He was always walking, always constantly, restlessly moving. He did not sleep, he did not eat, and he did not hesitate. Greatly weakened, he kept to the shadows. Not once did he talk to anyone, and not once did he step into the light. Instead, he wandered endlessly, always in darkness, always shunning the light. He was so weak that he was unsure of how he was still able to move, nay, how he was still able to think. He had no form, for he was but one with the darkness that he clung to like suckling foal to its mother. Had he been reduced to that of a foal now? Once he had been great. Once he had been powerful. Indeed, once he had a purpose, but those times had grown old, and now he wandered Equestria’s shadows, ever fearful of being discovered.

Fear.

It was not an emotion he was accustomed to enduring. Power? Yes. Pride? Perhaps. But fear? Nay, fear was something his very presence—his very name—stirred in the hearts of ponies. When they saw his powerful magic, they shivered in fright. When they heard his mighty voice, they trembled in fear. It brought him no greater joy to watch a particularly defiant insurgent break down into tears at a mere glance. It them taught them respect: a life lesson that they would one day value. Fear was something that was synonymous with his name. Only spoken in whispers, ponies were rarely brave enough to utter it. Fear was something he exuded and reveled in. It was the air he breathed and the ground upon which he walked.

Yet, here he had become a slave to fear. Ironic, perhaps.

Now, ponies only spoke of his demise. WIth loud yelling and callous cheering, the ponies celebrated his downfall. He heard them often; the ponies were unafraid to walk through the shadows. His shadows. They did not fear the darkness anymore. However, he learned many things from these ponies. They spoke of powerful magics and dark artifacts, of great sieges and mad coups. It seemed a lot had happened in Equestria during his absence. He felt a small twinge of sadness or regret. He didn’t care which one as he batted the thought away.

Days passed by like months, and months passed by like centuries. He was unsure of how long he had been wandering, and he didn’t care. Soon he would be strong, and soon he would have a purpose. For now he was restless, sleepless, ceaselessly moving. Never stopping. Never pausing.

After what could’ve been millenia or perhaps merely days, he found his purpose.

Hidden in the desolate mountains of the badlands, an enormous hollow structure protruded from the earth. Despite the forsaken land, the structure was teeming with life. Perhaps struggling, yes, but life nonetheless. Moving in closer, he grinned to himself as small, insectoid monsters flew in and out of the hive. They worked tirelessly and mechanically. All of them had a purpose, and all of them served their purpose without question. They looked like warped and twisted equines, but he already knew what they were.

Shapeshifters.

Pathetic vermin that consumed love as if it were a mercilessly addictive drug and followed their queen blindly to their demise. That had been one of the main causes for the species being in decline before he had been vanished. Now? He was probably looking at the last hive left in existence. Alone, these creatures were weak, but together they were surprisingly strong. Almost admirable, perhaps. However, they were naive and stupid, and they obeyed their queen without question.

They were perfect for his plans.

Soon, he would be strong again, and then he would make ponies fear him again. They would tremble before him once more, and his name would once again be synonymous with fear and uttered only in hushed whispers. He’d teach them the respect that they had forgotten, the respect that he deserved.

King Sombra vowed that he would teach the world to know fear again.