It was all too much; the moment that Dim began his ascent of the gangplank, an overwhelming number of things happened all at once, battering his senses, assaulting his awareness, and destroying his ability to concentrate. The sights, the sounds, the smells, everything, it was all too much. As was often the case with these sorts of things, it all began with a voice, an amplified voice that tore right into his ears and left them ringing, robbing him of his ability to reason.

“PRESENTING PRINCE DIM OF HOUSE DARK! ALL HAIL THE PYROCLASTIC PRINCE!”

Frozen in place, Dim had a million thoughts all at once, all the different ways to refute this, to deny this, all of the reasons why he didn’t deserve this aggrandised title. But before he could give voice to any of his thoughts, his reasons, his objections, a band began to play. No, not a band, an orchestra; strings, brass, woodwinds, percussion, all of which were loaded into enormous wagons ready to be drawn by stout, stocky earth ponies.

The music was dark and foreboding; the percussion pounded, and seemed to echo from mountainside to mountainside. Horns blared, but the music was not cheerful, optimistic, or hopeful. It was ominous… drastic… and made the hairs along Dim’s spine stand up. It was the very sound of domination, of authority, and it terrified Dim how much it thrilled him to hear it. The strings were screechy, sharp, almost painful. This music, the feeling, it could only be described as the Orchestra of Oppression. Tyrannical tuba blasts began to happen in earnest, rapid fire, and as Dim stood frozen in place, every creature present bowed their heads.

It took a shove from Blackbird to get him moving, and the cape of his greatcoat fluttered out behind him. Compelled by forces that he did not understand, Dim lifted his head high and struck a regal, aristocratic pose. The months of living as a shabby vagabond fell away from him and his face contorted into a cold, callous sneer with practiced ease. He moved; not as a derelict vagrant that skulked from place to place, some tramp, some transient fugitive from hygiene and civilisation; but as the noble aristocrat that he was born to be.

In a fantastic moment of understanding, of awareness, Dim understood his purpose and his place. As a noble, as an aristocrat, with the strength of nobility that he had been born with, it was his duty to bear a burden that these collected souls could not. The Tubas of Tyranny, the Totalitarian Trombones, the Strings of Subservience, this Orchestria of Oppression, the music did not play to put the gathered crowd in their place, no; this music was a reminder and it put Dim in his place. He had been born with exceptional power and he owed the endangered masses his service; if necessary, his life.

The music had transformed Dim in some way that he could not quantify.

Dim remembered what House Dark had long ago forgot.

This crowd had gathered, prepared for his coming, because they expected something from him. What they wanted was unknown, but as Dim marched down the gangplank, he was prepared to give it to them. Right now, they needed a noble example, the idealisation of their hopes and dreams, so he gave them that. The calm, confident protector, cocky and ready to fight, to do what was right, what was necessary. Every book that Dim had ever read about knights errant swirled in the depths of his consciousness, coalescing into something that he had no comprehension of.

His head turned from side to side, making a regal sweep of the crowd, and he saw what had to be thousands of faces, faces of all kinds, faces all looking at him with a heartfelt expression. Was it hope? It might have been, but Dim was too overcome, too uncertain of himself to identify it. Had he thought about it, Dim might have reached the conclusion that this moment was too absurd to be real: an Equestrian aristocrat—a prince—an exile from his home, emerging from the junkiest cargo freighter in existence and then being welcomed with all of this.

At the bottom of the gangplank, the music came to an abrupt halt as an enormous minotaur kneeled down upon one knee before Dim, who halted and waited. From behind, Blackbird bumped into him, and Dim’s mouth went dry as the minotaur laid a terrifying mace upon the ground.

“Your Majesty, I am General Maksimillian, and I am to escort you to the Royal Palace.”

Just as Dim was about to respond, the music exploded again and the orchestra-laden wagons began to move. The crowd parted as if by magic, revealing a road of smooth cobblestones leading to the gatehouse and the open gate that welcomed him into the city proper. The minotaur picked up his mace, raised it high, turned on his hooves, and began to march. Dim fell into line behind him, and soldiers seemed to materialise out of the crowd all around them, forming a protective phalanx.

Dim, having been crushed by ceremony and circumstance, was rendered powerless. Now, there was no choice but to follow—to obey—and the wagons with the orchestra led the way. It was a grand spectacle and Dim understood the purpose; it had been done for the sake of the subjects of this city. Pomp was a great restorative of morale, a great replenisher of the soul. His arrival was being exploited as some reason to celebrate. Who was behind this—and why—remained to be seen.

Ahead, the white hand grew ever larger, and Dim wondered if this had something to do with the Black Hand that he had learned about. There was magic here, raw, strange, primal; it left his horn tingling and the air felt like a lurking thunderstorm could manifest at any moment. Blackbird was devouring this attention, waving at the crowd, and the phalanx had to move her along when she stopped.

The many towers within the city were topped with minarets and elaborate domes. All around him, there was a surprising amount of colour, with much variation in the stone. Mosaics were everywhere, and vast murals, one of which was still being constructed. Even though he had to march with the phalanx, Dim tried to see what it was.

A stylised unicorn could be seen, and it was surrounded by minotaurs. Swirls representing magic could be seen, and the minotaurs had weapons of all kinds. The mural depicted minotaurs fighting minotaurs, with a particularly large one being struck down by magic, arrows, and what appeared to be gunfire. It was a magnificent mural, and though unfinished, it appeared to have been constructed with a great deal of care.

Something about the mural spoke to Dim, though he could not say why.

