A tale's end.

It isn't often that a story ends with the death of its protagonist, at least not the stories sung by the bards or written in the common books. This one proved to be no different. However, unlike the other stories, this wasn't the tale of one born with great power tearing down the evil of their homeland, nor that of a simple commoner rising and winning against the otherwise impossible. This is the story of one who has done nothing but flee. And flee he did. From the responsibilities of his early life and the ever-looming certainty of early death; From the destruction of his home and the extinction of his kind; From the last embrace of whom he loved at his own deathbed. Zerathur trudged and grumbled along with the passage of time even after life was returned into his body, the dull presence within flickering out any sliver of decisiveness that came to spark. But a decision was made, one that was not his own nor any other's. The flow of psionic energies in this world has lowered over the last century, thanks to the demise of those who used it to power the engines of progress. Crystals grow denser, trees quieten, animals weaken... Or, well, that was the case until Fate decided to attend to matters with its own hands. From the South came rain and thunder, a storm of such magnitude rarely witnessed by those who lived in Equestria. And when the light of day finally returned, flowers of untold colors blossomed, birds sung with renewed vigor above city and meadow alike. The Zerg Overmind was dead. Not by strike nor spell, a great evil that threatened all life in this world was felled. Its death ripped apart the last of the Khaladrin crystals still exposed from the long-gone Nova Antioch Reactors, thus releasing the wave of energy that created the aforementioned great storm. "The Overmind thought itself to death. So focused was it at machinating a scheme to take over the world, trying to make sure that every single step and stroke was perfect, that it eventually forgot to continue its life functions. The creature's heart forgot to beat." Adeena's explanation felt all too brief as the four stood before a great carcass left to rot in the middle of golden ruins. Zerathur, Adeena, Karliah, Spore... Only the first two had ever witnessed Nova Antioch's spires before their fall, and never did they expect to return to its rubble. It's been nearly ten years since I've been writing Zerathur's tale, and much like the others, it does not end with his death. The character hasn't changed, but the world around him has, and it will continue to do so as time marches forth. But... I don't think Zerathur needs to flee from anything anymore, and he probably feels the same by now. The reclamation of Aiur is soon to commence, and it's about time to retire from Equestrian lands.