate pathways available. Not save for the road opposite the destination. Temptation abound as shade after shade offered sanctuary in the promise of intimacy, out in the safety from blaze.

Vacant was my heart, and especially mine loins. There was no desire for filling such a vacancy for either, with my sole partner being my ambition. Too far have I come to change such a mindset, for which so much stood to be lost. For the love of one’s self is to be achieved before the love one’s neighbor.

Emerging ever charred yet confident in accomplishment, standing before the pearly gate. The Earthly Paradise, guarded and maintained by the ministry of arms, the Cherubim, grandiose and majestic. Welcoming was the embrace of victory, a nomad wandering decades upon decades, such was my time on this island of isolation. To finally see paradise was an event satisfying, yet my experiences left many questions, for which would not be answered for time to come. Setting aside my apprehensions, I met with her, the very ministry of grace admitting me after death, my guardian, my mentor, my confidant. Her smile radiant as her beauty. Her wings extended, offering my reward for my sacrifices. A silence beside myself, not in elation, but in hesitation. Acceptance pledged allegiance to the very ministry I have questioned in my time traded for the pursuit of membership, with which came privilege required in the time to come. I would not stand down. The extension of my hoof and the contact with her ministry’s wings shook the earth on which I stood, tremors resonating deep down, felt by other apprentices starting their own journeys. Of light and fire, engulfed, this final labor would last merely minutes. Cleared of this envelope, I took form, body of marble, mane of gold, and dress of silk. My one wing, a symbol of my struggle, split into the ribbons mirroring my mentor, now colleague, my tail following such the same example. Armed with my experiences, I share in the burden to maintain natural harmony. I am now of the ministry, a warrior for grace, not of it.

Divine intervention, the privilege that would aid my reformation of the world I left behind, my birthplace long tainted with sins of Gaea’s greatest enemy; herself. It would be with my initiative that she would relearn her greatest lessons. Courage, moral and physical, a quality for prosperity. Prudence, in wisdom would we make our greatest innovation. Temperance, to hold one’s wants to achieve one’s needs. Justice, a basis for integrity and fairness, a measure of value for society. Diligence, the persistence that drives change. Humility, the sacrifice made in the interest of our kin. My journey has yielded an abundance of tales, and with the completion of this trek I start anew. Done now is my pondering the significance of my exploits. From womb to grave and beyond, a fate both fortuitous and tragic, my ceaseless journey is far from complete; on the contrary, it is now that I can truly begin the machinations I intend, with indented reflection serving as both a symbol of my hardship and as a message to my contemporaries. Thus, beyond my life devoid of choice, upon this throne of ethereal gold and silk, I stand tall perched, overlooking atop this world of my own creation.