I met a trav’ler from an antique land
Who said: Four vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hoof that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. ‘Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
- Pony Bysshe Shelley
As he crested the dune, and his destination came, at long last, into view, he allowed himself a pent-up wave of elation.
He had seen his goal many times before over the course of his journey, but it had never actually been there. It had been a rough sketch on a faded scroll, or a figment in a dream, or a mirage dancing in the wavering heat of the desert sands. Such illusions had given him the strength to keep walking - the patience to lie in the scorching sun until the vultures were within his grasp - the resolve to let the needles of the cacti sink into his flesh that he might eat of their own.
But now - now, so close, so large, and with a shadow cast by the setting sun that stretched for miles across the tops of the dunes, there was no mistaking it. He was here.
He started across the few hills remaining between him and the structure, at his normal, plodding pace. Despite being so near to the end, he had long ago found that he could no longer muster the energy to gallop, or run, or even trot. Half a lifetime of walking - thirty long years of sandy water, cactus juice, and buzzard meat - had weakened him. To so much as open his eyes in the morning, and not simply allow himself to drift off into obscurity in the wastes, was now a fantastic feat of strength that should have been far beyond his means.
Obscurity... that was what he feared, more than anything. His place - his purpose - had been stolen from him, and for what had seemed then like the longest time, he had not known what to do. But then, deep in the bowels of the charred remains of Alexmanedria, he had found writings speaking of a place - a place which few knew of, and which most of those who knew of it weren’t sure existed - a place where the gods could give him new purpose, and a cause to believe in.
The Ancra Heros.
The Valley of Kings.
As he shuffled his way down the final slope, he saw that he was no longer alone. At the gate of the temple, waiting for him, was a figure - a figure much like himself, and yet so entirely different.
He had read of such creatures, as well, in those ancient texts - horses, like him, but with wings, and with horns - the Old Gods, the guardians of the world, whose disappearance hundreds of years ago had brought about the rise of Jehoovah, and Eloinhim, and all the other names that, even now, fought an endless battle for the city of Jerusaddlem.
He had never been much for prayer and worship himself - he had always thought that He Who Is Who He Is would be far more likely to judge him by his actions in life than by how long he spent on his knees - but to discover that the Lord of his father and his country was no more than a figment of a fevered imagination, conjured up to fill the void left by beings that had once actually existed...
To say that it had torn everything he thought he knew apart would be an understatement.
She - at least, he assumed it was a she - stood beside the archway, smiling as if she were welcoming an old friend. Her coat was plain, the color of arid sand, but her mane fell from her head in long, even, shimmering strands, like a spout of black gold. The plain golden circlet adorning the crown of her head glinted in the setting sun. Her eyes were decorated with thin lines of dark makeup, curling across her face in patterns that seemed inscrutable, and yet somehow familiar.
He came to a stop in front of her. She towered over him, but only because he had long since lost the strength to hold his neck up straight. It made him feel like an old mule, but there was no helping it.
“Greetings, Ozylandura.” She bowed low to him, but he couldn’t tell whether he was being truly revered, or mocked. He supposed that, in his case, they was usually the same thing.
He nodded his head in return. “You seem to know me, but I do not know you.” He flinched at the hoarse, croaky sound of his own voice.
“And I fear you never shall.” She smiled. “My name, however, is Harena, and I know why you are here.”
“Do you, n-” He interrupted himself with a fit of debilitating coughing, his chest heaving as it attempted to clear the detritus of disuse from his throat. Harena waited patiently for him to finish. When he spoke again, it was certainly clearer, but his mouth tasted of blood. “...Now.”
“Even better than yourself.” She turned, and gestured beckoningly. “Come - you look thirsty.”
As he followed Harena through the narrow entrance hall, he ran his eyes over the building’s cracked bricks and crumbling facades. Many would have denounced the place as abandoned, or forgotten - but he knew better than most just how far the mighty could fall, and still live. “I must admit, I was beginning to lose hope that this place existed.”
“You don’t seem like the kind of stallion to rely on hope, Ozylandura.”
“No?”
“No.” She looked at him sidelong. “You rely on faith - on conviction. That, combined with your leadership, is why we brought you here.”
“Brought me here?” His confusion bordered on rage - after thirty years of wandering, he found it hard to believe that he had been brought anywhere.
She seemed to understand his anger, and smiled soothingly. “Many have sought this place before you, but only those who were worthy have found it.”
“So I am more worthy now than I was before? What has changed?”
