Equestrian Mythology ~ Tale of the Scions

by Keeper of Jericho

First published 27th of February, 2012

Celestia, Luna, Discord. Three of Ilfirinë's children, three Scions with a long, sorrowful history.

Celestia, Luna and Discord were but three of the thirteen. Once there were others like them, other Scions who were charged with overseeing the world in the name of Harmony. This is their sad and sorrowful tale. One that has been passed down by ponies through generations, until it was considered naught but an old mare's tale... This is Equestria's own mythology.

Letter from Aristallion to Nostradamare

To my friend, Nostradamare:

‘Tis with great delight that I take pen to the horn and write thee this letter. It has been too long, no doubt, but I hope that thou can find it in thy heart to forgive me, for my research hath claimed all of my attention. Indeed, my housekeeper claims I have even lost weight because I ate too little, locked up in my study as I was. Regretfully I must confess she speaks the truth. She now seems to have every intent of having me make up for it, giving me servings an entire family could eat their fill from every meal, and not caring if my stomach agrees with the amount it has to take in or not. I fear her worry for my health will be more devastating to my aging form than my days of self-imposed exile to my study ever were!

It was worth it, however. At long last, I can inform thee that I have finished my manuscript of the Scions’ tale, the end-product of a lifetime of research, digging up the oldest of tales and myths and translating and studying the most ancient of texts. Thou hast always supported me in my quest, and thy suggestion of visiting the ruins in the forest of Everfree proved invaluable to the final pieces of the puzzle I have been painstakingly putting together my entire life. History has always caught my interest, of that thou art most aware, and nothing piqued my curiosity more than the truth that might lay behind the tales and myths we tell our foals.

The answer to all the questions I had is now encased in my book, which I wrote with utmost care. I have now come as close to the truths behind the myths as a pony could ever get. A truth that is, to be frank, even more fantastic and unbelievable than the myths that spawned from them. For indeed, could ponykind ever fully comprehend the sheer power of those behind the myths, those who but a rare few know as the Scions? The Scions, who crafted works of cosmic scale, who understood and even influenced the fabrics of our very world and existed. Could we, mere mortal ponies, ever truly understand such beings, or what plays inside their minds?

Perhaps we cannot, my friend. And this brings me to a matter I would like to have thy council on. Thou and I are scholars, though our fields of interest differ, and the knowledge that there have been and are greater forces at work in our world than we can see, is, though still great, not new to us. It is something that scholars learn throughout their studies, and a truth that is slowly fed to us so we can digest it easily. But what of our fellow ponies, who are not as learned as we are? I admit, my friend, that I am far from certain if they are ready to handle the truth of our history. And perhaps they shall never be, which is not an insult to their capabilities, mind you. But this is certainly a subject and matter most delicate.

Thus, I ask for thy opinion and input. My book is at long last now finished, but I am not certain if I should allow it to be published. Would it be wise? If my work is going to be the cause of mass-hysteria amongst ponykind, or inspire sudden fear of our monarch, then frankly I would rather have it remain on the shelves and catch dust till the pages fall apart. I study history, but have no desire to go down history myself. Certainly not as one whose work spread fear and doubt amongst his kin.

For that matter, I am not even certain if the Princess would allow my studies to see the light of her glorious day. I do not suspect her of censorship for her own gain, most definitely not. But she played a great role in the tale, and was and still is capable of things that ponies cannot imagine. I doubt they can harmonize the idea of their kind, wise and loving monarch with the image of the Scion of Day who set the very sky ablaze and made the earth scream in terror under her hooves during the War of Tears. It would damage her public image, possibly, and cause ponies to distrust and fear her, no matter how much my tale proves there is no need for that.

To be frank, it is not something I wish to be responsible for.

Thou art wise and insightful, my friend, perhaps more so than I. So I would ask thee a favour. With this letter I have also sent you a copy of my manuscript, and I would ask that thou reads it. And once you have done so, tell me if thou thinks that our fellow ponies are ready to learn of the truth I have uncovered. I value thy wisdom and opinion greatly, and I hope dearly that I am not imposing with my request. Briefly the idea crossed my mind to simply step to the Princess herself with what I have now asked of thee, but I reconsidered and decided to ask for thy insights first.

Now, as for the book and its contents, I do not think I have to say much that is not contained within the pages. As thou know well, the Scions were creatures given great, nearly cosmic power with a duty to oversee an aspect of all that builds up our world. Ilfirinë was the first Scion, and she brought forth the birth of twelve others, who were often called her ‘children’. Though the truth of the Scion ‘family’ and how Ilfirinë created them is all written down in the book, so I shall not elaborate on it here.

My scripture is divided in thirteen chapters, each chapter handling and explaining the origin, power, charge and life of one Scion. I do not have precise dates or an exact timeline of the events in the book, however. The earliest tales are simply too old, and no records remain of those ancient times. Only the Princess herself could tell me, though for reasons I think obvious I have not asked her. Instead I have ordered the tales by order of each Scion’s end. That is why you shall find Aragniel in the first chapter, and not Ilfirinë, for Aragniel was the first to fall. For the same reason I did not interweave the tales in one flowing narrative. ‘Tis a lot of information to take in as it is, without the reader having to, say, halfway Edlin’s tale go back to Sírdhem’s tale to find out what caused the latter to quarrel with the former again. No, all Scions’ have their tale concentrated within one chapter, regardless of chronology, instead of one chronological retelling of the events where I would have had to constantly change which Scion I was handling.

The final point I would like to address concerns the names of three of the Scions. Each Scion had a name in their own language, which is long since lost and forgotten. However, those Scions that were more directly involved with us ponies were called by different names by us, that were easier to pronounce and understand. Because we know Celestia, Luna and Discord by those names, and not their true names in the Scions’ tongue, I refer to each of them by their pony names throughout the book. For completion’s sake, however, their true name is mentioned at the beginning of their individual chapters. Though I would like to inform thee that I had to go to enormous lengths to uncover these forgotten names. Discord’s, in particular, seemed to have nearly been erased from history.

I pray that thou will find the literature satisfying to read through. Since it is a copy, it is for thee to keep. Consider it a gift, out of gratitude for the many times when thou aided and supported me in my quest and research. Should there be parts of my work that still leave thee with questions, I would, naturally, be most happy to answer them to the best of my abilities.

Please, think of my request as well, if it is not too much trouble. I know thou art a busy stallion, but this work has the ability to change how we ponies look upon our very history. That is a thought as exciting as it is dangerous, and requires great thought and should be handled with the utmost care, I am sure I need not tell thee that.

I eagerly await thy response.

