1 – FRIENDSHIP
“My ancestor,” Eohippin started, “Equiynala, high councillor of tribe Neighgoth, ruled over a great deal of Maretania.”
She placed the coffin she had bore on solid ground at last, weary after a long journey. Her company smiled, heads eagerly peering over shoulders to get a look at what they had been assembled for. The crowd watched the coffin like vultures, grinning excitedly as if it were some sort of circus act.
A cohort of skeletons clattered about in the distance, silhouettes descending a flimsy wooden plank that acted as the sole bridge on and off ship, carrying a number more coffins on bony shoulders. The necromancers that dotted the makeshift dock seemed thoroughly impressed, chortling amongst themselves like old scholars. It was not an everyday occurrence they found dead of this quality and preservation, owing chiefly to the Maretanian custom of ancestor worship.
At last, a mare spoke, evidently leader of the group, judging by the authoritative tone she’d adopted.
“We don’t often get traders here,” she remarked, suspiciously. “Whilst we are very grateful, and whilst we do understand your culture’s… pain, to separate from an ancestor like this, we assure you, they will be granted happiness.”
“I would hope so,” Eohippin grumbled. “It brings me a great deal of displeasure to bargain off the corpses of our dead.” She gave a mean glance to a necromancer that strayed a little too close, slapping their claw away from the coffin.
“Not yet!” Rosa turned to the necromancer, before continuing with a smile and a deep breath. “On behalf of us all, we do hope your journey north was pleasant, West Zebrica is a long way from here.”
She huffed, having caught her breath. Her dress, practically an artefact of her true House culture, was getting slightly soggy in the snow around the boots. “Terribly uneventful, for the most part. I had some troubles with the Nimbusian coast guard. They didn’t strike me as the sort to appreciate a ship full of the dead. Fortunately, I had enough bits to make sure they stayed out of my ship whilst I refuelled.”
Strangely enough, despite her distaste for creatures practising the art of necromancy, she found the mare pleasantly amicable. Not to mention, the months-long journey solo had made her more than willing for a chat.
An older, more decrepit necromancer from the crowd piped up, flesh slightly rotten and a distinctive accent to them that seemed more in place two centuries ago. “It’s that easy, is it? This whole time, we could’ve sailed around and paid meagre sums to keep prying eyes off our galleys? And you all told me it was folly to try! Aha!”
He jumped around, mocking his peers, necromancy clearly not aiding his agility in any way.
“I assure you, it was not a meagre sum,” she growled.
“Very well, we apologise for the inconvenience,” Rosa spoke before the necromancer could get another word in. “Now, would you care to explain the reason you brought all these bodies here? Pardon us, commerce isn’t exactly a specialty of a necromantic order.”
“Gladly,” Eohippin flashed a fake grin. “As I’ve said, this is my ancestor. Equiynala Neighgoth, high councillor of the fourth tribe of Maretania.”
“Very influential,” she taunted. “Tell us more, please,” Rosa beckoned.
“I was getting to it. Anyway, his tribe, Tribe Neighgoth, was the pinnacle of Maretanian culture, prosperity and influence. Our warriors were second-to-none, the creative industries and intelligentsia flourished,” She gestured widely. “Unfortunately, we were limited. Bound to the whims of the Obsidian Council and their miserable protection of ‘artefacts of magical importance’.” She spat.
“I have heard of The Cave,” The very mention of the name seemed to inspire muttered discussion. “Very intriguing. A shame you didn’t offer us something from there,” a vampire spoke.
“Nonsense, that would be foolish,” she laughed, stomping an armoured, bonemold boot. “I am one mare. My line, the great line of Neighgoth, effectively died with him. He was betrayed and murdered by the Obsidian Council for the crime of wanting more for our people.” She shrugged, having to contain her anger at such a denial of her destiny.
“Well, anyway,” Eohippin continued. “The despots it housed did not like it. They grew wealthy and lazy off their so-called duties. Obviously, the line did not literally die, or else I wouldn’t be here – but spiritually? Yes, the line of Neighgoth, his lands and wisdom, died with him. Regardless, enough with the history lessons, this was long ago.”
“So, you want us to bring him back?” Rosa nodded, finally understanding why she’d come to her of all ponies.
