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// God and King 
// Story: Tales of Equus 
// by Snake Staff 
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	Now, it came to pass in those days that a certain noble stallion rose to prominence amongst the ponies of the land. Though few knew him well, and none could say from whence he had come, that he had power none could deny. He rose to leadership with unprecedented speed, with many who spoke against him simply vanishing, never to be seen again. Though dark and secretive, when he wished to be the stallion could sway thousands with his words alone. Eventually, it came to pass that the ponies of that land made him their king, and though he was a harsh and egotistical ruler, he was no fool. The land prospered for a time, and most thought that all was well.

But one day, after many years of his reign, the king found to his dismay that he was growing old. His muscles withered, his back began to stoop, and his proud black mane began to grey on his head.

“Now,” the king said to himself, “This will not do at all. Though I am the greatest of all the ponies in this land, my kingdom vast, my foals beyond count, still time seeks to steal away what is mine. But wherefore should death take me, as though I were no better than some peasant toiling in the mud? This cannot be so. I will not allow it.”

So saying, the king summoned his wisest advisors from across the land. Sages and scholars, mystics and seers, all answered their king’s call. For many days and nights he spoke with them, demanding an answer to the problem of death, but none could be found to give him what he sought. 

At length, the king grew greatly wroth with his advisors, and sent them away in a rage. Next, he sought the answers to death from the gods. Many a day and night did he spend amongst the temples of his land, learning all he could of the divinities. To each and every one he gave many bounteous offerings, in hopes that one might hear him, and give him what he wished for. But the gods did not wish for such a thing, and so remained silent. Eventually, the king grew wroth with them as well, and stormed from the temples in a towering fury.

If others could not or would not give him what he wished for, he would find for himself the secrets of eternal life. For years he searched, but he found naught but lies and fables amongst his sources. As the years passed and he felt himself aging even further, the king grew very desperate indeed to avoid his fate, for such was his pride that he could not stomach the idea that in the end he should be no better than any other mortal pony.

One day, whilst he was pouring frantically over his scrolls, the king came across something that gave him pause. Inside the scroll was a map, showing the secret place wherein the great spirit of chaos was imprisoned for all time by the three goddesses. How this map had come to be, none can say, nor how it found its way to the king, but there it was nonetheless. 

Now, the king had heard the tales of how the night goddess was tricked and stripped of her cloak, and knew well the story of the golden apple. He knew that the gods were not invincible, and that long ago one had fought against them. If mortals were no help, and gods would not harken to his words, perhaps the spirit of chaos might be more willing to aid him in his quest.

So it was that the king donned once more his old armor, and, leaving his kingdom in the hooves of his children, left to seek out the place where the spirit of chaos was held. The journey was long a perilous, but not for nothing had the king risen to his lofty station. He overcame jungles and deserts and blizzards alike. He laid low dragons and hydras, played at riddles sphinxes, and even faced the dreaded windigos. Through all this he persevered, until at last he came to the great pit wherein the spirit was chained.

“Hark!” said the king. “Oh spirit of disharmony, we are the king of ponies, and we come before thee.”

The spirit looked up from where he was bound. “For what purpose hast thou come here? I can see clearly that thou art no servant of the gods.”

“Nay!” said the indignant king. “For the gods have abandoned us in our hour of need, and therefore we harken to them no longer.”

“Aye, they are fickle creatures, not to be trusted,” said the spirit. “But again, wherefore hast thou come before me?”

“We come seeking after the secret to life eternal.”

“And why should I aid thee in such a quest?”

“If thou wilt help us, we vow that afterwards thou shalt know freedom once again,” answered the king, though in truth he meant to do no such thing. He was no fool, and knew well what the spirit would do to his kingdom if freed. He would take his help, and then leave him to rot in the goddesses’ prison.

In his confinement the spirit smiled, seeing through the deception at once, but discerning a way he could use it to exact some revenge on both the gods and the king who meant to cheat him. 

“Very well,” the spirit replied. “I shall aide thee in obtaining endless life, in in return thou shalt see me freed. Have we an accord?”

“We do,” said the king, sealing the pact between them.

“Dost thou know what happens when a soul leaves its mortal shell?”

“Aye,” answered the king. “The god of death comes for him, and drags him away to the underworld for all time.”

“So it be,” said the spirit. “But what dost thou think would happen, should he be trapped when he cometh for thee, and be unable to leave?”

The king thought. “The longer he was ensnared, the more souls would escape him and haunt the world as ghosts.”

“Aye,” said the spirit. “And thou knowest well that he is a miserly soul, and dislikes very much to lose even one. If he cannot perform his duties whilst thou keepest him there…”

“…Then we can force him to give up what we desire!” the king realized, his eyes aglow with greed and anticipation. “How can this be done?” he asked the spirit. “The gods are not to be trifled with.”

“Come,” answered the spirit. “And I shall teach thee.”



So it was that, many years later, when the god of death came at last for the old king in his bed, that he was ready for him. No sooner had he stepped into the chambers than the god found himself in the center of a great mystical circle, and to his great shock found that he was unable to leave it. 

“Ha!” said the king, now a very great age indeed. “Thou wilt not take us, oh god of the underworld!”

Enraged at the affront to his divinity, the god unleashed magicks enough to fell entire armies, or put cities to the flame. His great scythe, reaper of souls, he swung at the wards. But still, the magic holding the god would not be broken. The king looked on in triumph.

Hours passed before the god finally ceased his efforts to escape, perceiving it to be futile. He knew – for such things are his domain – that already thousands of souls had perished, and he had not been there to collect them. With every passing second, the number of wild souls he must see safely to the next world grew.

Though his humiliation was great, the god suppressed his pride to speak. “What dost thou think thou art doing, mortal fool?!” he demanded. “There are many of thy fellows already cast into the world between and life and death, and without us they shall wander forever! What dost thou suppose that thou shalt gain?”

“We seek what is rightfully ours,” said the king. “We wish for life eternal. For that price, and no less, shall we release thee.”

The god’s wrath against the king was great indeed, for he resented greatly any interference in his domain. But he knew also that to remain here was an even greater evil than allowing one soul its wish.

“Very well,” said he. “Thou shalt live forever, and never trouble our realm with thy presence.”

“Dost thou swear it should be so?”

“We so swear.”

“Then,” said the king, releasing the spell he had been taught. “Begone with thee, oh master of the underworld! For we no longer hath need of thee!”

Now, the god of death remembered well his sister’s humiliation at the hooves of the mortal enchantress, and how all had laughed at her fate. He was determined that it should not be so for him, for if ponies thought they might escape him this way many might attempt it, and the harmony of the world would be broken.

With these thoughts foremost in his mind, he raised his great scythe and advanced on the rejoicing king. Before the former mortal even saw his peril, the blade swung, and the king’s head was stricken clean from his neck in a single blow. Laughing, the god seized it, and hurled it over the horizon.

“Ha!” mocked the god of death. “There, oh immortal, is thy curse. Ever shalt thou sleekest after thy head, but never shalt thou find it! Forever thou shalt roam the earth, and know that it is the price for thine own foolishness!”

So saying, he swirled his cloak, and was gone.

As the god had prophesied, the once-king was driven forth from the land that was once his. Long and hard has he searched for his head, but the curse holds true, and he finds it not. Beware, little ponies, for he walks the earth to this very day, still seeking after a head.