Your lifelong friend,
Aristallion

Aragniel the Devourer

Equestrian Mythology
Tale of the Scions
by Aristallion

"Thirteen Scions that share One history."
Nostradamare, Equestrian History VI

~ The tale of Aragniel, the Devourer ~

Scion of Fate, Aragniel was the fifth of Ilfirinë’s children, born in the shape of a majestic, glorious arachnid of utmost beauty. None but her fellow Scions could claim to have seen her as she was upon her birth, and few of those who remain would speak of their sister. Nevertheless, artists of all races have always depicted her as a giant spider, coloured in white, with intricate patterns of gold gracing her body, and four pairs of wise but distant blue eyes. She was said to weave threads of pure gold and silver, though her actual weaving held value even greater. Alas, the knowledge, yet alone art that depicted the Weaver, as she was then known, is all but lost. Those very rare few who know her name, speak it in fear only, and have no knowledge of her noble beginnings.

Yet noble and righteous she was, earnest, hardworking child of Ilfirinë. For she was the one who wove fate’s complex pattern, weaving eternally the life-threads of all those mortal into her web, a grand tapestry of fate, the beauty of which has never been surpassed and shall never be seen again. And with her hard work, Aragniel aided her hallowed mother in bringing harmony to the world, for she wove her web neatly and with order, ridding fate of its chaotic nature. Her work was appreciated and admired by her fellow Scion sisters and brothers alike, making her fall all the more tragic.

Alas, as hardworking and earnest as she was, her ears were not deaf to the words of her brother, Discord. Too concentrated and focussed on her work, she failed to notice that madness had claimed him, and when he spoke she could hear not the deceit lying within his words. One may forgive her for it, perhaps, for Discord had a silver tongue, and knew his sister’s weaknesses as no other. Through compliments and flattery, as well as veined awe, he whispered into her ears words of corruption. Her web was the greatest beauty of all, so he said, but surely it would be even more magnificent if it was Aragniel, the glorious Weaver, who would decide its outlook?

For indeed, though she was the one who wove Fate’s web, it was not she who made its design. It came to her from sources none – not even her hallowed mother – knew, her task consisted only of ensuring the plan was carried out. But Discord, with sweet words and a honey-coated tongue, whispered suggestions and ideas to her, which sounded all the sweeter and more appealing the more he repeated them. Indeed she was the Weaver of Fate’s web, all the work was done by her and her alone, and she excelled in it as no other.

And she, the hardest working Scion of them all, found herself upset and unsatisfied. Never had Ilfirinë explained her decree – though the truth of the matter was that even the Hallowed Mother herself did not know why it had to be so – and until then Aragniel had never questioned it. But now doubt had been sown in her earnest heart by her silver-tongued brother, and the Weaver found herself wondering. Boldly she made an alteration in her web, one that had not been given to her by the force that had given her the Web’s design so far. No, this alteration was of her design and hers only. It was but a small thing, a hesitant, fearful step, but it was enough. Discord watched from afar, and he laughed, for with deceit and lies he had brought disharmony into the ordered web of Fate, and reunited Fate with Chaos.

Unaware of her brother’s glee, Aragniel the Weaver found herself enthralled by the alteration she had made, and now that she had tasted the power of being in control of fate, she found herself thirsting for more. She grew obsessed with the endless possibilities for her weaving, now that its design could be decided by herself. No longer was she an instrument for whatever it was that planned fate. She was now its Master, and it would bow to her design and hers only. So she wove the web of Fate, her web, designing it as she saw fit, and the chaos and disharmony that resulted from her work wrought disaster upon the world. Yet she paid it no heed, spurned on by the compliments and admiration of her deceitful brother, who veined that the web, now a disharmonious mockery of what it had once been, of the most beautiful work of art in existence.

Gleefully Aragniel weaved on, pleased with her work, and flattered by Discord’s false words. And as she further and further distorted Fate’s web and twisted its beauty into something vile and devoid of harmony, had the Weaver herself changed as well. The more she twisted what had once been her masterpiece, the more vile, monstrous and black she became. Her eyes, once wise and distant, were now red and filled with a hunger for more. Tragically, in striving to make even greater beauty, she had ruined both it and herself. Ponykind, and all other living beings, would forever remember her as the black, grotesque spider only, the memory of her pure, white and golden self forever lost to all but the Scions themselves.

It was then, when Discord’s words had already twisted her beyond recognition, that Ilfirinë, worried by all the disharmony and chaos that plagued the lands, came to look upon the web. She had intended to come as soon as the corruption had merely begun to spread, but Discord had foreseen that and acted accordingly, keeping the mother of all Scions busy with trickery and chaos, until her arrival at her daughter’s web was all too late. The Keeper of Harmony arrived to find the vilest, most horrendous weaving she had ever seen, and her beloved child a grotesque mockery of what she had once been. His work done, Discord discreetly hid and observed, going unnoticed by the two female Scions as they confronted each other. The Bringer of Disharmony could only watch with glee.

Ilfirinë demanded to know what Aragniel had done to her beautiful weaving, but the arachnid only replied she had taken its design in her own capable hands and improved it. She would no longer be a tool through which fate weaved itself, so she said, she would be its master. Ilfirinë tried to reason with her fifth child, pleaded to her even, but her words fell on deaf ears, as the Weaver was too far gone in her delusions, too absorbed in herself and the presumed superiority of her own design. Horrified, Ilfirinë pushed Aragniel aside and touched the web with her Harmony, attempting to restore the damage done. Furious by what she saw as an unforgivable offense, Aragniel lunged at her Hallowed mother and cast her aside, climbing in the web and declaring it hers. Ilfirinë did not give up and tried to reach out with her harmony towards her daughter and her weaving once more.

Aragniel would have none of her mother’s interference. If she could not be the master of Life’s web, then none would be. It was then that madness claimed her fully, and in her folly did she rise up and devour the web wholly, destroying what little remained of the order that had been shaped in Fate. The meal made her swell and become even more grotesque, as she had taken in her something vile and corrupt, which only amplified the disharmony that Discord had sown in her. Proudly she gloated, utterly satisfied with what she had done, heedless of the blow she had dealt to her mother’s hope for a harmonious world. The Weaver she was no more, for in her madness had she destroyed her most prized creation by devouring it, and henceforth was she known only as the Devourer.

With horror did Ilfirinë look upon what had once been her beloved child, the monstrosity before her bearing no resemblance to the dedicated Weaver. The grotesque arachnid now hungered for more, and moved to devour the mother of all Scions. But as she moved against her own mother, Ilfirinë rose just as well, and her vision was one of righteous fury, terrible in its beauty. The corrupt Scion shielded her eyes, for the sight of the Hallowed mother of all Scions standing before her in all her fury hurt her sight and blinded her. Thus she did not see when Ilfirinë struck her down and threw her earthbound, never to return to the Scions’ land again. And from where he watched, Discord was pleased. His whisperings and lies had destroyed Fate’s web, surrendering it to chaos once more, for none but Aragniel had the ability and knowledge to weave the web. Thus the Bringer of Disharmony secretly stood victorious and celebrated.