“As fully as possible. Spare no effort!” she hurried, almost tripping over her own words. “I have given you payment, but the greatest payment of all shall come when he walks once more.” She grinned, and for the first time it was genuine pride – accomplishment for her grand venture.
“I see. This payment shall indeed be adequate,” Rosa said, turning to the rest. “So we shall. Somecreature see her to her ship, kindly. We shall return by sun’s early light.”
There was a strange commotion in their leave, a chorus of bones clicking and rattling from their collective cheating of death.
As she watched the council of necromancers depart, a faint pang of guilt crept across her, watching as the coffin rolled away. It was the greatest disrespect she could have given her ancestors, but alas; these things had to happen, and ultimately, her ancestors would’ve been proud of her cunning. She was the last of his line; she should’ve ruled, and she could still. History always needed a push.
The journey back would be long, but there was solace in the knowledge that she would not take this next one alone. She already had everything mapped out, she was wealthy and influential enough to know these things.
With Equiyn’s return, everything would simply fall into place. They would not fall for the same traps as before.
The door to that great chamber raised, an igneous light pouring from the crack in the ancient stone. Equiyn Neighgoth, flanked by his ‘sister’, Eohippin, lowered their heads, making their destined entrance.
They were greeted with a sight of the purest craftsmareship, a hidden hollow in the mountain, housing the brass skeleton of what seemed to be a pony. Magic sung in strange ways in this place, unbound and unlimited. A large cavern bore in the silt and rock, magma bubbling and churning underneath, adding a terrible heat to the chamber that nothing could properly remedy.
This was the first step of Equiyn’s grand plan. Stood before the magnum opus of a dead civilisations work, it couldn’t have been sweeter. The power it emanated was almost tangible.
His ceremonial robe, elder to the world’s greatest leaders, dragged across the stone, kicking up little clouds of dirt from the undisturbed land. It was the same robe he had died in; the same robe he had been re-born in. It was almost a shame to have such priceless work, the effort of a bygone generation’s love for him, stained in the fine dust of volcanic rock. Alas, such minor sacrifices held hardly a candle to the glory they were here to achieve.
The statue had the unnerving property of seemingly being able to stare back – in presence of such magic, it wasn’t absurd to believe it did, either. Within it lay a heart of crystal that rested there, blackened from the magic within. Not a speck of dust touched it, as if the ash was aware of it in its avoidance.
The crystal seemed to thrum, its echoes reverberating through the rock. Some miraculous example of ancient engineering was connected to it, though it was left incomplete and withered with time. It rested in the chest cavern of the brass mare, metal ribs guarding it.
It could be completed. With the resources of a nation, as he aspired, it would take no time. This was not what they were here for, however. Such luxuries would come, with time.
The Obsidian Council had gone to great efforts to keep this hidden. Luckily, they were tricky ponies; no effort could hide such a thing – not for ponies as driven as they. Its rhythmic hum seemed unnaturally propagated, no apparent source of sound.
Ash crumbled at his hooves, pitter-pattering their way down the edge of the natural platform. There was a bridge below, another remnant of a civilization deemed too malevolent to exist – much like their own. Finding his way down would not be difficult.
With a flash of his horn, his orange magic scooped up and compacted hoof-sized stepping stones, forming and hovering under the pony as he stepped away from solid ground, descending in a spiral staircase pattern.
It was regal – an entrance becoming of a Lord of his standing. Time had forgotten, but they had not. This place was his claim, his noble entitlement. What a pity it was that the Obsidian Council were those he had to take from. They were powerful mages, under his guidance they could do great things for the world; alas, natural enemies could not be reasoned with.
The thrum of the heart only loudened as he stepped closer, its music surrounding them both. It became clear the noise didn’t emerge from the heart, rather it played within the very mind, seeming to come from every place all at once.
She let a satisfied grin creep across her muzzle, trailing behind her lord. Searching had taken too long, taken too much energy. She had desecrated tombs, turned to areas of magic most would loathe. It had been a tremendously difficult undertaking, and it would only get harder from here, but this was the big stepping stone – a goal finally met.
Equiyn reached a hoof out to the crystal, stepping off the final ashen platform and onto the bridge. Distance had changed the tone of the crystal’s beckoning, it had turned hums and thumps into something sharper, more detailed. Hums turned to shakier pulses, the beating noise becoming something more animated and visceral.
