The Dark Below

by WindigogoGadget

I Call To You

Blood oozed in great and jagged lines from gaping wounds. The life-giving fluid trickled from horrid injuries in rivulets from a dark flesh, and dripped into the great abyss.

Life, born from Violence. It's breath, shuddered and haggard, as it forced itself to tear into itself even more with its teeth. Hatred, needed company. It needed a protector. It needed a disciple, it needed a warden.

It needed Order.

For it had promised to be good.

A dream of a burning world clung to its eyes, as it saw the inevitability of failure approaching, faster and faster. Things had begun to go wrong. Yes, the pony population was increasing, and they could dig deeper, finish the lower layers, and bring them forth to the branches of a world that they had carved out for themselves. But they were running thin on each other. The shadows, the angels, they were dying out. It was all screaming at him, it could see it. War. Dispute. Hate.

They were dying.

Impossible. Unspeakable. Unthinkable. Heresy.

Why? Why were they dying? Why were they killing each other? What was the point? It wasn't their fault, it was his. None of them were to blame for the manipulations, the killings, the murders, the death, the guilt, it wasn't their weight to bear. Their weight- their burden, was Light, to simply be and to be happy and to be joyful and to be full of mirth and to live in the eternal memory of their creator.

Heresy.

But they were flawed, we were flawed. A screw loose, and they began to turn feral, mad, enraged. Creatures born of peace, turned violent, as a quarter-centuries quarrels laid dormant just beneath the surface of their skins. How funny it was, that the leviathan born from violence itself, was more compassionate than the literal embodiments of love.

At long last, when its teeth could finally pierce itself, it brought forth its head high to tear and to rip and to rend from itself a lump of meat to construct from, and blood spilled. Its flesh fell and splattered on the ground of the darkness, and from the blood sprouted forth from the wound like a river and flowed like water among a void of broken thoughts and constructs, the only absolute in a reality built on possibilities and hypotheses. It sobbed in agony, and writhed in pain, as It imitated its own creation.

They had all named their domains in ideals, christening them with their hopes and dreams, their virtues, and their desperate and unyielding faith that the red sun of tomorrow would be better. Peace. Mercy. Love.

But it all began, with violence. The very first act of violence against themselves, their kind, their kin, their own flesh and blood before it was even theirs. The first act of creation.
An attempt to maneuver the fog of grief and anguish, through a penance ordained by the self. To grace ones heart with the welcoming cold of a steel blade.

Violence. The final layer.

Blood poured out into the world and turned to grass, giving birth to scarlet forests that stretched as far as the eye could see, before ending in a barrier of stone. It's tears turned to lakes and streams, clouds and estuaries. Violence. The will to hurt, to kill, to maim.
Violence. The act of savagery against the self. The beginning of everything, was violence. The world was born in fire, and built on bloodshed, knowledge written in scarlet ink.

This. This would be its domain. No further, no higher. Here, would be where it's word would be absolute. It would not be graced with the presence of life yet, not until it had committed enough violence to tame itself. It bit again, it chewed, and it choked in agony. Here, there would be no violence. There would be no bloodshed beyond what it needed to build, here there would be peace for the fallen, here it would collect the broken souls as they were above and below, and mend them. From it's blood, it waited for it to scab and to heal, and it tore itself all over again in a painstaking process to sculpt from the living, a new life, as the gore of evil was satisfied to be slain, maimed, and pacified.

An amalgam of tears and love was the base of this new form, an apostate of hate. An inanimate object, waiting for the light of life to shine upon it. Hatred had no such thing. It had only the embers of a dead life, not of its own, but of a soldier. A mare, shattered beneath a violent light as she had fought for justice.

Justice.

A magnum opus. A night mare of steel; From love without meaning, war without reason. A heart made to lead war to an end is still one that leads to continue war. You were beautiful, darting forward towards your heavens. You were beyond your creators, thy father, thy mother and thy sister. You reached out for god and glory, and you fell. None were left to speak your eulogy. No final words, no concluding statement, no point, perfect closure.

And this was the only way it could have ended?

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[kvazar]

Reality comes asunder before our eyes!