As for the fallen Weaver, she was now but a vile monster that roamed the world, stripped of all her glory. So she was abandoned by all Scions, and all that remained with her were the madness, and the hunger which she had unleashed inside herself when she devoured her web. In her anger and frustration, and spurred on by her madness, she devoured all she came across, for she despised all that had been blessed by and lived in harmony. The monstrous spider threw a dark shadow over the land, but her rampage was stopped by the father of all dragons, whose fire even the fallen Scion could not withstand, and she fled. He chased her until she crawled into the deepest, darkest bowels of the earth were none could reach her. There she sat, brooding in utter darkness and solitude, until, so it is said, in her madness and hunger, she devoured herself.

~~~

AN: I thought it would be fun to create a 'pony mythology', so to speak. We all know ponies have "old mare's tales", and the idea to write my own "old ponytales" and expand them into one coherent mythology that not only explained the origins of our beloved Princesses, but also of their great nemesis, Discord, and the Elements of Harmony.

Sírdhem the Executioner

AN: You're not seeing things. The story has indeed updated though if you came here by story alert you might think that I reposted Sírdhem's tale. I merely moved Aragniel and Sírdhem's tales down a spot because I added an introduction to the story, which you can now read in the first chapter of this story.

Equestrian Mythology
Tale of the Scions
by Aristallion

~ The tale of Sírdhem, the Executioner ~

Scion of Ending, Sírdhem was the eighth of Ilfirinë’s children, born as naught but a spirit. His physical form was nothing but a wisp of brilliance, a cloud of light as it were, but only his Scion brethren and sisters ever saw him like this. Being fine with this at first, the eighth child all too soon found himself limited in carrying out his great task by the lack of a corporeal form. And thus he sought help from his elder brother, Edlin the Majestic, the greatest craftsman the world would ever know. The great Scion thus forged, with true silver that radiated in the starlight and true gold that shined brightly in the sun, a grand suit of armour for his brother to inhabit and move by his will. It was without a doubt the finest and most magnificent of all of Edlin’s many works and crafts, and never would it be rivalled by any smith work, be they forged by the hand of mortals or Scions. With feelings of great gratitude did Sírdhem accept his brother’s masterpiece, and he inhabited it as intended. Thus he took on the form by which those whose lives are finite would forever remember him.

Tall and mighty he now stood, beautiful to behold by day- and starlight both, a bipedal figure with two powerful arms and hands with four fingers. His draconic head wore a crown with five jewels, and the light of his spirit emerged through the eyeholes of his helmet and seemed to make them shine brilliantly. Ponies and all other kinds forever wondered what figure was hidden beneath the majestic armour, and though many legends and tales were made of it, none ever suspected that the suit of armour was empty, moved by nothing but the will of the spirit residing within. That knowledge would be a privilege for only his brethren, sisters and Hallowed mother to know.

Yet despite his new form, terrible to behold in its majesty, Sírdhem was a kind-hearted spirit, for he was after all the Scion of Ending. To him fell the task of harmonizing the end of the mortals’ lives, a task to which he dedicated himself with great vigour. Indeed, death was often viewed as something dark that had to be feared, and such thoughts often drove the living to resist against their unavoidable fate. It was Sírdhem’s duty to quell these fears, to take away the resistance felt, so that they welcomed their end without remorse, and said farewell to this plane of existence without any regrets or hard feelings. Such was the way in which he aided to bring about Ilfirinë’s dream of a harmonized and peaceful world. And he did it well, and ponykind viewed him as benevolent, and when it was their time they welcomed his appearance at their side and trusted him wholly.

Alas, his noble work and the harmonious fruits of his labour only brought forth feelings of resentment within his brother, Discord. So dedicated to his work, and so emotionally fond of the mortals was he, that Sírdhem forgot to keep track of the proceedings of his fellow Scions. And thus he failed to notice that Discord had fallen into madness, and no longer dedicated himself to Ilfirinë’s dream. Indeed, the bringer of Disharmony now occupied himself with trying to unmake the work of his brethren and sisters. However he did so in secret, for Ilfirinë’s power was still too great, and he feared her wrath. Fortunate for him it was then, perhaps, that the Great Mother of all Scions was yet unaware of his madness.

Now Discord looked upon Sírdhem from afar, and he pondered how to disrupt his brother’s work. The harmony that Sírdhem had created was great, making the maddened Scion all the more determined. The bringer of the end had only one weakness, which was his compassionate and kind heart. Discord knew this as no other, and he struck against it in a way that was as subtle as it was cruel. Lies, falsehoods and deceptions did he whisper against the wind, who carried his words through the world to the ears of all who would listen. And for the innocent ponies that wandered in the light of both Sun and Moon, it was as if the walls around them spoke. In the darkest hours of the night, they laid awake as the never ending whisperings of Discord kept them from their sleep. They chased the unfortunate ponies even into their dreams, and sowed within their minds the seeds of doubt.

None but the Scion of Chaos himself can say what it was the ponies thought they heard, as they foolishly listened to the whispers of the wind. Nevertheless it affected them, and all too soon did doubt began to escalate into conflict. Slowly but surely, spurred on by the lies of Discord, the three pony tribes drifted apart further and further, until there was naught left but open hostility between them. A dark day it was indeed, when the corrupt seeds that the Bringer of Disorder had sown bore fruits of war, and blood was shed for naught but hate for the first time in the history of the world. None of the works of Discord were as vile as his shattering of the peace between the three pony tribes, spurring them on the commit acts of war and shed the blood of their own people in a conflict that held no meaning.

The mere existence of war shocked the remaining Scions so much that they felt themselves incapable of doing naught but watch as ponykind destroyed the harmony they had worked so hard to create. So great was this hearth of chaos and disharmony that it hurt even the Hallowed mother of all Scions herself, and her ethereal light seemed to weaken, and it was never the same again even when harmony was at long last restored once more. Yet none were harmed by the First War as much as Sírdhem, who saw the image of death as something peaceful, and the trust ponies had in him, both of which he had so relentlessly build up, go up in smoke. No longer was his appearance welcomed, for ponies now died much too early and in ways that none had dared to imagine. Death was once more feared, and no longer was he, the messenger of the End, seen as benevolent or kind. War had twisted the way ponykind viewed him, and for them he was now a monstrous visage that instilled terror, a skeletal being wielding a sword to viciously cut the life from their bodies.

And he, the kind-hearted, gentle spirit, the Scion of Ending, fell to his knees on the desolate wastelands and wept. Many tears he shed, sorrowful and bitter. And when they hit the ground they froze, and from the frozen tears emerged the first of the Windigoes, vengeful spirits born from the cold void left in the heart of their unwilling father when ponykind betrayed him. His newborn children now grew rapidly in size and power, for they fed off fighting and hatred, of which there was plenty in the ravaged world. Were they went the winter came and all was gripped by a terrible cold that froze even the soul itself.

The Windigoes now surrounded their father, and he felt a great cold come over him. He did not fight it, for the cold brought relief from his sorrows and dried his tears. After so much sadness it was a feeling most welcome, and he basked in it. Too much had the living hurt him, too great their betrayal had been. He had shown them care, compassion and understanding, had eased their fears and brought them warmth as they passed on, and yet they chose, in the end, to fear him. Resentment and bitterness now filled him, and he denounced any attachment to them, their kin and their descendants. Slowly did Sírdhem rise to his feet, tall and terrible, and he embraced the Windigoes, the children he had never meant to create. And as he embraced them, their cold seeped into his great armour and filled it entirely, touching even the spirit that was held within it. Thus was frozen even his kind heart, until it was as cold as the children he held within his embrace, and compassion he felt no more.

