//------------------------------//
// Chapter 1: A Not So Triumphant Return 
// Story: Strings 
// by naturalbornderpy 
//------------------------------//


CHAPTER ONE:


A NOT SO TRIUMPHANT RETURN


 


1


 

Bits of memory swam back in shards and fragments. From a large pool of black they came and took form—like silver stars across pitch-black sky. 
                
King Sombra had been defeated.
                
It was a weird thing to hear, and an even harder thing to accept. So he didn’t.

For a time.
                
All that remained of King Sombra was a chunk of horn that had been thrown clear of his untimely deathblow. Miles away it had landed; buried in snow, lost and forgotten. For over a year it had remained as it had been—a broken husk of useless material—but soon thoughts began to creep into the void, as well as all those pesky images.
                
Just inches within my grasp. He sees the crystal heart—so close, so far. Why is it not mine? What is keeping me from it?
                
Weeks passed and the memories become clearer. He had lost. I lost. He had lost everything. My empire. And now he was but a bit of broken bone.
                
As time went on the layer of snow covering him thickened and hardened.
 

2


 

Sombra slept. Not because he chose to, only because each time he would think and ponder, what remained of his energy depleted rapidly. Each time he awoke more weeks had gone by without his knowledge. Each time he awoke he felt stronger, more aware.
                
When he had first gained coherent consciousness he had honestly wondered what was left for him. What was a King without an Empire? What was honestly left for him in this world? He could give up, he told himself. Or course he could. He could simply stop returning to his ponderings and just as well end the game, becoming some artifact lost to existence.
                
But that would be unlike him.
                
Once upon waking he saw something other than the world of twisting white flakes he had grown so accustomed to. It was the red of his cape, staring at him as bold as blood against the snow. Could it be true? Underneath it he saw a form—two legs. He even moved one to be sure. When he saw the illusion to be true (he felt nothing of it) he became excited for the first time since appearing in that winter wasteland. I am returning! he exclaimed within. I am not dead! Far from—
                
Just as quick as it had been it was gone. No cape. No form underneath.
                
With voiceless rage Sombra screamed and sank back into the murky depths of unconsciousness. The time that passed between his next awakening he would not know.
 

3


 

His form was almost complete. It had taken time and determination and every last ounce of concentration he had, but Sombra was nearly whole again. He could smell the cold, bitter air around him; he could touch the snow which had blanketed him for so long. He never felt cold, nor hungry or thirsty, but this was not something that worried him. Ever since discovering the dark magic that gave him his immense powers and near God-like stature (trading a piece of himself in the bargain), the novelties of food and drink and warmth had lost all their meanings.
                
Still without all that, he knew what joy felt like. And that was what he felt then: joy. If his body could come back to him from nothing but sheer will, so could his powers. He could wait. Before returning and reclaiming his throne he could wait for every pony that had wronged him to die and rot. For what was time to a being such as he?
                
He brought a hoof before his eyes and simply watched it for a moment. The polished silver of his battle armor gleamed brilliantly next to the stock white snow. Now that Sombra had next to nothing, it was the little victories that gave him purpose—that drove him on. If he were to stop concentrating, even for an instant, his body would disappear until such time as he could find the strength to create it anew.
                
When he heard the nearby crunch of hoof over snow his body flickered before his eyes.
                
Someone was coming.
 

4


 

The sound grew louder and Sombra strained to hear whatever he could.
                
A wayward traveler? he thought hopefully.
                
The steps abruptly came to a halt and waited a few seconds before continuing their course, now in a new direction. Sombra’s direction.
                
Sombra’s reassuring thoughts flew away with the icy wind. Someone lost? Or someone out to finish the job? Could they have really thought I had survived such an ordeal? And how would they have known where I could be?
                
The rising hoofsteps came to a second halt and this time they did not press on. Sombra knew that whoever they were, they were directly atop of him. A moment later, an object of metal and wood struck the hardened snow and shoveled it aside. Just how many feet had he been buried? Sombra thought. Just how long until he’d be discovered? Weak, frail, more similar to some wretched earth-pony than a God; this was no way for a King to meet their end.
                
As the sound of the shovel striking snow became more prominent, Sombra allowed himself the briefest of smiles. Could he blame them? he thought. Could he really blame them? If there was even the slightest chance of Equestria’s greatest villain arising once more, would you not scour every inch of it to make sure that the nasty deed was actually done?
                
