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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Necessary Evil
Lord Tirek stood in his cage, held his manacled arms out before him, and waited.
Inside he ached with hunger. The knotting and jumping of his empty stomach, the maniac thirst that rode him, certainly, but above all the agonizing hunger for magic. Not to lock a pony’s eyes to his and drink, swallowing hot draughts of stolen power, for another hundred, another thousand years!
He grasped the iron bars of his cage and grinned through the hunger. Though he starved, he was drinking his fill, not of food or drink or magic, but of time.
This place was his strength. These bars had made him legend. He had not merely fought the gods of this place—not merely escaped them—but had been captured, bound with the strongest steel, warded with the most-powerful spells, guarded by the most-ferocious beasts, and buried deep beneath centuries of solitude that would have driven a mere mortal mad.
Lord Tirek giggled at the thought. Mad!
And he had overcome them all and came back from the underworld, and when ponies gazed into his eyes they felt the weight of all those sunken centuries crash down onto them.
Now, again, he waited.
Far above, stallions frightened their foals with tales of Tirek’s might, then tucked them in bed, reassuring them that he, Tirek, was again safely in chains. And they thrilled secretly at the thought that he might again escape.
Someday, they would begin to forget. Someday the stories would wither and the nightmares fade, and those above would munch their hay and walk their quiet streets and watch their peaceful sunsets, and wonder what they had lost. And then Tirek would emerge again, smashing their staid certainties, overturning their confident chronology, breathing the hot breath of history in their faces. Tirek threw his head back and laughed, and rattled the bars of his cage in anticipation.
One iron bar, which had held solid for centuries as he had shaken it and howled in anger, had finally chosen that moment to break free of the cement foundation. He easily pulled it loose. He held it in his arms and stared at it.
“Guards!” he called, “guards!”
His rasping voice trickled down from his cage, broke on the stalagmites all about, fell back and evaporated.
He scowled at the traitorous bar, then shoved it back in place as best he could. When all was well again, he stroked it gently.
“Too soon, my dear,” he whispered. “Much too soon.”
Lord Tirek stood in his cage, held his manacled arms out before him, and waited.
Inside he ached with hunger. The knotting and jumping of his empty stomach, the maniac thirst that rode him, certainly, but above all the agonizing hunger for magic. Not to lock a pony’s eyes to his and drink, swallowing hot draughts of stolen power, for another hundred, another thousand years!
He grasped the iron bars of his cage and grinned through the hunger. Though he starved, he was drinking his fill, not of food or drink or magic, but of time.
This place was his strength. These bars had made him legend. He had not merely fought the gods of this place—not merely escaped them—but had been captured, bound with the strongest steel, warded with the most-powerful spells, guarded by the most-ferocious beasts, and buried deep beneath centuries of solitude that would have driven a mere mortal mad.
Lord Tirek giggled at the thought. Mad!
And he had overcome them all and came back from the underworld, and when ponies gazed into his eyes they felt the weight of all those sunken centuries crash down onto them.
Now, again, he waited.
Far above, stallions frightened their foals with tales of Tirek’s might, then tucked them in bed, reassuring them that he, Tirek, was again safely in chains. And they thrilled secretly at the thought that he might again escape.
Someday, they would begin to forget. Someday the stories would wither and the nightmares fade, and those above would munch their hay and walk their quiet streets and watch their peaceful sunsets, and wonder what they had lost. And then Tirek would emerge again, smashing their staid certainties, overturning their confident chronology, breathing the hot breath of history in their faces. Tirek threw his head back and laughed, and rattled the bars of his cage in anticipation.
One iron bar, which had held solid for centuries as he had shaken it and howled in anger, had finally chosen that moment to break free of the cement foundation. He easily pulled it loose. He held it in his arms and stared at it.
“Guards!” he called, “guards!”
His rasping voice trickled down from his cage, broke on the stalagmites all about, fell back and evaporated.
He scowled at the traitorous bar, then shoved it back in place as best he could. When all was well again, he stroked it gently.
“Too soon, my dear,” he whispered. “Much too soon.”
Lord Tirek stood in his cage, held his manacled arms out before him, and waited.