Now an entity with feelings nor remorse, Sírdhem plunged one of his armoured gauntlets into the earth. And when he pulled his hand free, it emerged holding a crude and vicious sword, carved from black crystal and polished with the harshest, coldest ice. They now saw him as a cruel entity that cut the life from them, he thought, so who was he to deny them? Armed and cold he was then, and wholly prepared to dedicate himself to his charge once more. But his heart was frozen, and he had denounced all feelings, so when he came before the living in their dying moments, he could offer them no comfort or peace. Instead he cut them down without remorse or mercy, a cruel and terrifying, if swift, end.

Thus, though he still carried out his task, his work failed to produce any results. With his frozen heart he could not ease the fears of the dying, and so he could not harmonize their deaths nor aid in the making of a world filled with Harmony. He was as the ice now, hard, cold and unforgiving. His children roamed before him, heralding his coming with winter and snow. The end he brought to the living was more of an execution than a passing, and henceforth he was known only as the Executioner.

Discord watched these events unfold from where he hid, and he laughed, for with deceit and lies he had reunited Death with Chaos. Once more did the living fear death as something wild and unpredictable, an event whose arrival had to be dreaded, a product of chaos that could never hold anything good or valuable. Thus the Bringer of Disorder stood triumphant, and he gloated, in secret, in the Chaos he had wrought.

As for the Executioner, he continued his task until he was confronted by Ilfirinë, Mother of all Scions, and the sight that greeted her filled her with dread. For where he had once been a figure of great majesty and beauty, Sírdhem was now twisted by his frozen heart and the wrongs he inflicted with his blade. His armour, once the greatest work of Edlin, was now coloured grey and black, and his eyes, once brilliantly white, were now cold and emotionless blue lights. Ilfirinë pleaded with her son to see the error of his ways, but he rebuked her words, pointing out that it was his task to see to it that the living passed from this life to the next, a task he still carried out with great dedication. His mother then asked if he could not see that the living feared him and the end he brought, but the answer she got was a hollow, mirthless laugh. They had chosen to fear him, to see him as a figure inspiring terror carrying a cruel sword, and he had obliged to their wishes. How could she blame him for doing what those whose lives were finite expected of him?

Ilfirinë then fled, away from the son she no longer recognized, back to her great garden where she had once called her children to life. There she wept, for the son she had lost, for the living who now lived in fear of their end, and for herself, she who was powerless to change it for the better. Because Sírdhem had spoken the truth, indeed he was not at fault in any way, carrying out his duty as he should, just not in the way she would have liked him to. It was like that, crying and filled with sorrow, that Edlin found his mother, for he had heard the sound of her weeping and it had worried his heart. So he came to her and asked what ailed her. Worry and dread filled his heart, however, when he heard of how his greatest work had been twisted into something vile, and how his brother had fallen. Wishing to verify it with his own eyes, Edlin set forth in search of his younger brother.

Eventually he found him, and the two Scions confronted each other. As Sírdhem stood before his brother in all of his black, frozen glory, Edlin could now see for himself how deep his brother had fallen, and how the armour he had so lovingly crafted was now naught but a hideous shell of cold, frozen steel, a mockery of the masterpiece it once had been. Angrily the craftsman demanded to know what the Executioner had done with his creation, but Sírdhem coldly brushed him off, stating that the armour was given to him and thus now belonged to him, for him to do with as he desired. Fury and disgust welled up in the proud and mighty elder Scion, and he said that he had not given Sírdhem such a kingly gift only for him to twist it and use it for such wrong, dark ends.

His words fell on deaf ears, for the younger Scion’s heart was frozen, so he did not give a single care. He made to leave, to return to his duty, but Edlin intercepted him, demanding the armour be given back to him. Sírdhem refused, the fact that his brother would make such an outrageous, preposterous demand filled him with cold fury. Edlin persisted, however, for he would not allow any of his creations to be used for uses that were not for the benefit of harmony. If his brother would not surrender his metallic shell, he would reclaim it by force if such would be necessary. Those words pushed the fallen Scion beyond reason, and he drew his blade upon his brother. So shocked by this Edlin was, that he did not react in time and was struck down by Sírdhem’s blade.

Thus fell the greatest craftsman the world had and would ever know, and the shock of his death shook the world to its very foundations. All the living felt the pain that came with the fall of one of their greatest, so much that the Sun fell behind the horizon immediately, and the Moon did not rise. Ilfirinë felt the loss of her son as no other, and she rushed towards the place of his fall, only to find his executioner standing next to him, unmoved and uncaring, for his heart was frozen still. And when the Hallowed Mother of all Scions demanded to know what had happened, he told her of his deed without a single glimpse of remorse.

Ilfirinë rose to her feet, though not in fury, for her glorious visage was stained with tears and her expression one of utmost sorrow. Terrible to behold in her sadness she was, as she wept for her fallen son, but also for his younger brother, who did not comprehend the evil of his deed due to his frozen state. But, though she knew all too well it was too late, she could now act against him, for he had taken a life outside of his duty. Light more blinding than that of the Sun did she gather in her hand. She sent it forth in one small but powerful ray that pierced the frozen alloy of Sírdhem his armour, striking his heart, which was thawed out at last by the warmth of Ilfirinë’s light.

And as his heart was now unfrozen, so were his feelings, and the understanding of what he had done, to all living and not in the least to his elder brother, fell upon him like a great weight, as if he had the world on his shoulders. Boundless regret and shame nearly destroyed his mind, and he could not utter a word. His Hallowed Mother, in her great and endless kindness, made to embrace her son and forgive him, so they could mourn Edlin’s passing together, but Sírdhem would not have it. He ran away, from the brother and mother whose sight he could not bear, from the ponies and other living beings whom he had betrayed. But he could not escape his guilt, even if he had wanted to.

His flight brought him to the cold and grey lands of the north, where there were only mountains and canyons. The tormented Scion wandered into one such canyon, which was lifeless and desolate, and there his strength failed him. He could no longer flee further or bear the weight of his deeds, nor would he ever be capable of repenting for his grave sins. There was but one fate left for him, he decided, and he accepted it wholly, almost in gratitude. The Executioner then drew his blade one final time, and with it he carved a great stone throne out of a Cliffside, hard and uncomfortable. This final task done, Sírdhem cast his sword aside, plunging it deeply into a rock, and he would never pick it up again.

Wearily, the fallen Scion sank down upon his throne, and then called for his children, summoning the Windigoes to his side. And come they did, in great numbers, gathering around their father’s seat for his final court. With them came the winter and the cold, and snow and ice began to claim the grey stone of the canyon. The Scion on his throne sat unmoving, however, and waited. Even when the ice had reached his seat, he did not stir, and calmly he allowed himself to be claimed by it. Once encased in his frozen tomb, the life within the armour slowly withered away, until even the light of his eyes faded. Thus died Sírdhem, the Executioner, eighth child of Ilfirinë, in repentance for the misdeeds he had committed.

His final resting place, however, became known in legends and myths as the Court of the Winter, and in fear ponies whispered about the unknown king that seated eternally upon the Frozen Throne, watching over a sword said to hold immeasurable power until the end of time. But if anyone was strong enough to withstand the harsh climate and to brave the Windigoes who faithfully stood guard over their father, they would find the lifeless form of Sírdhem the Executioner, seated on the Frozen Throne, rent from time. And above the throne they would find, carved into the stone, the ancient runes of the Scions that forever warned of the dangers of a frozen heart.