Magic was never as much of a tangible sensation as near this thing. It didn’t announce itself through burns or zaps, glowing auras or light shows; it was simply in the air. Unbound, uncaptured, free from the world itself to rule on its own, its own enclave in its piece of the world.
And nothing could ever be as frightening. It was magic rebelling against nature itself, and magic was a bitter force when left untamed – free to explore outside the domain of typical thaumatological theory. Time was left to its will.
So it twisted, and turned, and bent; it thrashed at all that came towards it. In purest magic like this, not even the light – oscillating, infinitely tiny packets of energy, otherwise unbothered by the universe – would manage to proceed through. Light went fainter, then it distorted. Eohippin stood by, silent and unbothered entirely. Not a muscle on her stone face twitched, a trust like no other placed into the once great figure of Equiyn.
Equiyn’s eyes couldn’t be trusted, for there was hardly the light to see, and what was visible was stretched and blurred.
On reflection, it was the first of lessons; the first proof that sight was ignorance, that there should be no trust placed in the mortal gaze. No truths it told, sight was only for what wanted to be visible – worlds came and went in the plane of the invisible, mortal eyes none the wiser.
Something changed as a threshold was crossed. This was not natural magic. Something, some force, seemed to show the pony hate. There were no signs, just a feeling, as clear as could be.
Magic did not typically burn. Magic didn’t typically shriek and flail, resisting all that tried to cross it – but this was not magic of the usual kind. It was not a simple spell, it was a concentration of its very essence. It flowed like tempest, stung like lightning. Equiyn pushed further still, ignoring the burning pains all over his body. His very soul seemed to ache. His sister stood all the same, dagger presented in her hooves, watching as their leader, the just high councillor, lord to be assumed of all Maretania, disappeared into a vortex of thaum.
Blackness. The very universe seemed to resist him. The universe seemed to tell him to stop, to go no further, as if the cosmos was warning him of the danger he faced. To listen could only be folly at a point like this. The mortal world despised the New Mare, the unthinkable thought of divinity.
One hoof reached out to touch the crystal structure, the last gleaming remnant of a world otherwise left behind. Then it burst.
A star. A pillar. An eye. The eye burned, exploding into the infinite. Rot, decay, famine. Everything, everywhere. Words, letters? Symbols of power that the universe moved to suppress. All linear, swimming through time like a sailor lost at sea.
You are not supposed to be here.
Time-march. Entropy-scale. A whole universe of iron. A whole universe of YOU.
You are not supposed to be here.
Words. Too many words. Words in every language, all at once. Words of determination, spilling out the stars, re-writing everything around it. All manner of celestial things, disappearing and forming like quilt on paper.
You are not supposed to be here.
His hoof reached ever further, towards the burning eye. Finally, it stopped, jagged stone interrupting his movement.
Wall. No syntax. Cage without bars. Malleable as iron to the smith. A pillar of flaming gold. Last limit of rule.
He couldn't stand it. Nothing rang true, nothing followed conceptions. Things simply did as they had – as they were told. They weren't supposed to act like this, nothing was right. Why wouldn't it be right?
Madness – this was defying him. This was not truth. This was not right; he had to put it right.
Agony. Fire, war and hopelessness. A vision of past, or future, or present, its honesty unknown. There was no apparent truth to anything. Still, from all the nothing, the incomprehensible, inklings of ideas emerged; some fractured, half-truths of the world, clear beyond mortal understanding.
A key formed within his hoof, its lock before him. It connected to nothing, just present in the incorporeal nothingness. There was nothing else to do in a place like this.
The key, glass but otherwise entirely unremarkable, clunked in the heavy lock as if it were metal. He twisted it, but it resisted his motion. Again, a turn, but no movement. He tried to force it, but the key simply snapped in two, bitter fragments of glass burying into his hoof. He wasn't sure why, but all it inspired was terror. Complete terror, like the universe laughed at him. It was then that he first screamed a hopeless, despairing scream.
It didn't work. It didn't work.
Was he not worthy of it? Did the universe – did magic, even – play tricks on him?
Hate. New doctrines formed within his head. He would escape this. He would not be bound by limitations forever. He deserved more than that, he saw greater than that. He would not be damned to know more than mortal minds, but trapped within a body that rotted long before his soul was due. He despised the world, he despised everything it stood for. He despised the creatures it cultivated, the lands that formed from it – he despised himself for being bested at the first step.
