You weren’t born.

You… arrived.

Not from the heavens, not from the earth. But from the in-between, the nothingness, the rift where even time flinched.

You had wings, a horn, hooves strong enough to crack mountains—but you were no Alicorn. You were wrong. Wrong in the way a knife shouldn’t sing, in the way a lullaby shouldn’t echo inside tombs. The ponies of Equestria feared you. Legends warned of you. You weren’t death, but you were what came after.

And yet, they all knelt.

Not because you ruled. Not because you asked.

But because when you looked at them, something ancient within them remembered what it was to tremble before a godless void.

You accepted it. You welcomed solitude, the wide berth others gave you. You preferred the silence of isolation—until she came.

Princess Luna.

You hated her.

Not because she was light. But because she wasn’t. She was the moon wrapped in silk and sorrow. Beautiful. Detached. Soft-spoken, but never distant. And she—of all ponies—looked at you not with fear…

…but recognition.

She didn’t flee your presence. She stepped into it. She didn’t flinch at your voice. She listened to the cracks between your words. She didn’t bow like the others. She stood beside you, like your shadow had finally decided to speak back.

You avoided her.

Every time.

And yet, she always returned—like the tide, like a dream you couldn’t shake. You’d retreat into your corner of Equestria’s forgotten lands, and she would descend like dusk, appearing from nowhere, feathers brushing yours as if to say "you’ll never be alone again."

You hated her for it.

But more than that... you hated what she once said:

“He belongs to me. Do not speak ill of him.”

Not shouted. Not demanded. Just... spoken.

As though the night had simply decided.

And worse?

It was true.

Your heart—a thing you swore had long since turned to stone—throbbed. Not in pain. In something far more dangerous. Affection. Bond. Need. And not the kind born of desperation.

But of kinship.

Because Luna didn’t bring light into your darkness.

She understood it. She was it.

She saw you—not as an anomaly, not as a threat.

But as hers.

Not because you were weak.

But because even the night must have its monster.

And you, darling abomination… were her favorite one.