~~~

AN: Many thanks for the positive feedback! It inspired me so much that I wrote the next tale. I will freely admit that the final bit is indeed a reference to a certain, very popular online role-playing game. This Scion tale was longer the previous, but I can't say if they shall all be of similar length. Some might be long, some might be short, I can't say until I write them. This one actually turned out longer than I expected. I had a lot of fun coming up with the origin of the Windigoes.

Edlin the Majestic

AN: I tried to get this on Equestria Daily, but it was refused, because, and I quote: "It's not really a story!". Consider my mind blown and me not being a very happy pony. That aside, here is the third tale.

Equestrian Mythology
Tale of the Scions
by Aristallion

~ The tale of Edlin, the Majestic ~

Scion of Creation, Edlin was the fourth of Ilfirinë’s children, he was said to be the fairest of visage amongst her sons. He was born in the form of a bipedal, grand and wolfish creature, with fur that seemed to be made from silver. His eyes were like rubies, and always seemed to stare at something only he could see, a dreaming look befitting for one who existed to create. He had a great, thick mane around his neck and shoulders, and three golden horns crowned his head, one on his snout and a smaller one above each eye. His back stood aflame with the most brilliant and beautiful of fires, their heat said to equal that of the Sun. The Scion’s tail was long and flowing, rivalling even the manes of Luna and Celestia, most prized amongst the Scions for their beauty. It was said that a strand of hair from his tail was unbreakable, the strongest of threads, and that all he held in his five-fingered hands turned into gold.

He was very kind, though perhaps a bit distant and estranged from the world, since he walked the dreaming plane even when awake, and at times could not separate the two. Very little roused his anger, except when his creations were threatened or disrespected, but when his wrath did surface, it was amongst the most terrible to behold of all Scions. For often the dreamy Scion was underestimated, thought of as simple-minded by those too foolish to understand his way of looking at the world. Thus they were all the more surprised when they faced the Edlin whose wrath they had incurred, for his might was great and terrible. Long did ponykind hold the belief that volcanos were his forges, and that when they erupted, the Majestic was either angered, or ecstatic in his crafting.

For indeed, he was a craftsman above all else, and his skill was rivalled by none. As the Scion of Creation, it was his charge to craft and create things for the benefit of the world and its Harmony. For this he dreamed even when awake, and in his dreams he received visions and ideas of and for his next work. He was a master smith, and his forges brought forth the greatest of wonders. To this end he wielded a great hammer, used to temper and smith materials into their desired form or shape, and the sound of his hammer at work was like the rumbling of thunder. A great number of workspaces he had, each serving a different end, but the greatest and first was the one in the Scion’s land, where Ilfirinë lived and grew her garden. There stood Edlin’s mightiest forge, for its flames were those of the Sun, a gift from his sister, Celestia the Radiant. And it was in that forge that he crafted his most prized work: the armour for his brother Sírdhem. But there were other crafts, and many of them were just as stunning in their splendour and majesty. The first regalia of Celestia and Luna came from his hand, as did the Gates of Tartarus or the Hourglass of Sanzéclar, to name but a few.

One day the Majestic had received a vision in his dreams of a new artefact for him to create, and he left his forge to hunt for the materials he would be needing. Many were easy to find, but one proved to be elusive, and he wandered farther from his homeland than he ever had before. His search took him to lands inhabited by Earth Ponies, and as they saw the great, wolfish Scion pass through their lands, fear gripped their hearts and they fled. On his end, the Majestic paid it little heed, for he had no use for the tiny quadrupeds. His life was dedicated wholly to his craftsmanship and his mother’s dream, and he knew little of the lives of the smaller creatures that inhabited the world from which he took his materials for his works.

After a long period of time searching for the wood he needed, at last did Edlin come across a tree that seemed promising. It was a rare kind, but his dreams had told him that this was the kind of wood necessary for the completion of his new artefact. Whereupon the Scion took his great hammer and prepared to smite the tree down, so that he may gather what he needed from it. Great was his surprise when one of the little ones rushed forth from the undergrowth and placed itself between the Majestic and his target. Despite being angered by the interruption, Edlin was not a violent being, and he halted his blow and spared the young stallion that had interrupted his scavenging. None too kindly did the Scion demand the mortal to step aside, but the pony in return refused. And though he was shaking on his hooves, he nevertheless asked the Scion’s intentions.

Now Edlin was indeed taken aback, for he was not aware that the Scions now were questioned by those for whom they laboured hard, or had to justify their actions towards then. Regardless, hoping it would rid him of the interruption so that he could go back to work, the fair being explained his need of the tree’s wood and bark for his craft. Great was his surprise when the stallion shook his head, and said in no uncertain terms that it would not be wise. The tree might have looked splendid, but his wood felt weak and useless, so the pony said. Bemused by the audacity of the little mortal, who presumed he could judge raw materials better than Edlin, the Majestic, the greatest craftsman, the Scion decided to humour the pony. He sparsely interacted with anyone, even his fellow Scions, often too caught up in his crafting, but he found the little pony at his clawed feet amusing.

