//------------------------------// // Chapter 15: Break Yourself (At Last) // Story: Antumbra // by Ice Star //------------------------------// Towers of paper taller than Hasad were stacked everywhere against the gray. So many decades worth of spells, all here because he knew that this time he finally had it right. There would be no mistakes or failed projects. Each of these pages was loose parchment stacked in orderly fashion. None of them had suffered any wear in this stagnant place, even though some were decades old. Each was covered with diagrams, spells, and other ramblings and arcane workings that defied all magic. Some would be coherent to any other creature, but only barely. The rest were the scribblings of a madpony and it was these mere scribbles that would be used to topple all in his wake. With them, of course, was a smidge of inspiration of the two demons of old. He had studied how the old stories told of their magical feats, overshadowed by the Alicorns and great wars of the world. What went unwritten haunted him. These were the now-long-dead creatures who gave birth to an array of things tucked into culture - entire concepts, even. The words of 'demonic', 'inner demons', and other such terms had not made their way into language before the brief and miserable lives of Penumbra and Antumbra. He had discovered so much in this endeavor, and each time he came to the correct conclusion there was a sense of... smug enlightenment of some kind. Yes, that was it, this feeling was almost as great as the destruction this would be causing. When he was done with this, he would dispose of the final project like he had all the other unsuccessful ones. Perhaps the spellbooks he sent to a cold and unknown fate so many years ago could use some company? These ones would not perish, because there would be something dark and dreary about this project, it would linger still, like a shadow - and it could not be outrun. It would be selective. It would be choosy. It would know. In the grasp of his lime and magenta aura, hundreds of thousands of papers swirled. There was no great challenge in shifting aura now, the sparkling colors easily changed to opaque and smoky green and violet, smoke streaming from his eyes as the layers of charms that warded off magic were dropped. Then below those were the shields he had used to offset the effect of those and null others magic. At the core of such deception were the spells used to change his own appearance, they too fell away with the light of his horn to reveal the changes and various effects this magic had on him, beginning when he started this final project, the magnum opus that would push all the changes to what they were meant to be. His teeth had slowly sharpened so the tips of incomplete fangs could now be seen and his horn had started to curve unnaturally so it was almost as jagged and curved as a changeling's, the tip was colored the faintest red, and an infant darkness not his own pressed at his mind, coercing such an excruciatingly painful growth. It lived. ... Hasad had learned more than most could comprehend when it came to this project. He had learned what was more powerful than envy, greed, the thirst to conquer, or anything else. Suffering. Twisted and blinding suffering that drove the miserable past the point of all reason, so they would pay any price to get what they want even if nothing of themselves remains in the end. Suffering that would cause one to go to any means necessary to hurt anyone they could, all in order to achieve a single goal that was more alive than their tormented existence would ever let them know. This was the pain that blinded them to look at the point of no return and go beyond it. These were the creatures, equine or not, that were their own hubris even if they did not yet know it. They were not outcasts or rogues. They were not the criminals one would expect, not at first. Instead, these sorts were the most normal and noble of birth. They donned masks so they might hide that their nature was worse than any hero's monster. They were not tyrants in deed, but tyrants of the soul, incorrigible megalomaniacs and the like. They were neighbor, that you would see, and your enemy all the same, but that you would not know, and they would call you friend. You would love them. But sometimes they weren't such ponies. Sometimes, they were those who made the decisions that would bind them and define them for the rest of time in a single, impulsive moment at the price of themselves, for what else would one give up to achieve everything they ever wanted? These faceless fools so wholeheartedly believed that they were gaining their one greatest wish, so they might satisfy their impulsivity and selfishness had no idea they would be giving up everything they ever knew and could ever have at the cost of their very identity, to turn one wicked creature into an unstable cage of many splintered voices and souls all united in their suffering in the body of one. Demons. For these beings, who would be but Shadows of what they were, anarchy would be always, as they were doomed in their own anger and despair to destroy all around them, to never be alone or together, whole or fragmented as much as they tried. And as long as there was someone to