What was this place and why would alicorns have built it? Why a hand? What purpose could this place have served? When had this place been built? What sort of hand was this? Why was it reaching skyward? The hand was so big that Dim wasn’t sure how large it was. It had to be more than five-hundred feet tall, but not more than maybe seven-hundred and fifty. For a construction of what appeared to be shaped stone, it seemed to be impossible in scope and scale. It was leaning a little and each of the fingers had a curve to them. Why hadn’t the structure crumbled or fallen apart during the no doubt thousands of years it had stood?

Dim’s magical intuition screamed at him that this structure was old.

The base of the hand was clever construction; what appeared to be a gold bracelet was wrapped around it, and two ornate doors that mimicked a clasp could be seen. As the procession approached, the doors swung open, and Dim was filled with an unknowable dread. The music was still blaring, drowning his senses, making it difficult to concentrate or think. Somepony had gone through a great deal of trouble to make all of this happen, perhaps too much trouble just to kill him, but it was hard to be certain.

Soon, he would cross a threshold and perhaps it would be too late to turn back.

Passing through the doorway, Dim found himself in a curious room. It was far too big, far too inviting to be secure, making this an odd palace. There was a fountain at the center, a place to wash ones hooves, or feet, paws, or whatever the case may be. A bad case of the jitters overcame him as the door was shut behind him, but thankfully he had Blackbird as a distraction. Before he could stop her, she dove into the massive ornate fountain and began to splash around.

The room was populated by several minotaurs, a few diamond dogs that were not quite diamond dogs, a few unicorns of no importance, and one cloaked, hooded unicorn of terrifying power that dwarfed his own. Dim removed his hat and noticed that the room was rather, well, dim, which seemed odd for such a welcome, or perhaps they knew about the peculiarities of his vision, the weakness his eyes had for the light.

Cawing with pleasure, Blackbird did more than wash her hooves and talons: she rolled over in the shallow water and began to flap her wings, wetting them. Dim was mortified, but what could he do? One of the minotaurs began to laugh, and another joined him. The cloaked, hooded unicorn let out a chuckle as well, and in doing so, revealed that she was a mare.

“Welcome to the Palace of the White Hand,” the unicorn said as she pulled back her hood to reveal herself.

Dim saw… himself. For a moment, he thought about killing her, as it was all too obvious who and what she was. The mismatched eyes, the dark grey pelt, the black mane, she was everything the Dark Ideal demanded and in his panic, Dim had trouble breathing. For a second, his horn flared to life, flickered a bit, and then blazed with brilliant intensity.

“If he kills me, he is not to be harmed. Am I understood?” the mysterious mare said to all present. “Go on, Dim. Do as thou wilt. Continue as thine heart commands. I will do nothing to stop you.”

She had no protections that Dim could sense, no defenses, she had left herself vulnerable when she had presented herself to him. Confused, Dim took a step backwards and for just a brief second, he gave serious consideration to killing her. The last thing he had expected to find was a fellow Dark, but here she was, and here he was, and now everything was awkward.

“Had I actually wished you harm, I think you know that you’d be dead by now,” the mare said in a voice of cool calm and she began to close the distance between herself and Dim. “I am Eerie Dark, and I was, and still am, your mother’s sister. I’ve waited so long to see you in pony… face to face… I have longed to have family again. It’s been so long.”

“I do not know you,” Dim said, and he was troubled by just how much his voice cracked and wavered.

“But I know you… and I have been watching you for a long, long time now. I have watched you as you have begun to recover… just as I had to recover. I too, crossed the world, fleeing in fear of what I left behind. I too, tried to outrun my hurts. I found friends, companions, and over time, I began to heal. Now I want more than friends… I want family again. You have proven yourself worthy.” Eerie lifted up her hoof in a sweeping gesture and continued, “There will be proper introductions later, when you are a bit more settled, but these are my friends and I trust them with my life. No one here wants to harm you, Dim.”

In the fountain, the-certainly-not-drunk-Blackbird continued to roll and splash around.

“I need a little time to myself.” Dim looked into the eyes that mirrored his own and felt a chill in some part of him that wasn’t physical. He pulled the goggles from his eyes, held his head high, and attempted to stare into the soul of Eerie Dark. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you leave?”

Eerie’s ears fell, her eyes closed, and her head dropped level to her body. “I grew tired of my father and my uncle’s nightly visits to my bed.”

Upon hearing this, Dim was uncertain of what she meant; her father and her uncle, or her father, who was also her uncle? With the Darks, after what he had learned, it was hard to tell. He took a cautious step closer and discovered something odd within himself, a peculiar condition where he had a sincere desire to comfort her. This was odd, confusing, and made even worse when he realised that she had answered him in front of all those who were watching and listening. When her eyes opened once more, Dim found that he had trouble breathing.

“Why didn’t you get help?” he whispered and the sound of his own raspy voice was almost too much for him to bear. “Why didn’t you go to Princess Celestia? Why?”

“Why didn’t you?” Eerie replied.

Why didn’t he? Why hadn’t he? He had ran away. Blind, terrified of Princess Celestia and her rumoured fury, he had ran away. Fearful, afraid, shamed, manipulated by the words of his mother, Dim had ran away rather seek out help. He could only assume that Eerie had done the same. It bothered him in some horrible, fundamental way that he had this understanding. Even worse, Dim suffered several rapid fire epiphanies that were almost too much to bear.

“Come, let me show you to your room, Dim. Maybe we can talk a little more along the way. I hope you can forgive me for being impatient, but I really want to know you. I’d like to have your trust and your affection—”

“Why do you want these things?” Dim demanded.

A sad smile spread over Eerie’s face as she lifted her head. “Because I am desperate to heal…”

Author's Notes:

Blackbird.