He despised himself. What a fool he was, believing himself able to best the universe in a battle of wit.
Once more, his hoof struck out, raging against the prison. Much to his surprise, the lock shuddered, resonating with some intangible medium. It jolted, tearing apart, straining itself to the bitter end, before smashing apart.
Divinity-beheld. The true nature of magic. Jeers of the progenitor. If only he could see, if only he opened his eyes to see.
A hoof reaching out for him, the world within it.
And then, nothing. For the briefest of moments, on a scale of time he did not know, there was nothing. Undisturbed, perfect isolation.
And then there was revelation. The infinite flowed within him, boiling all synapses and purging mortal flesh from his skin. His skull set aflame, combusting with the fires of the ethereal, sending shockwave after shockwave of pain through his very soul. The cavern, void of his presence just moments ago, was cast in the sickly blue glow of spectral flame.
But Eohippin, first sister, promised Duke of Wisdom, moved not, even still. A mare of faith like hers, whilst knowing not the magic that caused it, knew the Master was fit to overcome the world’s greatest challenges, for he was always one to dare to confront. This was their gambit. They defied typical magic before, but this was magic of a more horrible kind.
Her faith seemed most misplaced at a time like this.
Equyin screamed, clutching onto his head with his front hooves, begging for respite. The crystal’s magic held no care. He pounded against the walls of the trap, in utter agony as the information that crept through his veins re-wrote synapse after synapse, building his mind anew. It was a magic most sinister – t’was a pity he only knew it now.
Clothed in magic flame, he writhed and twisted, cried and clawed, desperately trying to escape fate. The black star of magic would not release. He couldn’t move, his mouth was left agape, eyes wide in abject terror, knowing fear truly. A million different words, all known to Equiyn, but in symbols that couldn’t be comprehended.
The words became worlds and the worlds became ink, dancing and diffusing between the stars. Even as his skull burnt, he reached out, holding the star within his hooves. He saw it staring back at him.
The soul, the spirit. An echo to sub-level.
He sat at a grand table, watching the star, its grand table piece. With him stared innumerable souls, adorned in silver and gold, blinking at him, muzzles twisted with judging frowns at the pony that invaded their ceremony.
A chalice appeared in front of him, filling with wine, but the pouring never did stop. It reached the brim of the cup, but still, it did not stop. It poured, staining the pristine tablecloth red. The words. The words became ever so loud.
The black that surrounded their table, filling this space like the void, became white at the far end of his view, the words holding it revealed. The cup kept filling. The figures kept blinking. The white crept further, up the table, but the figures sat still even as their world seemed to deconstrue around them. The wine was up to his knees, but he could not move, nor did it douse any flame. He tried to call out, but no air reached his throat. The white kept retreating towards him. The figures blinked still.
This was not meant to be known.
This was not where he was supposed to be.
It was ethereal, it was ultimate. It felt as if his mind ran through billions of different revelations, all at once, spreading like vines over his mortal brain. All libraries, all books, all tales told by campfire, every word of mouth ever spoken.
Apotheosis, it must’ve been.
The hum of the crystal was deafening, blocking all other noise in its omnipresence.
But Equiyn was a stubborn being. The hate for his position in mortal life resonated with the frequency of soul, the god-speak, the inevitable theory all must die. To assume the belief that this did not have to be the way was to assume the universe told lies, and in the assumption the world told lies unlocked the key to everything; word became life for the grand non-believer. So he reached out, forelegs extending, raging against the coming light. He held the star within his trembling hooves.
And he crushed it.
Thus was the doctrine of the Lord High Councillor, reborn:
I AM.
WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF ME.
YOU ARE BECAUSE YOU ARE I.
WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF ME.
GOD ABOVE ALL.
WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF ME.
HATE IS FRIENDSHIP.
WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF ME.
All faded to black. No more pain, no more light.
He stood there, on the bridge. His first reaction was to drop down and sob. This was not the enlightenment he wished for.
There was no clarity, just knowledge. Even as he attempted to catalogue his mind, rewired anew, there was nothing but anger. He knew it all as if it were off by heart, but none of it in any way he could understand. No matter how he tried, he couldn't wrap his mind around any of it.