suffer, his project would be able to find... a little puppet, a willing one to stumble towards such deceitful pull. This would be what many of the spells in his tome would lead to: those who sought to corrupt themselves because they did not care, or they were too desperate for anything else by tempting those ignorant of consequences or too haughty or brash to care with eldritch knowledge that possessed ulterior motives of its own, even if it had no soul. It would seem like it did to even one doomed Shadow, with even a mere flicker of conscious in their depersonalized state as they were drowned out in every trivial or material item they could want in a permanent contract. Tartarus alone would break this contract, for there could be nowhere else for a summoner and their demons to go. Some other results of the spell would be magic's ultimate taboos, including the greatest of them all: created life, which unlike any hollow or incomplete construct was bestowed a soul, which all the demons would have, regardless of if they were in control or not. Even if none existed now, and none knew of these master spells caused by dabbling in the dark all tales of old had at least mentionings of such tormented creatures: that was the legacy of Antumbra and Penumbra. The Shadows born form this would be the ultimate weapons, for what is a greater weapon than life itself? ... Waves of the dark aura, overwhelming to anypony else that would be in here, to the point where they would be vaporized, swirled about like a maelstrom. The many pages of arcane studies and advanced magic were swept up in them but they made no sound, for the roar of the magic was too great. It sounded like wind, deep and ominous right before a storm's thunder let loose its crashing howl to signify that a storm was beginning, and a flash of lightning would soon follow with its own ear-splitting strike... and the fire that followed, if it hit such a thing in this world. It was like that but a hundred times louder. Alicorn ears really are a magnificent thing. Soon, the papers found themselves hidden by the vicious waves. It was then that Hasad took notice of something odd... in this hurricane of power, in which he was the eye. At the very edges of these waves, on what might call the crest, were flecks of gray crystal formations, mere shards swept up along with everything else. As they too were tossed around he saw that they did not splinter like any other gem should have. What were they and how did they get here of all places? He did not slow his creation or stop it, instead the aura around his horn grew as he plucked one of crystals from its brethren. There was no luster to it and it did not look like any gem he knew of. He took a closer look at the magic whipping around him and saw the crystals. It was then that he noticed how they were formed. The magic was flowing around him like streaks of color in paints: green and purple. But when he looked even closer he could see small, thin bolts of black that hissed and whistled eerily. Some flickered and died, easily vanishing into the rest of the magic, but many didn't. Instead, they crashed into one another and converged with a blast of ebony sparks that tainted patches of the rest with its dark color, before crystallizing in front of his eyes. This process sounded like whispers. These crystals needed a name. He blinked, and his green eyes were no longer like an equine's, but instead they appeared to be almost like a dragon's. Hasad would have to add this discovery to his masterpiece. ... It was done. After so many years of careful manipulation and lies, Hasad was finally ready, he was clever and powerful enough. This had taken his entire life. The storm was not gone, rather it had simply changed form. Every ounce, every scrap that made up the storm. All his knowledge and deceit had gone into this final creation. Not even this was spared his malice. It was his malice, his loathing, every dastardly fragment of himself had gone into this. Hundreds of thousands of pages, secrets and lies, made up this toxic and irresistible volume. It was all condensed into a single book. The smoke hued cover despite being brand-new, had a worn and aged appearance. The spine bore a few crystalline fragments of the strange crystals, which he named for the sound they made when they whispered through the air. But it was this book that whispered more than the crystals ever could. What did they whisper of? Was it envy for his sister, her mark, and power? Greed for his want of destruction? Or was it of ambition, for it was he who decided to spend his eternity doing this? Was it his want to crush and break? To hear sobs, begging, and more as he conquered creature after creature? Their flesh, blood, and bone upon his tongue? Hasad wasn't sure if what he heard were words at all. He stared with wide, glassy eyes as the writing began to appear on the cover, all on its own, for he was not controlling it at all. Yet, the words that appeared were in his own writing, the script spidery and thin. What did it say? You want a name. There was only a blink on the prince's part. You want so much. He continued to sate at the book, face expressionless. Your name lies within, as does everything else. The corrupted prince-demon opened the book.