“Dad!” Horst rushed to him, her horn glowing. “They’re coming.”
Indium grunted and stood up. “Not on our watch.” He turned to Citrine. “Stay here. Protect the house.”
His wife nodded, her hooves gripping a rifle. She slinked back into her hidden position—a small foxhole in the wall.
Indium swivelled back to Horst. “Horst! Follow me!”
“B-But dad! What’s the plan?!” Horst gasped, her lungs caught by her dad’s tug.
“I’ll protect you!” Indium threw Horst over his back, wincing a little, “And you...will teach them a lesson for trying to take our livelihoods away!”
She righted herself up on his back. “I won't let you down, dad,” Horst replied, ardent. She held his neck with her hooves as he galloped, caressing his fur, while her horn sparked with drive. “And I won’t let them hurt you.”
“Love you, Horst,” Indium whispered, before he caught sight of the interlopers—his old friends—ready to mince him with magic. He threw up a shield in a blink of an eye. “But now’s not the time, dear.”
A blast of fire slammed mercilessly against his shield, heat seeping into his fur. In a flurry, Indium spun back, and the fire was dissipated.
“Ah, Indium Indigo…remember us?” a voice rang. “Or maybe you don’t, because you’re an emotionless freak who cares nothing about us.”
“Blaze,” Indium muttered under his breath. He slid Horst off his back, her horn fizzling by his side. He took a step forward, between the group of purple and his daughter. “Why have you come?”
“Why!?” Blaze laughed. “Many reasons. Obviously, the Grand Master of the Mystic enlisted everyone to attack, including the Motic Research Wing!”
“Oh, Steadfast, that old chappie,” Indium stood his ground, “About time he surfaced from politics.”
“Says you,” spat the mare, “But more than that, everyone just wants the opportunity to rip you from limb to limb, after how you treated us back then!”
Fire surged forward.
Indium flinched and gritted his teeth.
But nothing came.
"No pony talks to my dad like that!" Horst scowled, her horn blazing with aura.
"Dad?" Blaze burst out laughing. "Oh look everyone, Inquisitor Indium Indigo harbouring a unicorn!"
His entourage laughed with him. Indium did not.
"Not just any unicorn," Indium seethed. "She's my daughter."
"Oh really now?" another pony spoke up. "Sir Indium, a tyrant over nitty-gritty details in paperwork and presentation, is keeping a unicorn daughter as a pet!"
"YOU TAKE THAT BACK!" Horst's horn flared, shooting a concentrated beam of magic that penetrated her father's own shield. The pony dropped in pain, howling.
The rest of the Mystics didn't take any chances after that.
"Horst, stop." She turned and saw her father's lips quivering. "Please, stop."
"Why?!"
"Oh? The stone-faced stallion is now facing remorse for the first time in his career!" Blaze called out, from behind his own shield.
"Blaze." Indium's voice was cautious, and grainy. "As...old colleagues...please, just stop."
"Screw you," Blaze yelled back. "I went through Tartarus as your deputy head. I’m not going to listen to a phoney fogey!"
Indium's heart stopped. Anger seared through his soul. His blood was fire. His veins burnt with intent. Yet his voice was but a whisper. "You will pay for that."
He dropped his shield, and lunged forward.
"DAD!" Horst burst forward, her horn desperately trying to protect her father with shields.
Her shield bore the brunt of the assault of magical batteries thrown at them.
It didn't matter. Indium blared out in a guttural cry as he barreled through the frontline, smashing through shields like a hammer to glass.
He showed no mercy. He pulverised anyone who got near. Disable. Maim. Then kill.
His sides roared in pain. He didn't listen.
His enemies were a never-ending stream. Once faces he could attach names to, now bodies he wouldn't place gravestones on.
How dare they expose him, a tyrant, before a daughter he so beloved? How dare they come to remind him of the past he never wished to possess? How dare they desire to take his daughter away from him?
He needed to kill them. All of them.
His hooves were heated. His runic gauntlet was smoking.
Impale. Sever. Slash. Burn. Drown. Poison. Destroy. Obliterate. Devastate. Decapitate.
He fell to the ground.
The ground was silent.
He heard crying, but he felt no pain.
He rolled over and saw a shadow cast over his mane.
She lit her bloodied horn with a soft vibrant jingle.
Pain flowed through him once again. It was a sore, aching pain coming from all over his body.
Her mouth moved, but he heard nothing.
He lifted his hooves, and dragged her down, hugging the mare he was oh so proud.
His face was wet, with tears dripping down into his open lips.
He swallowed, the saline elixir racing down his throat.
He wished he could stay here forever.
He wished she could too.
Minutes passed, if time could hazard any meaning for the fallen. Even in consolation, consolidating black spots surfaced in his vision, threatening to sever her sight away from him.
This must not do. He clasped his eyelids shut, and forced them open again. Silently, he prayed and urged for her to remain in his vision.
The darkness tauntingly greeted him.
He could feel his heart sink below the bedrock, to find solace in the warmth of the mantle below. Empty, his soul desperately searched for an inner meaning to all his eternal suffering.
He felt weightless, and free-floating. He felt…nothing. Was this how it was like to ascend and die?
His ears could hear a soft jingle that seemed to chorus over and over again, in a stark, unending cycle. It seemed fitting for a being who believed in the reincarnation of spirits.
He breathed. The air tasted acidic, and it burned his tongue slightly with a dry, metallic aftertaste. Perhaps that was a sign of what was to come. A sign—an endpoint he had deserved. As it was fair to everyone in the end. No one could ever be free of their sins, he recalled. He gasped.
Suddenly, the air was fresh and vibrant. It was pleasant and healing. It was…comforting.
He could hear whispers chiming at the back of his ears, silent songs serenading searching souls.
They hummed and cooed, cascading into a mixture of solitude, remorse, and anguish.
They painted pictures of his past life, his imagination filling up the gaps in his memory. Hindsight, a vaulted history, resolved to convince him that he was always wrong. His vision became a whirl of grayscale colours, refracting and reflecting upon his own perceived reality.
It was up to him to judge himself, as he had done for many ponies down his life, and absolve his guilt.
He steadied and readied himself.
It was time to begin.