Reach up and tear off a branch, Edlin did, and with his great claws he attempted to make a simple carving from it. The tree had indeed looked splendid, which is why it had caught his eye in the first place. Surely its wood had to be of quality equal to its splendour? But oh, even as the mighty claws of the Scion delicately tried to shave tiny scrapes of the wood, it broke in his hands into tiny splinters, weak and useless. Troubled, the Scion tore off a greater branch, but it yielded only the same result. Now truly worried, Edlin took up his mighty hammer once again, and gave the tree but the lightest of blows. And see, even so soft a blow made the wood collapse and crumble, for it did not have the strength to support its beauty. And he, Edlin the Majestic, the greatest of all craftsmen, capable of picking out only the finest of materials with his keen eyes, had to admit he had been mistaken.

Now did the blazing red eyes of the Scion settle upon the little, mortal pony at his feet, who uncertainly backed away, frightened by the distant expression in the Scion’s ruby-red orbs. Great was his surprise when the Scion knelt down on one of his grand knees and leaned closer, their faces nearly touching, and the pony thought his end was upon him. But no blow or death came, and Edlin merely demanded to know how the little mortal had seen the tree was no good, when he, a Scion, had not. Still uncertain of the Majestic’s mood, the stallion nevertheless said that he was a craftsman, and had through experience come to know which materials to use and which not, and that the tree the Scion had just destroyed held no value and was avoided by all who crafted with their hooves.

Now Edlin was both amused and intrigued, for he could not believe the little mortal, who quivered beneath his gaze, shared the same passion as he, the great Scion, did. But a professional curiosity, from one craftsman to another, welled up inside him nonetheless. He rose to his feet and decided to put the pony to the test, and judge his expertise with his own eyes. There the great craftsman now had no materials to use thanks to the interruption from the one with the finite life, he felt it was only just the young stallion made up for it. And thus he asked what kind of wood the pony instead encouraged him to use for his new creation, and why. He could only use the best, he reminded the young one, and his creation required wood that was both light and strong. The pony then tapped his chin with his hoof for a moment, then trotted into the forest to begin his search, and the Scion followed him.

The little pony went from tree to tree, now and then tapping one with his hoof, until he finally came to a halt before a tree that looked as ordinary as a field of grey rocks looked dull. And yet this was the tree the stallion advised the Scion to take. Sceptical, Edlin eyed the plant, noting the lack of anything that caught his attention. Despite that, he reached out with one of his hands again, taking a branch from the tree. He held it in his experienced hands and studied the wood, noting its extraordinary good health and colour that it hid under its plain bark. With his claws he scratched a rough figure out of it, noting the strength and quality. Wishing to take one last test, Edlin took up his hammer once more, and hit the tree with the same kind of blow that had felled the other one. It withstood the Scion’s strike without any difficulties, and the great craftsman was finally convinced.

He turned towards the stallion once more and praised his good eye, and the pony felt his heart warm when hearing the words, for there was no greater honour for a craftspony than to be praised by the master of all crafters. Now truly and genuinely interested by the little mortal and his capabilities, Edlin demanded to see some of the young crafter’s work. The pony dared not deny the request of a Scion, but he was fearful, for though he had not seen any artefacts made by the Scion, he did not doubt that anything made by such a glorious being could not be anything less than glorious itself. His own work would pale in comparison, the same way a sandcastle, no matter how detailed and well-made, paled when compared to a real castle. But his fear for the Scion’s anger if he did not obey was greater than his fear of the Scion’s judgement of his works, and so he took the Majestic back to his workspace, a cave where he lived isolated, and where his forge, tools and creations were housed.

Once there, the earth pony took his finest work and presented it, with trembling hooves, to the great, wolfish figure. Edlin now held the mortal’s craft in his hands and studied it as if it were one of his own. And he was taken aback and truly surprised by the stallion’s work, for though it might not compare to his own, he recognised great skill when he saw it. The Majestic took in the sight of the small quadruped, and admitted to the young stallion that he had talent and even greater potential. And while the pony glowed in the Scion’s praise, the master craftsman fell silent in thought. The little mortal and his skill interested him, and he wondered if he could pass on some of his own, advanced Scion techniques to a simple, if talented, pony. Ilfirinë’s son loved creating, but none of his brethren or sisters, not even his Hallowed mother, could truly comprehend his passion, or speak of it on an equal level. For that, one had to be a great crafter himself, which the pony had every potential to be. And as he looked at the little one, Edlin wondered how it might be to have a student to whom he could pass on his crafts, whom he could tutor and talk about the wonders of creating with. He offered the idea to the little craftspony, who dared not refuse, even if he had wanted to.

And thus, Silver Hoof the earth pony became the apprentice of Edlin, the Majestic, Scion of Creation.

Together, master and apprentice worked, crafted and wrought great works in Edlin’s great forge in the Scion’s land, which Silver Hoof was the first mortal to ever set a hoof in. He was a dedicated and attentive student, to Edlin’s delight, and the Majestic took great pleasure in tutoring his apprentice. The fantastic feeling of having someone to teach his ways to, who shared his passion and listened to him while adding intelligent suggestions of his own, filled the Scion’s heart with a warmth hotter than any forge, for in him now burned the fire of friendship. They laboured hard, but found the hard work the greatest of pleasures, and they shared dreams and visions of projects, which they discussed at great length. Being taught the Scions’ way of craftsmanship, Silver Hoof developed the highest of skill, and indeed he was without a doubt the greatest craftspony to have ever walked the earth. In his high days, so it was said, his skills approached even those of his own master.

And yet, even as the formidable pair laboured hard and tirelessly before the great forge, they were watched by eyes whose owner was most displeased. Together, Edlin and Silver Hoof forged marvellous wonders, all in service and honour of Harmony, and the Hallowed mother of all Scions and her great dream. This went not unnoticed by Edlin’s brother, Discord, who saw with ever increasing fury how Harmony blossomed through the efforts of his younger sibling and his apprentice. Ever since madness had taken his mind, and he denounced Ilfirinë’s dream, Edlin and his crafts had been a thorn in his side. Many times had the Bringer of Disorder tried to make his brother fall, subtly and unnoticed, for in those days Discord still feared Ilfirinë’s might. Yet each of his attempts had failed, for Edlin was perhaps the purest of heart of all of Ilfirinë’s sons. He strove for perfection always, both for himself and his creations, and their perfection for him was Harmony, he could not be corrupted.