“When you began your journey, you sought only power. You wanted to reclaim that which had been stolen from you, and even more after that as recompense for your slights. You were ravenous - sated, but unsatisfied.”
The truths she spoke would have stung him deeply, had he not spoken them to himself long ago. “And now?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.
“Now, you have forsaken your need for food, and in its place, you are thirsty. Now, you seek only purpose - a place where you will have meaning, even if none will ever see it.”
“And can you give that to me?”
“Whether or not I can is up to you to decide.” She stopped, and stepped aside, pointing ahead.
A small, circular fountain stood burbling at the intersection of their hallway and another. Ozylandura hobbled forward quickly, and dunked his face into the cold, crystalline water, letting it lap over his dry, cracked lips. After more than his share of satisfying gulps, he withdrew, letting the excess drizzle barbarously from his muzzle.
If Harena was offended by his repulsive manners, she didn’t show it. She merely smiled once more, and gestured down one of the adjoining halls. “Your room is this way.”
“You had one set aside for me?” he asked sardonically, starting down the hall ahead of her. He felt like the water had rekindled some flame deep within him.
“Of course,” she said. “Ketmunam demanded it.”
Ozylandura was surprised by very little after seventy years of life, but the mention of that name stopped him in his tracks. He whirled around to face her. “Ketmunam? He’s here?”
Her eyes twinkled mischievously, but her words pleaded innocence. “You know him?”
“Of course I know him,” he murmured, eyes falling to the floor. “He was my favorite servant.”
Ozylandura jumped as something large was flung roughly onto the ground next to him. He looked up from his book, and into the furious gaze of Ozymandias, Sheik of Dockmascus, Grand Emperor of the Eastern Coast.
“Father?” Ozylandura asked. “What’s going on?”
“Your servant -” Ozymandias pointedly prodded the pitiful bundle between them, which flinched fearfully. “- was caught sneaking about like a rat in the royal kitchens!”
The colt did a double-take. “What? I wasn’t aware of this! What was he doing?”
“Thankfully, he was apprehended before we had the chance to find out, but it could have been any number of things! He could have been planning to poison me - or poison you, for that matter!” The stallion turned away dramatically, and gazed out a nearby window. “I feel I have no choice but to have him put to death.”
Ozylandura’s eyes widened in terror. “No, Father! Please! I’m sure he meant no harm!”
“Give me any other explanation for his behavior.”
“Well, I... I...” Suddenly, something seemed to click in his mind. “The kitchens are preparing for the visit of Caliph Basagraman tomorrow, yes?”
His father raised an eyebrow. “Yes...”
“And the planned centerpiece of the dessert course is a great honeyed date cake.”
“That’s correct.”
“Oh, well that explains it.” He smiled, and shook his head. “Ketmunam loves honeyed dates. He probably wanted to sneak a few for himself, and thought that nohorse would notice. He can be quite barbaric sometimes.”
“Oh?” Ozymandias glanced down at the huddled form of the slave. “Is that so?”
Ketmunam only continued to shiver in fear. Ozylandura scowled, and gave his servant a sharp kick in the flank.
“Oh!” Ketmunam exclaimed in a strange cross of pain and recognition, flinching into a more upright position. He craned his head up to the Sheik pitifully. “Yes, Your Highness, it’s true! It’s all true! I’m... I’m a fat, worthless worm! Please, spare my thieving hide! I promise I won’t do it again!”
The prince beamed up at his father innocently.
“Hm...” Ozymandias seemed to consider this for a few moments, and eventually sighed in relent. “Very well, Ozylandura - but only because you like him so much. Lord knows why.” He turned to leave the room, and looked back to give one final warning. “Keep a closer eye on him - he won’t be so easily forgiven again.”
“Yes, Father! I will!” Ozylandura almost saluted, until he realized that saluting was below his station.
Prince and Servant watched with held breath as the Sheik retreated through the beaded curtain, and didn’t speak until the hoofsteps had ceased to echo up the spiral staircase.
Ozylandura shook his head in disappointment. “We really need to work on your acting.”
“It may be acting for you,” Ketmunam spat, standing up, “but I’m the one who’s got to put my neck on the line every time you decide to do something like this!”
Ozylandura appeared to ignore his servant’s complaint, and looked at him expectantly. “So. Did you get them?”
Ketmunam sighed in defeat, and nodded. “Yes, I did. And I hid them right where you said to.”
“Excellent.” The foal tapped his hooves together plottingly. “Now all we have to do is wait until tomorrow evening, and sneak them into the cushions where Basagraman will sit.”
