Equestrian Mythology ~ Tale of the Scions

Equestrian Mythology
Tale of the Scions
by Aristallion

~ The tale of Sírdhem, the Executioner ~

Scion of Ending, Sírdhem was the eighth of Ilfirinë’s children, born as naught but a spirit. His physical form was nothing but a wisp of brilliance, a cloud of light as it were, but only his Scion brethren and sisters ever saw him like this. Being fine with this at first, the eighth child all too soon found himself limited in carrying out his great task by the lack of a corporeal form. And thus he sought help from his elder brother, Edlin the Majestic, the greatest craftsman the world would ever know. The great Scion thus forged, with true silver that radiated in the starlight and true gold that shined brightly in the sun, a grand suit of armour for his brother to inhabit and move by his will. It was without a doubt the finest and most magnificent of all of Edlin’s many works and crafts, and never would it be rivalled by any smith work, be they forged by the hand of mortals or Scions. With feelings of great gratitude did Sírdhem accept his brother’s masterpiece, and he inhabited it as intended. Thus he took on the form by which those whose lives are finite would forever remember him.

Tall and mighty he now stood, beautiful to behold by day- and starlight both, a bipedal figure with two powerful arms and hands with four fingers. His draconic head wore a crown with five jewels, and the light of his spirit emerged through the eyeholes of his helmet and seemed to make them shine brilliantly. Ponies and all other kinds forever wondered what figure was hidden beneath the majestic armour, and though many legends and tales were made of it, none ever suspected that the suit of armour was empty, moved by nothing but the will of the spirit residing within. That knowledge would be a privilege for only his brethren, sisters and Hallowed mother to know.

Yet despite his new form, terrible to behold in its majesty, Sírdhem was a kind-hearted spirit, for he was after all the Scion of Ending. To him fell the task of harmonizing the end of the mortals’ lives, a task to which he dedicated himself with great vigour. Indeed, death was often viewed as something dark that had to be feared, and such thoughts often drove the living to resist against their unavoidable fate. It was Sírdhem’s duty to quell these fears, to take away the resistance felt, so that they welcomed their end without remorse, and said farewell to this plane of existence without any regrets or hard feelings. Such was the way in which he aided to bring about Ilfirinë’s dream of a harmonized and peaceful world. And he did it well, and ponykind viewed him as benevolent, and when it was their time they welcomed his appearance at their side and trusted him wholly.

Alas, his noble work and the harmonious fruits of his labour only brought forth feelings of resentment within his brother, Discord. So dedicated to his work, and so emotionally fond of the mortals was he, that Sírdhem forgot to keep track of the proceedings of his fellow Scions. And thus he failed to notice that Discord had fallen into madness, and no longer dedicated himself to Ilfirinë’s dream. Indeed, the bringer of Disharmony now occupied himself with trying to unmake the work of his brethren and sisters. However he did so in secret, for Ilfirinë’s power was still too great, and he feared her wrath. Fortunate for him it was then, perhaps, that the Great Mother of all Scions was yet unaware of his madness.

Now Discord looked upon Sírdhem from afar, and he pondered how to disrupt his brother’s work. The harmony that Sírdhem had created was great, making the maddened Scion all the more determined. The bringer of the end had only one weakness, which was his compassionate and kind heart. Discord knew this as no other, and he struck against it in a way that was as subtle as it was cruel. Lies, falsehoods and deceptions did he whisper against the wind, who carried his words through the world to the ears of all who would listen. And for the innocent ponies that wandered in the light of both Sun and Moon, it was as if the walls around them spoke. In the darkest hours of the night, they laid awake as the never ending whisperings of Discord kept them from their sleep. They chased the unfortunate ponies even into their dreams, and sowed within their minds the seeds of doubt.

None but the Scion of Chaos himself can say what it was the ponies thought they heard, as they foolishly listened to the whispers of the wind. Nevertheless it affected them, and all too soon did doubt began to escalate into conflict. Slowly but surely, spurred on by the lies of Discord, the three pony tribes drifted apart further and further, until there was naught left but open hostility between them. A dark day it was indeed, when the corrupt seeds that the Bringer of Disorder had sown bore fruits of war, and blood was shed for naught but hate for the first time in the history of the world. None of the works of Discord were as vile as his shattering of the peace between the three pony tribes, spurring them on the commit acts of war and shed the blood of their own people in a conflict that held no meaning.

The mere existence of war shocked the remaining Scions so much that they felt themselves incapable of doing naught but watch as ponykind destroyed the harmony they had worked so hard to create. So great was this hearth of chaos and disharmony that it hurt even the Hallowed mother of all Scions herself, and her ethereal light seemed to weaken, and it was never the same again even when harmony was at long last restored once more. Yet none were harmed by the First War as much as Sírdhem, who saw the image of death as something peaceful, and the trust ponies had in him, both of which he had so relentlessly build up, go up in smoke. No longer was his appearance welcomed, for ponies now died much too early and in ways that none had dared to imagine. Death was once more feared, and no longer was he, the messenger of the End, seen as benevolent or kind. War had twisted the way ponykind viewed him, and for them he was now a monstrous visage that instilled terror, a skeletal being wielding a sword to viciously cut the life from their bodies.

