Life within the Night Court was relatively uneventful, so far as the black stallion was used to. Oh, each night was a revelry, the gypsy-born of the Night Court kicking their heels and spiraling to hauntingly beautiful melodies beneath the full moon, but he did not partake of their light hearted festivities. Ah, he could have, it would have given him a hoof into slipping amongst their ranks with ease, the raven blending among the crows, but he found himself queerly without desire or willpower to do so. His flame of desire, the spark that drove him from the earth, to leave his land of rebirth, that spark that drove him to cling to life and ignore the despairing fate he was damned to... it had all but faded away. It lingered like such things of dark and twisted emotion do, a cinder pulsing beside his heart, but it was barely enough to drive his limbs to rise each morning. He moved through the motions of life with disinterest and detached boredom, stringing himself along, feigning distant friendliness to those faces he met and could no longer be bothered to recall. He had come to the festivities with the vague intention of beginning his search, but after a span of simply gazing at the fire and dancing equines, he knew that was not why he had come, for he, the great Pretender, one who had sparked a Great War and who had seamlessly stolen the heart of his enemy's general... could not even be bothered to so much as think of beginning his grand mechanations. So he kept to the edges of the fire's light, watching from the gloom as mares and stallions spun around flickering light, as cinders wafted into the night sky to join their brethren in the stars.

   Finally, the black stallion slipped away through the dark of the night, abandoning the populated courtyard of the Keep, moving through halls of rough stone so vastly different than the gilded marble he remembered. He had obtained his purpose, or so he had thought, so why did this hollow sensation persist? Why did his chest constrict as ghost of memories flickered behind his eyes, overlaying the world he saw with one he once had known? He knew of pain, knew that should he lash his horns upon his leg he would bleed and feel agony, but he knew not quite how to cope with this pain that came within, from no physical blow. So he tried to suppress it, but found the emptiness it left behind to be just as wretched. 

   For the first time, the raven wished he had never awoken from his slumber.

   Almost immediately he scorned himself for such thoughts, for he had and always would cling to life with a selfish grip that would not be denied... but the sentiment remained. What was he to do, if not find those who's blood bore the sins of their ancestors and punish them for damning him to this wretched existence? Serve this Night Court as he once had a nameless realm so long ago? He had already tasted the cruel punch of the hand that had fed him, felt it's blow even when he had kept his head bowed and teeth hidden. No... he could not and would not expose himself to such pain again, such betrayal. He would feign it, but never again would he give his utter devotion to another. Aimless he wandered the halls, lost in his thoughts, mindlessly moving if only so his legs would not fold beneath him in surrender, until his hooves once more carried him out into the open air, this time onto the battlements of the Keep. The wind was gentle and soft in his dark locks, the moon's light caressing his healing hide lovingly, but to him it all felt and looked grey and bleak. He stood upon the battlements of the Keep like a wraith in the night, lit only by moonlight and the faintest glow from the torches in the hall, letting the night take and hold him with gentle arms. For all that the world had changed, the moon she remained the same, and he surrendered himself into her arms with an audible sigh.

   It was the cut-flower sound of a man waiting to die.

I am the villain of this story
What else could i ever be