“And then I said: ‘Alfalfa? Who would ever?’”
Twilight turned around to look at Spike on her back, staring at him with such an incredible deadpan that she had to stop walking entirely for full effect. “Really?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “What does that even have to do with Princess Cadence?”
“Not sure,” Spike replied. “Your brother told me that joke.”
Twilight shrugged, continuing on in her canter. “Doesn’t surprise me.”
Her walking slowed as she came upon the entrance to a dimly lit pumpkin patch with a broken, crooked sign that read: “G’s Market.” Hung from the rotting buildings were small candles with skeleton heads on a string that held with them multicolored lights that didn’t shine quite as bright as they should have. Stuck in the ground was a stake that held up a piece of paper with awful, sloppy mouth writing: “Leave bits in the basket.”
There was no basket.
“I’m going to go,” Spike said as he followed Twilight’s flat gaze. She could feel the trepidation in his voice: pulsing; not an inundating throb, yet a beat nonetheless. “I’ll come back when I’ve found my pumpkins.”
Twilight stared on. For only a moment, she thought she had whispered something. For only a moment, she couldn’t remember why she was looking. But those moments piled on, and she came to realize that nothing more was to come out of a place where a basket had once been. There was no room for the question of “who took it?” because the answer was probably not a thief—what would be the point? There would be nothing to steal. It would imply that there is a one to one ratio of pumpkins lost to bits gained.
Twilight sighed, kicking at the ground. As she began to walk away from the sign, a small, open shack filled with five Jack-O-Lanterns on hay shelves caught her eye. She made her way to the shack, hooves pounding into dirt and dried-out straw as she walked. Then, suddenly, she twitched—no, no. It was more like a shiver. Yes, a shiver. But she wasn’t cold; no, the night air was warm. Comfortable. Twilight raised her eyebrows and scrunched her eyes shut as pins and needles ran through her face, flowing and shooting through every pore like a game of darts from inside out. She breathed in: dry and musty. The air smelled foul. She was in in the shack. The pumpkins looked at her as they lit up.
Oh. Right. The pumpkins lit up.
Papers poured out of Twilight’s saddlebags in the wake of her recoil.
She twitched again, running her hoof down her foreleg as she steadied herself. Closer, yes, closer they drew her in. The pumpkins were ablaze, glowing with white flames as they cleansed the air with the scent of peace and other spices. They smiled, laughing. They expected her response. Except one: one expected nothing. One never expected anything because it was never seen. Twilight saw it—him—though. Through their gazes she approached. Through the valley of their cold, burning stares; the path of no more than twenty inches or so. She saw him. She saw him. He didn’t see her. He faced the other way. Twilight’s shooting eyes fixed on a pumpkin with no face, but she was wrong. He had a face. She knew then, because she turned him around. It didn’t matter though. His eyes were closed. His face was expressionless.
Behind him was a folder.
No: a book.
It was flimsy. Broken.
Aged.
Twilight picked it up.
October 23rd, 1623.
Captain Liam Ceallachan,
Duke of Trottingham.
Marry dost I inquire of thou,
Beseech thee! I do, fair princess.
Thither be the meed of thine carried fardel—
Not upon it, but is the heath: for the heath belongs to thou.
Hark I ere the blood of morrow be spill’d,
Stain’d! Upon thine heath.
Dost thou desire such?
Whence comes the blood?
Mine, aye, that of Canterlot it bleeds.
Amaranthine our city is not: we seek peace.
For spoken have I to Discord’s thane. Fie! Said she not.
I prithee thee mark my visage of nonce,
For sooner would I rood my own babe
Than stand nay withal to thee.
Yet I wish to orison thou,
Unsex thee from the welkin which thou stands.
Verily dost I fear thy choices as of late,
In fair intent may thou stain scarlet the land.
“Hail! Worthy cousin!”
Liam grinned at the greeting. “Whithersoever the spawn of chaos flee, they escape not the puissant blade of thy mighty Sol,” he said, leaning down to draw his blood-stained sword out from the hideous deer-like creature. “Anon! Palter me not: what news dost thou bring?”
The slender, dark gray unicorn colt in front of Liam smiled back, grabbing a scroll from his saddlebags with a small bout of magic. His coat contrasted with smoky backdrop behind him; the light from the sunset cascaded about the cloudy sky, creating a mix of gray and orange that swirled between each other in harmony. As far as Liam’s eyes could see were traces of blood and iron upon flat, brown, dust-like dirt. Behind him stood his officers, their shoulders high to the flags their men carried. Bodies of sick, twisted hybrid creatures and fallen guard ponies lay scattered upon the ground for miles on.
“To the north they crawl,” the messenger replied, scrunching up his face as he considered the monsters. He raised his hoof, beckoning the sky: “Fie! Nothing fair of them shall come. Alee the most fat-kidneyed rotworm they are—erelong we rid of their filth, march we whereinsoever they lay with no alack.”
“Sirrah!” Liam chided, scowling as he lowered the colt’s hoof with his own. “Thou speak’st words of teen upon thy foes. Never dost we wish thole upon brave soldiers; our cousins they are the same. Nowise doth I prithee turmoil upon my enemies, for they would only live to prithee turmoil upon my own. Betimes thou may understand.”