And he, the kind-hearted, gentle spirit, the Scion of Ending, fell to his knees on the desolate wastelands and wept. Many tears he shed, sorrowful and bitter. And when they hit the ground they froze, and from the frozen tears emerged the first of the Windigoes, vengeful spirits born from the cold void left in the heart of their unwilling father when ponykind betrayed him. His newborn children now grew rapidly in size and power, for they fed off fighting and hatred, of which there was plenty in the ravaged world. Were they went the winter came and all was gripped by a terrible cold that froze even the soul itself.

The Windigoes now surrounded their father, and he felt a great cold come over him. He did not fight it, for the cold brought relief from his sorrows and dried his tears. After so much sadness it was a feeling most welcome, and he basked in it. Too much had the living hurt him, too great their betrayal had been. He had shown them care, compassion and understanding, had eased their fears and brought them warmth as they passed on, and yet they chose, in the end, to fear him. Resentment and bitterness now filled him, and he denounced any attachment to them, their kin and their descendants. Slowly did Sírdhem rise to his feet, tall and terrible, and he embraced the Windigoes, the children he had never meant to create. And as he embraced them, their cold seeped into his great armour and filled it entirely, touching even the spirit that was held within it. Thus was frozen even his kind heart, until it was as cold as the children he held within his embrace, and compassion he felt no more.

Now an entity with feelings nor remorse, Sírdhem plunged one of his armoured gauntlets into the earth. And when he pulled his hand free, it emerged holding a crude and vicious sword, carved from black crystal and polished with the harshest, coldest ice. They now saw him as a cruel entity that cut the life from them, he thought, so who was he to deny them? Armed and cold he was then, and wholly prepared to dedicate himself to his charge once more. But his heart was frozen, and he had denounced all feelings, so when he came before the living in their dying moments, he could offer them no comfort or peace. Instead he cut them down without remorse or mercy, a cruel and terrifying, if swift, end.

Thus, though he still carried out his task, his work failed to produce any results. With his frozen heart he could not ease the fears of the dying, and so he could not harmonize their deaths nor aid in the making of a world filled with Harmony. He was as the ice now, hard, cold and unforgiving. His children roamed before him, heralding his coming with winter and snow. The end he brought to the living was more of an execution than a passing, and henceforth he was known only as the Executioner.

Discord watched these events unfold from where he hid, and he laughed, for with deceit and lies he had reunited Death with Chaos. Once more did the living fear death as something wild and unpredictable, an event whose arrival had to be dreaded, a product of chaos that could never hold anything good or valuable. Thus the Bringer of Disorder stood triumphant, and he gloated, in secret, in the Chaos he had wrought.

As for the Executioner, he continued his task until he was confronted by Ilfirinë, Mother of all Scions, and the sight that greeted her filled her with dread. For where he had once been a figure of great majesty and beauty, Sírdhem was now twisted by his frozen heart and the wrongs he inflicted with his blade. His armour, once the greatest work of Edlin, was now coloured grey and black, and his eyes, once brilliantly white, were now cold and emotionless blue lights. Ilfirinë pleaded with her son to see the error of his ways, but he rebuked her words, pointing out that it was his task to see to it that the living passed from this life to the next, a task he still carried out with great dedication. His mother then asked if he could not see that the living feared him and the end he brought, but the answer she got was a hollow, mirthless laugh. They had chosen to fear him, to see him as a figure inspiring terror carrying a cruel sword, and he had obliged to their wishes. How could she blame him for doing what those whose lives were finite expected of him?

Ilfirinë then fled, away from the son she no longer recognized, back to her great garden where she had once called her children to life. There she wept, for the son she had lost, for the living who now lived in fear of their end, and for herself, she who was powerless to change it for the better. Because Sírdhem had spoken the truth, indeed he was not at fault in any way, carrying out his duty as he should, just not in the way she would have liked him to. It was like that, crying and filled with sorrow, that Edlin found his mother, for he had heard the sound of her weeping and it had worried his heart. So he came to her and asked what ailed her. Worry and dread filled his heart, however, when he heard of how his greatest work had been twisted into something vile, and how his brother had fallen. Wishing to verify it with his own eyes, Edlin set forth in search of his younger brother.

