Sombra left her—what had her name been? Rosa? Rose Quartz?—weeping on the floor of the love-chamber. She had been satisfactory, but nothing remarkable. He had been hoping for a mare with a little more… perhaps spunk was the word, but only time would tell if she was what he really needed. In any case, this was not the first time that this sort of thing had happened, and his servants knew how to take care of her. They were very good at taking care of his mares--after all, they’d had plenty of practice.
Sombra walked to returned to his private chambers, where his servants had already drawn his customary bath. He lowered himself into the steaming water, eager to get the mare-stink off of him, and burbled in pleasure and his body sank below the surface. He liked his water hot, just this side of scalding; it made him feel alive after a long, strenuous day. As he luxuriated in the steaming water, Sombra’s thoughts began to wander—and, once again, he found his mind lingering on the Paradox. And silently, he cursed his biology.
Sombra was a stallion—which, as it turned out, was both his greatest strength and his most crippling weakness. Kingdoms rose and fell by the presence or absence of alicorns, and, thus, whoever could bring more alicorns to bear, won. And Sombra was keenly aware that alliances among his family were at best, difficult, and, at worst, outright hazardous for one’s health. So, the quickest way to get alicorn allies was to breed them.
It was simple mathematics, he reminded himself: in terms of quantity, he had the advantage. His sisters had one womb apiece, which meant, when they finally figured out that this war would be won by numbers, and numbers alone, they would be able to birth no more than one alicorn a year—if they were lucky, that was. Genetics has its role to play, as well.
(Sombra wasn’t certain what the birth ratios would be among half-alicorns, but he knew Lux had dropped a little alicorn filly with the help of that damnable husband of hers. So, though the chances might be low, it was possible.)
However, those were the rules for mares. As a stallion, Sombra had access to as many wombs as he wanted. He could have hundreds of children a year—perhaps thousands, if he really exerted himself. And he would need those children; as a unicorn among alicorns, it was like the old saying—biology had forced him to bring a dagger to a swordfight.
And thus he kept his harem. It was an open secret that the prettiest mares, both inside the Empire and out, had a habit of vanishing suddenly in the night, only to later appear in his little jewelry box—his position as Crystal King did, after all, afford him a few perks. The sex was just a side-benefit, though: what he wanted, what he needed, was children. Alicorn children.
And yet, thus was the Paradox: though he had as much alicorn blood in him as every one of his sisters, he, as a mere unicorn, was apparently unable to sire them. Twenty years and hundreds of foals—each stronger and more powerful than any mundane pony had a right to be—but none had what he desired most. He had bred a thousand hoofsoldiers, but not a general among them.
And yet, there was the hope: alicornism was, like the war itself, apparently a numbers game. So, he gathered his little gems to himself and filled them with foals. The foals themselves were all well taken care of, of course--the best education, the cushiest military jobs--after all, even quarter-alicorns were immensely powerful. But few of them knew the name of their father--and even fewer their mothers. This was by design, of course--for, if a tool refused to serve its master adequately, it had to be replaced, didn’t it?
One of these days, Sombra thought to himself, he would find a mare who shared the spark of godhood. And when he found her, he would make her his queen--and then wring her dry. Chain her up if necessary; after all, the fiasco with Mother could not be allowed to repeat itself. The war was too important for any one mare to matter.
(Sombra was, suddenly and unaccountably, reminded of the whispers he had heard. There were rumors—faint, but persistent ones—that, when Auntie had left the Crystal Empire, she, too, had been with child. Of course, the child never materialized, but the rumors accounted for that, too: some claimed the filly had been born an alicorn, like her mother, but had been secreted away as a sort of contingency plan; some claimed that the colt had been born a unicorn, who now worked as a blacksmith somewhere in Old Equestria, the potential for alicornhood lurking, undiscovered, within his loins; some claimed the filly had been born a mere pegasus, or perhaps a unicorn, and had been married off secretly at the earliest opportunity as a favor to some lecherous count; and some claimed that Auntie herself had taken action against the foal, to ensure it would never see the light of day—though, whether she had done so before or after the child had taken its first breath, not even the boldest dared speculate.
(Sombra wondered briefly what it would have been like to meet his half-cousin—and whether they would have been a boon to his cause, or a thorn in his side.)
Suddenly, Sombra decided that he had finished with his bath. He got out of the tub, and, silently, his servants appeared to towel him off. They clipped on his ermine cape, the same Father had worn, and placed the crown gently on his head. He stepped outside his room—and was immediately accosted by one of his aides.
“Milord,” he said, bowing quickly and jerkily, without preamble. “You asked us to keep you appraised of the movements of your family, and—” he swallowed. “There’s been a development.”
Sombra raised an eyebrow. “Go on,” he said.
The aide bowed again. “Philia,” he said. “She has gone, milord.”
Sombra stiffened. “Where?” he snapped.
The servant shook his head. “We don’t know,” he said. “She killed your archivist, rifled the library, and fled.”
“I want her found,” snapped Sombra. “Send out every pegasus we have—I want her back, now.”
And yet, even as the aide scurried off, Sombra found himself—well, not pleased, but... perhaps relieved would be the word. Philia was the only thing keeping the wolves off his kingdom—but, was it worth holding a tiger by the tail to keep the wolves at bay?
He shook his head. He could not allow himself to think like that. A loose alicorn was a dangerous alicorn, and Philia more than most. And he would not move another figure off his board—not while he still had the power to bring her back.
Sombra sighed, then slowly walked towards his throne room, inwardly dreading what further surprises might await him there.
As he walked, he let his mind wander again—and he found himself, once more, indulging his deepest fantasy—the secret, blasphemous wish that he, too, had been born with a set of wings.
Oh, to be certain, the power of an alicorn backed by the Crystal Heart would be fearsome indeed—but, more importantly, that would mean a solution to his Paradox. If he had been born an alicorn, and yet male, well—he could flood the earth with his offspring. He would accomplish Father’s dream—but beyond even his wildest expectations. He, a male alicorn, would have the power to rule the earth, in a very real sense.
Well. If wishes were dishes… he thought.
And yet, try as he might, he could not push the thought from his mind.