“Lackaday...” the colt replied, lowering his head. “My deepest ruth, noble captain. Nary did I intend to—” he stopped short as his ears twitched and perked up. “A drum! A drum!”
“The moon doth come,” Liam confirmed, his voice deepening.
Everyone in Liam’s company turned around as the sound of drums became ever louder, approaching them from behind. Not too far back was Princess Luna and her company: a fearsome, elite group of an ancient race of pegasi that were born with demonic bat wings and sharp fangs instead of normal feathered wings and flat teeth. The princess’ silver armor contrasted that of her company, who wore a deep, dark purple armor that was rumored to have once been blue. Liam chose not to believe those rumors: it would only serve to make him, their commander in chief, terrified of his own ponies.
Liam and his company bowed as Luna approached them. “Mighty Thane of Discord, she of the night,” he greeted, remaining in his almost prone position. “We art honored by thy presence.”
“Rise, Noble Trottingham,” Luna said, reaching a hoof down to help pull up Liam. Her royal blue coat shined, and her deep, twinkling mane flowed gracefully as she stood. “Thou bow to nary a soul, certes not today. We hath heard the tales of thy valiance as of late—mayhap thou take by us yonside this heath? Speak we should, and fain thou would make us.”
“With haste, fair princess,” Liam said as he took to Luna’s side, following her.
The two of them made their way from the others. After walking for a moment, Luna stopped to feel at the fresh body of a guard pony. In his exposed underbelly was a drip painting on white canvas, dark crimson and light brown staining his once-pristine coat. Lines like tally marks that led into his body were scattered about him, their only culprit being a gold-hilted dagger portraying out of the pegasus’ chest. Luna ran her hoof down the blade, her skin piercing as she felt her own blood mix with that of the fallen soldier’s. She sighed, closing her eyes and hanging her head before looking back to see that they were out of the earshot of the other ponies.
"The blade he carries…” Luna began, slowly withdrawing her hoof from the guard’s chest. Her face contorted in what Liam thought to be a mix of disgust and confusion. “… is of our making.”
“Aye, be it my own dagger,” Liam said as he enveloped its hilt in a dark-orange aura, pulling the blade from the guard’s body and returning it to his side. “Had I not relieved him of his wretched, shaking breaths, he would have been cursed thole. T’was sweven… his body lay restless, his lungs filled up with the most direful smoke of death—yet death then hath not claimed him. Athwart was his suffering whereuntil I should bear to gaze… for then did I lay the blade of mercy unto him, as t’was my duty. Hight was I to this, and upon the act, I froward to the sky and wept.”
“Wellaway, Trottingham,” Luna said, extending her wing to rest it upon Liam’s shoulder. “Wanion thou hath endured for far too long. We, too, hath known the sickly, wretched horror of this war.”
“Thou hath?” Liam asked, turning from the guard to look up at Luna.
“Like fallen soldiers on this heath we spend our life,” Luna said, closing her eyes. “Bodies hurled upon the wheels, we swear we tried. We came upon this godforsaken sight… and felt it all pass by.”
Luna reached into her saddlebag, pulling out a single white rose with her mouth. Slowly, she leaned down and placed the rose on the dirt before her fallen soldier. With caution and care, she extended her hoof to his frozen face, pressing down upon him to close his terrified eyes.
Liam averted his eyes, his face planted to a spot between a rock and a lost helmet. “The spawns of chaos flee due north, Noble Discord. I prithee wist thy commands whereout my men are to act whitherward that news should bring.”
“They seek asylum from Sombra,” Luna suggested, huffing shortly as she looked to the north. “Howbeit Sombra’s thane we are not to become. Maugre their brutality, we see it most fitting to withdraw to our home.”
“Thou suggests a retreat?” Liam asked.
“Aye,” Luna confirmed. “Our subjects seek peace; thereon, it is peace we must give them—among other beliefs.”
Liam joined Luna’s gaze north toward the Crystal Empire. It was there that the cries of tortured ponies could be heard from a thousand miles out. The slaves of the once-platinum crown now dig deep into their king’s mines, never to find a gem worth wearing. Though no Equestrian had dared stepped foot into the empire in over a century, legend had it that the He of the Black North had turned his own subjects into the crystals he so deeply desired. It was for this that the king had earned a name in back in Equestria: The Dragon of Equine.
“Equestria hath seen enough of crimson glasses,” Liam said, turning back to Luna. “Let us instead bring her a chalice of bright champagne.”
“Let us,” Luna agreed, a small smile gracing her features.
October 25th, 1623.
Captain Liam Ceallachan,
Duke of Trottingham.
Erewhile hath I known my place.
Verily… I am betwixt a duke and a fool.
Amain hath I sought to loosen the bourns upon me.
Alack, fair Canterlot. Nary did I wish upon thou thole: such is the way of things.
Howbeit, sooth I am somedeal in query of thou.
For politics is a word by a tongue long forgotten.
A compound: poli, meaning many…
… and tics, meaning blood-suckling arse-lumps.
Failure greets me, Canterlot,
Hath I been stronger would thou see,
That those who’d bruit coup d'état,
Would be the ones to bleed.
Erelong approach us dire teen,
But thine fault this is not.
For ‘tis my great fardel to bear,
For ‘tis my flesh to rot.