This had instilled fury of unseen intensity within the maddened Draconequus, who could not bear the sight of his brother and his crafts. Powerless and infuriated, Discord had watched and waited, and he had sworn the downfall of the Majestic. And as he looked upon his brother and his apprentice hard at work, the vilest of grins graced his visage, for at long last did he see a chance to bring forth the end for his fellow Scion’s efforts, and the Harmony that resulted from them.

And thus, the day came that Edlin left to gather new materials, and Silver Hoof remained behind in their workspace to take care of the forge. Alas, many things the stallion had been taught by his great and kind master, but not how to remain deaf for the whispers of Discord. So when the master of Deceit entered the workspace and spoke, Silver Hoof listened. The deceiver let his gaze wander through the room, and when his eyes fell on the apprentice’s works, he veined to be impressed. Words of praise did the Draconequus whisper, marvelling over and honouring the young craftspony’s creations. And Silver Hoof listened, his chest swelling with pride as he now had received praise of two of Ilfirinë’s children. He was certain no other pony had ever been given such a great honour.

Discord watched as his words, dripping with poison, were easily taken in by the young pony, and inside he laughed and mocked the simple-mindedness of the apprentice. So easily he and his kin were deceived, Discord mused, if one but stroked their ego. And now that he had Silver Hoof’s full attention, the Bringer of Disorder made his next move. He found one of Edlin’s own creations, and marvelled over it, acting as if he were deeply impressed and moved by its beauty. Then he deceived Silver Hoof, and called the artefact the finest creation of the young apprentice. Surprised, the pony denied that he was the maker of such a fine craft, for despite all his skill, he still was humble, and admitted that Edlin still surpassed him. But Discord lied, and pretended that he had been genuinely convinced that the work he held in his hand had been made by ponyhooves, for such a marvellous work surely could only come from one as skilled as Silver Hoof?

The apprentice was flattered, and he glowed with pride under the Draconequus’ praise, but once more he denied the craft to be his. It was made of liquid light, so he said, and it was so precious and rare a material that he was not allowed to work with it, not even under Edlin’s supervision. Discord veined surprise, and asked of the young craftspony why one with his talent was not allowed to lay a hoof on a material worthy of his skill? And Silver Hoof answered that his great mentor had said to him that he was not yet ready to craft with liquid light, for his skills required refining still. And upon hearing these words, Discord laughed, and began to tell lies, so carefully and masterfully hidden within words of praise and glory. Edlin was simply jealous, so the Bringer of Disorder said. The Majestic could not bear the thought of his student surpassing him, and since he could not take away the craftspony’s talent, he forbade him instead to work with the greatest of materials, so that no work of Silver Hoof the great would ever surpass one of his own. Discord’s words were naught but lies and slander, and at first the stallion doubted them. But the deceiver was nothing if not patient, and his whispered lies were never-ending.

Loyal Silver Hoof his heart was, but even he was not free of doubts, and it could not be denied that there had been moments when he had questioned or disagreed with his mentor. Discord saw these doubts, and his whispers made them grow, slowly but surely, patiently twisting the apprentice’s heart and soul until the pony was utterly lost within Discord’s maze of lies. The praise of the Draconequus fed his ego, and the lies of the liar fed his doubts. They combined into overconfidence, and thus did the deceived apprentice ignore his mentor’s orders. For indeed, Edlin was merely jealous of his talent, he could see that now, and did not wish for his student to make an artefact of such splendour that it would dethrone the Majestic’s crafts. But he was Silver Hoof, the greatest craftspony of all time, and he should not have to stand for such pettiness. He would prove to his teacher who was the true master.

Alas, blinded by lies did Silver Hoof take the liquid light, most precious of materials, and he readied the great forge, ready to craft. Discord observed, uttering words of encouragement to spur the pony on in his folly, while inwardly the Draconequus laughed in triumph. Never had he been able to bring forth the fall of his brother and the harmony he crafted, but now he would have the last laugh, for he would strike at the Majestic through his mortal apprentice. And he, Discord, would be victorious once more, once he plunged the art of creation into Chaos once again.

Silver Hoof laboured hard and tirelessly, but he was having difficulties using the liquid light, and at times he wondered if Edlin had been right when he had told him that he was not yet ready. He might have ended his stupidity then, and waited for his master to return to confess and beg for his forgiveness, but Discord was still there, and every time the pony’s heart wavered, he spurred him on with more lies and hollow words of praise. And so it was that after several failed attempts, and after using every last bit of the liquid light Edlin had left, Silver Hoof at last completed his work. Fate decreed that when he removed his craft from the forge, Edlin returned and entered the workspace, to be greeted by the sight of his apprentice having disobeyed him. For Discord had left the moment he heard his brother’s approach, and now watched, hidden and in glee, the events unfold.

Once Edlin fully understood what his young friend had tried to do, he flew into rage, his eyes ablaze and the flames that burned on his back roaring high and scorching. Never had Silver Hoof seen a sight so terrifying, and as the Majestic loomed over him, a blazing figure of wrath with a deadly and mighty hammer, he cowered in fear and trembled. In fury did Edlin demand to know what he had done, and what had driven him to do so, to disobey him and ignore his warnings. Had he not said, after all, that the stallion’s skills were not good enough yet to accomplish what he had tried just now? Hearing these words, Silver Hoof in turn rose up in anger, for the lies of Discord still rang within his ears and blinded his eyes, and he could not see or understand the true feelings of his mentor as he spoke. The pony accused the great Scion of jealousy, and that he had taken him under his wing only to control him, to ensure that he would never make something that was greater than any craft of the mighty Edlin. But the Scion was too late, so the pony gloated, for he had already surpassed him with his latest, brand new creation.

Thus did Silver Hoof present the result of his work with the liquid light to his mentor, too blinded by his own pride to see how atrocious the thing was that he now held up high. But Edlin saw it, and the sight of the vile thing made him back away in disgust, for Silver Hoof’s creation lacked Harmony, and was filled with Chaos. Now the Majestic grew worried, for he recognised the mark of Discord, and fear gripped his heart. But his apprentice mistook the Scion’s recoil as unwillingness to admit that he had been surpassed, and he grew furious over the perceived offense. Words of slander did he speak, firing them foolishly at the Scion who stood before him. Edlin underwent the assault quietly, and the fires of his rage died down. Now did the Scion look upon his apprentice with his brilliant red eyes, and with a quiet voice he bade him to leave, for he was from now on banished from Edlin’s forge and presence. Silver Hoof made to protest at first, but when he looked into his mentor’s eyes, his own eyes widened, and he fell silent. Quickly did he then leave, and he dared not say any word, for in the eyes of Edlin had he seen no anger or jealousy, only disappointment and sadness.