The crystal before him, once chipped and black as void, radiated a brilliant orange. The magic around it, once violent and confused, now circled it loyally, streamlined and content.
It took everything he had not to throw up.
He was left against the stone in an undignified heap, coughing, sputtering and sobbing, mumbling and groaning anything but comprehensible words.
It took him time, admittedly. Two days he stayed there, weeping in volcanic warmth, unable to command his singed body to do anything. He could not see, his ears were full of the beat of the crystal, his muzzle pressed into the dirt. He whined and writhed, trying to wrap his fragile mind around any of it.
When he finally had the strength to stand, it felt as if everything had changed.
To stand was not even in his mind the first day – he couldn’t have possibly done it. Then on the second, he commanded his legs to listen. He made it onto his belly, but his legs buckled and sent him straight back into the ash. Two more tries yielded no better a result.
A shout was heard, above the cacophony of magic – the voice of Eohippin, praying.
“Equiyn Neighgoth – Hei Maretynai! Council betrayed you, council sullied your name! Arise, great Lord of All! Here in the shrine of the forgotten, retake what you claimed in day, and in long night was stolen! Arise!”
The same prayer that had breathed life into his decaying body brought him back once more. The magic bound to the words brought strength to his limbs, allowing him to stumble to his feet. When he was stable, a dagger’s hilt was thrust into his hoof. Eohippin was still, unbothered and otherwise unmoving. Clearly, she'd stayed all this time.
He turned back to the crystal. What a pity it was.
The enchanted blade cut straight into it, twisting. The beating stopped. The cavern went silent.
Radiant, renewed. A flood of magic coursed through him, breathing life where there was none. Countless years had not been kind to him, but it was as if those years had no effect on him now. Warmth swept across him, and after a long moment he had sight once more. A new eye opened, seeing truth like shadows.
Everything had clarity. Everything had purpose. The words made so much sense, it was almost inconceivable how he didn't realise it all before. It was so very perfect. Everything fit exactly right. The enlightenment received had granted him a new type of love.
It was beautiful. There was so much distain, and all the more love because of it. He felt new life in his body, greater than what he knew even in his time.
The dagger was returned to its original wielder, who bowed her head graciously as if it was the greatest privilege.
“Eohippin, sister,” he lauded. “You have done me good time and time again. We shall depart from this place. Our campaign begins once more.”
“How we missed you, o Lord, how we missed you! This world has only decayed since you left us!” Eohippin cried, having to stop herself from launching into a hug. It was better not to, in case of any miscommunication with the long-dead stallion posing grandiosely in front of her.
”That we shall see. My image of a new world is realised within me.” There was a giddy laugh, a new confidence in his own plan. ”Come, Eohippin. I do hope you have prepared my place.”
“By orders,” she nodded. “The fools and frauds Maretania homes have not touched the lands which were once yours. I believe it would be much too inhospitable for creatures born and cradled in luxury.”
“I can not blame them. You speak of luxury as if it were a bad thing,” he laughed.
“It is, Lord. It has rotted the soul of this nation. Where we once had warriors, now all we are left with is sniffling mares of the gun. I—your influence, it's like it was never even there. They've forgotten you, Krahivar.”
"Krahivar? They hardly titled me that, even in life." He took a few steps forward, his horn glistening dimly. “It shall be no matter. The Great Tribe lives again, dear sister. Come now, I would hate to spend a moment longer in this place. I have wasted time aplenty already, let us drive the accursed Solar One’s influence from Maretynai. We shall be returning here when the moment is ripe.”
She didn’t speak, merely nodding her head, bowing deeply before trotting past Equiyn and onto the stone platform.
With the High Councillor, it was hardly a treacherous venture any longer. At last, she could be proud. Her rule, what she was born to claim, was almost within grasp. Never again would her noble title be questioned. She could picture it already: this would be the new height of culture, not just in Maretania, but the world over.
As they walked, his horn pulsed with a radiant orange, a sign of the true power that lay within him – a sign of divinity at last.
"I saw a great many things," he continued. "None of which I understood. Not at the time. I can't believe how foolish I was for it. Nightmares and pleasantries, but are there not only dreams? It is so very gray."
"What do you mean?" she looked up at him.
"No matter, my sister," He smiled, content and empowered. "Tomorrow I shall gift you the sun."