Eventually he found him, and the two Scions confronted each other. As Sírdhem stood before his brother in all of his black, frozen glory, Edlin could now see for himself how deep his brother had fallen, and how the armour he had so lovingly crafted was now naught but a hideous shell of cold, frozen steel, a mockery of the masterpiece it once had been. Angrily the craftsman demanded to know what the Executioner had done with his creation, but Sírdhem coldly brushed him off, stating that the armour was given to him and thus now belonged to him, for him to do with as he desired. Fury and disgust welled up in the proud and mighty elder Scion, and he said that he had not given Sírdhem such a kingly gift only for him to twist it and use it for such wrong, dark ends.

His words fell on deaf ears, for the younger Scion’s heart was frozen, so he did not give a single care. He made to leave, to return to his duty, but Edlin intercepted him, demanding the armour be given back to him. Sírdhem refused, the fact that his brother would make such an outrageous, preposterous demand filled him with cold fury. Edlin persisted, however, for he would not allow any of his creations to be used for uses that were not for the benefit of harmony. If his brother would not surrender his metallic shell, he would reclaim it by force if such would be necessary. Those words pushed the fallen Scion beyond reason, and he drew his blade upon his brother. So shocked by this Edlin was, that he did not react in time and was struck down by Sírdhem’s blade.

Thus fell the greatest craftsman the world had and would ever know, and the shock of his death shook the world to its very foundations. All the living felt the pain that came with the fall of one of their greatest, so much that the Sun fell behind the horizon immediately, and the Moon did not rise. Ilfirinë felt the loss of her son as no other, and she rushed towards the place of his fall, only to find his executioner standing next to him, unmoved and uncaring, for his heart was frozen still. And when the Hallowed Mother of all Scions demanded to know what had happened, he told her of his deed without a single glimpse of remorse.

Ilfirinë rose to her feet, though not in fury, for her glorious visage was stained with tears and her expression one of utmost sorrow. Terrible to behold in her sadness she was, as she wept for her fallen son, but also for his younger brother, who did not comprehend the evil of his deed due to his frozen state. But, though she knew all too well it was too late, she could now act against him, for he had taken a life outside of his duty. Light more blinding than that of the Sun did she gather in her hand. She sent it forth in one small but powerful ray that pierced the frozen alloy of Sírdhem his armour, striking his heart, which was thawed out at last by the warmth of Ilfirinë’s light.

And as his heart was now unfrozen, so were his feelings, and the understanding of what he had done, to all living and not in the least to his elder brother, fell upon him like a great weight, as if he had the world on his shoulders. Boundless regret and shame nearly destroyed his mind, and he could not utter a word. His Hallowed Mother, in her great and endless kindness, made to embrace her son and forgive him, so they could mourn Edlin’s passing together, but Sírdhem would not have it. He ran away, from the brother and mother whose sight he could not bear, from the ponies and other living beings whom he had betrayed. But he could not escape his guilt, even if he had wanted to.

His flight brought him to the cold and grey lands of the north, where there were only mountains and canyons. The tormented Scion wandered into one such canyon, which was lifeless and desolate, and there his strength failed him. He could no longer flee further or bear the weight of his deeds, nor would he ever be capable of repenting for his grave sins. There was but one fate left for him, he decided, and he accepted it wholly, almost in gratitude. The Executioner then drew his blade one final time, and with it he carved a great stone throne out of a Cliffside, hard and uncomfortable. This final task done, Sírdhem cast his sword aside, plunging it deeply into a rock, and he would never pick it up again.

Wearily, the fallen Scion sank down upon his throne, and then called for his children, summoning the Windigoes to his side. And come they did, in great numbers, gathering around their father’s seat for his final court. With them came the winter and the cold, and snow and ice began to claim the grey stone of the canyon. The Scion on his throne sat unmoving, however, and waited. Even when the ice had reached his seat, he did not stir, and calmly he allowed himself to be claimed by it. Once encased in his frozen tomb, the life within the armour slowly withered away, until even the light of his eyes faded. Thus died Sírdhem, the Executioner, eighth child of Ilfirinë, in repentance for the misdeeds he had committed.

His final resting place, however, became known in legends and myths as the Court of the Winter, and in fear ponies whispered about the unknown king that seated eternally upon the Frozen Throne, watching over a sword said to hold immeasurable power until the end of time. But if anyone was strong enough to withstand the harsh climate and to brave the Windigoes who faithfully stood guard over their father, they would find the lifeless form of Sírdhem the Executioner, seated on the Frozen Throne, rent from time. And above the throne they would find, carved into the stone, the ancient runes of the Scions that forever warned of the dangers of a frozen heart.

~~~

AN: Many thanks for the positive feedback! It inspired me so much that I wrote the next tale. I will freely admit that the final bit is indeed a reference to a certain, very popular online role-playing game. This Scion tale was longer the previous, but I can't say if they shall all be of similar length. Some might be long, some might be short, I can't say until I write them. This one actually turned out longer than I expected. I had a lot of fun coming up with the origin of the Windigoes.