“We?” the servant asked, his ears perking up hopefully. “It won’t just be me, this time?”
“Well, it wasn’t - but since you seem to want it that way...” The prince trailed off into an evil grin.
Ketmunam whimpered.
“Favorite servant?” Harena asked, although Ozylandura could tell that she was not actually curious. She was merely allowing an old horse his final thoughts, and he silently thanked her for it.
“It’s an odd term, isn’t it?” he mused, staring ahead into nothingness as he walked. “It didn’t seem so strange then. It was a lonely life, being a prince, even if I didn’t realize it. Ketmunam was... the closest thing to a friend that I ever had, at that age.”
“And at other ages?”
“At other ages?” Ozylandura allowed himself a small, derisive laugh. “That would have to be Barmun.” He looked at Harena with mock pleading. “Don’t tell me he’s here, too.”
The goddess said nothing, but shrugged affably.
“Of course he is.” Ozylandura groaned, but he couldn’t stop himself from grinning. “I thought he died at the battle of Thermofilly, but no, he just had to come back and haunt me. At least now, I won’t be surprised when I see the parade he’s arranged in my honor. He knows I hate parades.”
The dings and clangs of clashing metal rang throughout the courtyard, echoing off of the silent sandstone walls. It was an unusually quiet day in the Jasmine Palace. No servants bustled to and fro, no warblers wailed news or prayer from atop the minarets, and in the yellow-green grass, only two stallions danced, swords gripped tightly in their teeth.
The art of the mouth-saber was one that only royalty was trained in, in the Wither East. Real soldiers used lances, crossbows, and knives, and for good reason - but there was a certain beauty to be had in watching the tempered steel of two matched opponents flash in the light of the setting sun, as they stepped and spun and wheeled around each other.
Ozylandura was going to lose - there was no question - but he was still proud of himself for having held out this long. Barmun had been born in the awkward position of being royal enough to count, but not royal enough to be allowed some of the higher privileges of his half-siblings. When Ozylandura had been reading books on the cultivation of exotic herbs, or helping his father greet foreign dignitaries, Barmun had had nothing to do but swing a sword, and all that extra practice had paid off.
The Prince of Dockmascus made a single misstep with his rear right hoof, and in less time than it took him to blink, the Bastard of Hayro had steel to his throat.
Ozylandura laughed, careful not to let his larynx graze the edge of the blade as he spoke around the handle of his own. “You win again, Barmun.”
Barmun grinned, and withdrew, sticking his saber into the ground with a practiced flick of his neck. “What’s the score now?”
Ozylandura unceremoniously spat his own sword onto the ground. “Eighteen and nothing, if I’ve counted correctly.”
“Oh, come now,” Barmun teased. “You deserve at least half of a point for that time where you would have nicked my ankle.”
“Alright, then. That makes it...” Ozylandura paused, calculating. “Eighteen to three and a half.”
“Three and a half?” Barmun scoffed with mock indignation. “Two, at most.”
They both turned to look up at one of the windows above the courtyard. They couldn’t see or hear the horses who were speaking within, but they could very well imagine them.
“How much longer do you think they’ll be?” Barmun asked, his voice edged with worry. The Sheik and the Caliph had entered the room before dawn that morning, and had yet to be seen by anyhorse.
Ozylandura shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t see why you’re so concerned, Barmun. Our fathers meet like this every year.”
“Haven’t you heard the news?”
“News?” He heard much as crown prince, but he couldn’t think of anything that would have somehorse as cocky as Barmun so worried.
“I guess not.” Barmun sighed heavily, and walked to the edge of the grass, gazing down through the latticed windows at the city below, where windows and lanterns alike were just beginning to twinkle in the shadows of evening. “The minotaurs have been growing much bolder. Your father and mine both fear that a great war is on the horizon.”
“A war that we will win, surely?” Ozylandura said, walking up next to his friend. “The minotaurs have attacked many times before, but they have never been able to make it very far. The desert is too strong for them.”
“I used to think so as well - but now, I’m not so certain.” Barmun glanced at him with fearful eyes. “They burned Carrthiage to the ground.”
Those words sent a chill down Ozylandura’s spine. The elephants of Carrthiage had never been particularly friendly to the Wither-Eastern Kingdoms, but they had always been strong, honorable opponents. If they had been overrun by the minotaurs, then every other nation on the Medequestrian coast was at risk.
“What are they planning to do?” he almost whispered, turning to the window above once more.
“To bring the Kingdoms together for a preemptive assault on the minotaur homeland. We already have the backing of the Purrsians.”