For a fleeting moment Sombra lost all worry and even laughed a barely audible chuckle. It was the first sound he’d made since finding himself again.
                
As more and more light washed over him, and as the pony above him became mere feet away, Sombra regretfully retreated once again to become nothing more than a bit of horn in snow. If he could rebuild himself one time, he could do so again.
 

5


 

He awoke in darkness but was not all too surprised by the fact. How many years had passed this time? he wondered. Ten? A hundred? A thousand?
                
He took to his new surroundings as quickly as he could, anxious to begin the rebuilding process, only to discover something odd. He was whole already. He already was complete. Sombra stood and heard his hard hooves shift along uneven stone. Although he figured they would surely tremble under his weight, his newfound legs felt strong and sure. Thrilled, he quickly spun in a whirl, watched his cape catch the air before returning to his back.
                
Even he had surprised himself with his abilities.
                
Before he could test out the limits of his magic, a wave of noise came echoing from the darkness. It was the sounds of a thousand ponies, cheering and yelling incisively, never ceasing for a moment. Already Sombra hated it. An Empire was supposed to be quite. An Empire—
                
So just where had this King found himself?
                
By this time Sombra’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom. It was a cellar he was in. Uneven rock floor, large wooden support beams across the ceiling and up along the corners. He squinted into the distance and made out a staircase leading up. Although something nagged at him—a simple feeling of familiarity—Sombra ignored it and went to the stairs. Immediately the noise grew louder, so he pressed on.
                
Halfway up the narrow stairway he made the outline of an old wooden door; blinding white light escaped from each crack and crevice. As much as he wanted to know what came after the door, a sudden voice halted him in his tracks.
                
“Thank you! Thank you all!”
                
It was the booming voice of Princess Celestia, yelling to be heard above the throngs of screaming ponies.
                
“I know it has been a near lifetime of sorrow for most of you Crystal ponies,” she continued, “but now the usurper known as Sombra is no more! Your make-believe King is dead!”
                
In the darkness of the cellar Sombra gritted his teeth and ground his forelegs into the stone, grinding some of it to dust. For nearly a minute he shook with rage, desperately trying to quell the angelic idea of galloping up and out the cellar door in a search for Celestia’s throat to rip out with his teeth.
                
I’m sure my subjects would love to see  that, he thought, allowing himself a very toothy grin.
                
Carefully he made his way up the rest of the stairs and nudged the door open.

Unlocked. How odd.

Slowly his eyes adjusted to the whiteness of the new room and right away he was hit with the knowledge of the place. It was the Crystal Empire. He was in the Crystal Empire. Somehow he had gotten back there. Somehow he was whole again and somehow he was back. His subjects were also there, he quickly surmised, only they were listening to the message of someone who didn’t belong.
                
Sombra scanned the long, white room (it was the dinning room, where he would, upon occasion, entertain a few unwilling guests) and found it void of anyone or anything of note. With no one to stop him, he went in search of the Princess.
 

6


 

                
Once he entered the richly carpeted hall (red and silver) he knew without a doubt where she was speaking from. Before the next corner he stopped and sidled against the wall, gingerly peering over the edge. Just as he had thought! And so easy too!
                
But it was odd, he thought. It was all so odd.

However the notion of swift revenge had the ability of deterring most coherent thoughts.
                
At the end of the adjacent hall stood Celestia, her forever flowing hair blowing in the breeze from outside. On his balcony she stood—the one he had used time and time again to address his Empire. Before her was a podium, and to each side was a guard dressed in armor and with weapon. Each eye on the balcony was focused on the crowd. Each eye from the crowd would be focused on her. And soon on a much darker presence.
                
Sombra wasted no time and lunged down the hall. His worry about lack of magical abilities quickly dispersed as he saw his tendrils of black substance spread outward from beneath him.
                
Two meters from the opening of the balcony, Sombra formed two blackened spears out of the darkness that encircled him; each weapon gleaming like items freshly dipped in oil. His plan was to impale both guard ponies before a word could be said of his return. A third weapon—the one he would design especially for Celestia—he had not a notion of what would be. He only knew his magic would come up with something in the end. It always did. Or maybe he’d fulfill his original cravings and perform that act with his teeth as planned.
                
Two meters became one and Sombra yelled out in a battle cry. He launched both black spears but both landed cruelly short.
                