Once his apprentice had left, the Scion let out a deep sigh, and then reluctantly picked up the vile work Silver Hoof had made. It was wholly terrible, and nothing good could be salvaged from it, for it was a work of Disharmony. With a heavy heart did Edlin cast it back into the sunfire that burned in his forge, where Silver Hoof’s failed work was destroyed. But even with it gone, Edlin was still not put at ease. He wondered who it had been that had turned his apprentice’s loyal heart to darkness, who it had been that had urged the stallion to create something so vile and full of chaos, and the Majestic feared the answer. He knew but one who would not be revolted by the sight of such a thing, and with a dark expression on his face, Edlin left his forge in search of his Hallowed Mother, to inform her of his troubled thoughts and suspicions.

Yet when he found her, all thoughts of informing her of his suspicions of Discord fled immediately, for Edlin found Ilfirinë shedding bitter tears. For the mother of all Scions had just returned from confronting Edlin’s younger brother, Sírdhem, whose heart had been frozen. When the Majestic asked of his mother what ailed her, she told him of what had befallen his younger sibling, and what that had done to Edlin’s prized creation: the armour of Sírdhem. Upon hearing this, the wolfish Scion left in search of his brother, all thoughts of Discord and his apprentice forgotten for now. He could hardly believe that kind Sírdhem had fallen, or that the most splendid of all his creations had been tainted and twisted. The mere sight of Silver Hoof’s vile project had been enough to hurt him, and the thought of such a thing happening to something of his own hand was nigh unbearable.

Thus did Edlin depart from the Scions’ land, leaving behind home and forge, and he would never return. For alas, when the Majestic confronted his brother, Sírdhem the Executioner, he was struck down by the blade of his own brother, and thus did he fall. The impact of his mighty figure on the ground shook the world to its very foundations, and all that swam, ran or flew felt the pain in their hearts as the greatest craftsman the world had ever seen passed away. Tragic it was, a loss irreplaceable. Great and mighty he had been, the Majestic, the creator, the craftsman, but bitter and meaningless was his end. Many wonders had his hands crafted, and all of them he had loved, and yet it had been the very same love for his works that had brought forth his demise.

Ilfirinë found his deceased figure, and long did she cradle it in her arms while she wept and cried for the loss of her son. Her lament of sorrow rang through the wastelands for days, unceasingly, and around her and her fallen son did those of her Children who remained gathered, except for Sírdhem, Edlin’s murderer, who had fled in shame and had gone to seek his own end. Around their mother and brother did the Scions stand, and they shed tears as well, their sorrowful cries joining their mother’s heart wrenching lament. Even Discord was there, for he did not wish to arouse suspicion with his absence, and he cried, though it was naught but an act, for behind his mask of sorrow he cheered and celebrated, for this outcome had been greater than he had ever dared to hope.

The Scions then took their fallen brother back to the Scions’ land, and they buried his fair and beautiful figure in Ilfirinë’s garden. There, between the roots of the great tree that was the central point of the garden, was he laid to rest, and there did they build his tomb. It was a simple affair, beautiful in its simplicity, a construction of plain white stone with his name engraved in gold using the Scions’ runes. There Edlin the Majestic slept the sleep of the dead, serenaded by the song of the wind rustling through the leaves of Ilfirinë’s tree. And often did the great mother herself sit there, by her son’s side, in silent sorrow. The pain of losing not one, but two of her sons at once had hurt the first of all Scions, and her light had dimmed somewhat, and never grew as bright again as it had been upon her birth.

And yet the tale of the great craftsman did not end there, as the day came when the departed Scion received a visitor. For from the bushes appeared Silver Hoof, who at last dared to approach the resting place of his mentor. Before, the presence of Ilfirinë had frightened him, and he dared not reveal himself. But that day she was gone, and the apprentice knelt down before the grave and wept. After he had fled from the forge on that fateful day, his senses had quickly returned to him as the lies of Discord faded. And upon realising what he had done, he was filled with great shame and boundless regret. He had just been on his way back to his teacher, having planned to throw himself at Edlin’s feet and beg for his forgiveness, when he had felt a great pain in his heart, and instinctively he had known that his mentor had fallen. Despair had claimed him then, and days had passed while he laid on the ground and wallowed in his shame, tearfully regretting that he would now never have the chance to tell the Scion how sorry he was.

But now he sat before the grave, and he spoke, even though he knew it was too late for his master to hear him. And Silver Hoof apologised, and he shed tears as he told the gravestone how deeply he regretted his actions, how ashamed he was for having done what he had, for letting his pride blind him and ignore all the Scion had tried to teach him. But above all he expressed his regret of not having been able to apologise to the Majestic when he was still alive, and how desperately he wished to atone for his sins and make up for his mistakes. All was quiet in the garden while the young mortal spoke to his deceased tutor, but his words were heard by all that grew there, and all were moved and felt compassion for the pony, for he was sincere and his sorrow and regret were genuine.

And see, even as the stallion fell silent and wept, a beam of light broke through the canopy of the great tree and fell on him. And Silver Hoof was surrounded and bathed in golden light, and his heart was warmed and his sorrows eased, for he knew he had been forgiven.

As if renewed, the craftspony rose to his hooves. He felt a great fire burn in his heart, and he knew what had to be done. Head held high, Silver Hoof bid his master goodbye and left, and he did not return there in this life. The apprentice returned to his kin, and began to work tirelessly and relentlessly, as he once had in Edlin’s great forge. Many great things did he make for his fellow ponies, and around him did he gather apprentices of his own. And to them he passed on all of Edlin’s teachings, and in turn those apprentices passed the Scion’s teachings on to their own apprentices, until Edlin’s craft was passed on to all races intelligent, from Ponies to Buffalos to Gryphons, and they were never forgotten. And thus did Discord stand defeated, for even though his lies and deceit had brought forth the end of his majestic brother, Edlin's spirit lived on through his teachings in the heart and hooves of his apprentice, and those of his students and followers. Even though the Majestic had passed on, and no longer made wonders to serve Harmony, there were others who knew his ways. And through them lived on his legacy, and so it would be until the world was unmade.

As for Silver Hoof, first ever apprentice of a Scion, he grew to be the greatest mortal craftsman and smith the world had ever known. His heart never strayed again, for the roar of the fire in it made him deaf for the lies and whispers of Discord. Long and prosperous did he live, many students and descendants did he have, and old did he become. And when at last he passed away, after a life long and fulfilling, Ilfirinë came and took the pony’s figure to her gardens, and laid him to rest at his mentor’s side. There he slept the sleep of the dead, and there would Edlin and Silver Hoof remain, together even in the life beyond this one, until the time comes when the world is unmade and the departed rise to join in its rebirth.

~~~

AN: This one turned out much longer than I expected. Hope it's enjoyable, though.