“The Purrsians?” Ozylandura asked, incredulous. “Since when have we trusted the Purrsians?”
Barmun shook his head sadly. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, I suppose.”
“He sounds like quite the rival.”
“It wasn’t much of a rivalry,” Ozylandura admitted. “He was better than me in every way. His only disadvantage was being born to the wrong mother.”
He stopped in front of a large rectangular hole in the wall. To either side, the stone stretched on, smooth and unbroken.
“Is this it?” he asked, as if it could be anything else.
Harena nodded, and followed him inside.
The room was high, but plain, lit only by four sconced torches. The sole object held within was a large block of clean-cut limestone - almost as tall as he would have been, were he standing at his full height. Its top was polished smooth, and its sides were carved with multitudes of symbols, the likes of which the former prince had only seen once before - in the same scroll that had spurred him here, all those years ago.
“It doesn’t look very comfortable,” he said. It was a weak attempt at a joke, but Harena gave him a small laugh all the same.
He reared and set his front hooves on the end of the slab, preparing to heave himself up. Harena watched worriedly as he - one, two, three times - failed to summon enough strength to summit the block.
“Do you need help?” she asked.
He glared back at her with a dour expression. “If I cannot even lift myself onto my death bed, what good shall I be to you?”
She bowed her head in acquiescence, and took a few steps back.
On his seventh attempt, he gave a mighty push with his rear legs. His belly slid up over the corner, and he finally overbalanced onto the slab. After a few more straining pulls to drag the rest of his body aboard, he collapsed onto his side, panting.
The cold of the stone was strangely comforting. It drew the heat from his blood and the speed from his heart, calming his mind and reminding him of what was yet to come - although, now that he thought about it, the details were still somewhat fuzzy.
“What happens next?” he asked.
“I will prepare the stone,” Harena said, walking back into his field of vision. “When you die, it will preserve your body here, anchoring your spirit to this world. So long as this temple stands, so shall you, and the creatures of the darkness will be unable to harm you.”
“That doesn’t sound like much fun.”
“They will be unable to harm you,” she reaffirmed, “but you will be able to harm each other. Your duty, above all others, Ozylandura, will be to keep your fellow guardians as just that - fellows. The dark is clever, as well as cruel - you must give your soldiers a leader to believe in, and ensure that they do not succumb to the whispers and temptations of the shadow.”
“And if they do fall?” Treason was one thing among horses and minotaurs, but where gods and immortals were concerned, it was something else entirely.
Harena’s face grew grim. “If they are truly irretrievable, then you must sever their link to this world, and cast them down into the pit, to lie with their masters - although that is something I hope shall never come to pass.”
“...And if I fall?” he all-but whispered.
She met his unflinching gaze and smiled reassuringly. “You won’t. We would not have chosen you otherwise.”
Ozylandura listened as Harena circled him, chanting under her breath. The room grew a bit brighter, and he realized that the extra light was being cast by the runes on the slab. Magic, he thought. Real magic - not the miracles sold by priests and peddlers.
As the goddess came back into view, Ozylandura saw that she was now carrying a short stone dagger, floating it before her in a miasma of orange sparkles just like the ones enveloping her horn. The knife was carved with many of the same symbols that glowed beneath him. He swallowed nervously.
“There’s... no way I could just be left to die peacefully, is there?”
Harena shook her head. “I’m afraid not. The knife is a crucial part of the spell. I will do my best to make it painless.”
Ozylandura nodded, and closed his eyes. For a few tense, fearful moments, there was only the murmur of her continued chant - then, he felt stone slip smoothly between his ribs. His heart jumped, sputtered, fought for a few more seconds, then quietly ceased beating.
Harena was better than her word - it didn’t hurt at all. The knife hadn’t killed him - it had freed him - cut the chains that bound him to this sorry mass of flesh. It wasn’t his body anymore. Now, it was just a memory - a bad dream that drifted away as he floated, higher, and higher...
Suddenly, his ascension was jerked to a stop. This was a new chain, but one that was meant to be there - one that was keeping him together, keeping him safe - a tether - a harness.
Of course, he thought. They’re waiting for me. He took hold of the line, and pulled himself along it, as easily as a fish down a stream.
And so, Ozylandura, the forsaken prince, whose birthright and kingdom had been torn from his hooves, descended down into the earth - through the sand, through the rock, through the earth-blood beneath, and down even further still - through the fabric between the worlds, and into his new home - his new charge - the place he would guard for the rest of eternity.
Down, down, into Tartarus, to keep the darkness at bay.