He had just enough time to see the startled face of Celestia turn to him before he was ripped backward into darkness. Then he lost track of everything.
 

7


 

“Were you having a dream, my friend? I hope it was a good one.”
                
A nearby voice in the void. Sombra heard it and understood each word, yet confusion overwhelmed his need to answer.
                
“Oh, don’t be shy. There are no secrets here, not between us. I won’t allow it.”
                
The voice was of higher pitch; continually on the verge of either mockery… or laughter.
                
Sombra opened his eyes once again and thought himself back in the cellar at the Crystal Empire. That thought proved fleeting however. The only similarity between here and there were the stone floors and the complete absence of light. What he could see was rock. Lots of it. It was a cave he was in—a mere sliver in a mountain. But even Sombra had seen caves fit for a King.
                
This one was fit for a slave.
                
“Cat got your tongue, Sombra?” the voice asked.
                
Sombra got into a seated position as he took in more of his mediocre ambience. “It’s… King Sombra.” The words came out in nearly a whisper—and even that was generous. Sombra’s strength from before had all but left him, if that dream of the Empire had been anything more than just a dream.
                
“Oh no. Oh no, no, no,” the voice decreed. “I don’t go by such titles here. And neither will you.” The figure finally made himself known when he stepped a few feet towards him. It was a pony, Sombra was glad to see, wrapped loosely in brown wool. Besides his nose and a bit of his mouth, his hood covered most of his face; due to a large lump on his head, it was more than likely a unicorn Sombra was dealing with. “Plus, I thought all Kings had crowns? You just look like a pony with a warped horn!”
                
Since coming to Sombra had had not the time nor the inclination to digest exactly what he wore. After a quick scan he discovered it to be nothing at all. And although he might have looked completely naked without his cape and bits of armor on, what made him feel wholly exposed was that bit of curved metal missing atop his head.
                
“You will return my things to me at once!” Sombra roared, tearing apart his throat in the process.
                
“But silly ol’ Sombra,” teased the unicorn, “I haven’t taken your things at all. They’re right there on the wall, waiting for you. I wouldn’t dare get rid of those things. They did look rather expensive!”
                
A bit of silver to his left caught Sombra’s attention. Along the wall, illuminated by a torch, was all his apparel: his greaves, his criniere and peytral, his deep-red cape with white-spotted border, his many spiked crown. How odd it was that he hadn’t noted their appearance before. Or had they only just appeared once the unicorn made mention of them?
                
“I’ll never understand some of you ponies and your clothes,” the unicorn continued, “almost as if you’re all compensating for something. Is that the case, Sombra? A cape and a crown?”
                
“King Sombra!”
                
“If that’s all you can say then we’re not going to have a very good time together.”
                
Sombra ignored the unicorn’s latest barb and focused his attention on his gear. What his friend in the shadows didn’t know (or couldn’t know, Sombra hoped) was that each one of these items was truly and entirely a piece of himself. Centuries ago, when Sombra’s powers had grown far beyond any pony’s he knew, he distinguished himself from the rest with the creation of his armor and crown. What he wore he had created from of his dark arts. Even with what little strength he felt coursing through him, he knew he could get this back. Should get this back.
                
So Sombra stretched out his mind and…
                
Nothing.
                
Nothing at all.
                
He increased his pull and felt the first hints of sweat along his brow.
                
And still nothing. Not a twitch. Not even an inclining of movement.
                
“Do I still have your attention, my dark friend?”
                
Sombra turned to find the unicorn sprawled out along the floor, one hoof crossed over the other, as if gossiping with a friend. The torch on the wall gave way to his sneering smile, at the very edges of the darkness of his hood.
                
Sombra stood up abruptly. His legs wanted to wobble but he swore he would saw them all off if they did. He said coldly: “I am not your friend, as you will soon discover. And I have already grown weary of this game.” Three steps was all he managed before his breath was ripped right from him. Even with this overwhelming feeling he tried for another, stretching out a hoof toward his crown tacked to the wall (it was still several inches from reach). When the pressure from lack of oxygen grew too large he backed away and coughed angrily. A quick hoof to his throat effortlessly erased the question boiling in his head. Around his neck was a collar of rusted iron. Attached to this were two sets of thick links leading to two large hooks along the wall, embedded deep within the rock.
                
The unicorn’s harsh laugh pulled Sombra back from his sudden plight.
                
“And you still don’t realize how much trouble you’re in!”