Of Defenestration

by RavensDagger

Rating: everyone
Tags: Princess Celestia, Spitfire, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Featherweight, Romance, Comedy, Adventure
Length: 7223

Celestia flies West.

Fresh out of the Academy, Featherweight's finally got his wings, figuratively, of course. He’s now a first-class Navigator, with no idea of where he’s going with his own life, much less an airship. Fat load of good those classes did.

Much to his dismay, The Sol Aeternus, flagship of Celestia herself, plucked him off the streets as soon as he made it out the door.

The diplomatic mission to the western lands of the Crown runs afoul when the Aeternus meets an angry fleet. With few other options, and none of them good, Celestia, Spitfire, and the worst navigator on the ship escape west, directly into Crown—and maybe enemy—territory.

Written in the same timeline as: Of Solicitude

Published 2013-12-11 18:30:04 UTC
Last updated 2013-12-11 18:30:04 UTC

Airships Burning

Featherweight shuddered, his white hooves bloodlessly grasping the railing of the swaying ship. With a sudden jerk, the young stallion threw himself halfway over the railing. The bar dug into his chest as the contents of his stomach unceremoniously slipped overboard. Why’d I have to come here? he lamented before slumping back onto the deck.

A few sailor ponies trotted by him, circling around with hoof or wing over their mouths. He gazed at them through hazy, tear-filled eyes, his mouth agape and drooling as he tried to rid himself of the vile taste of his regurgitated breakfast. His eyes blinked in surprise when he noticed that their expressions were filled with pity rather than disgust or revulsion. Navigators got their own little slice of loneliness on big ships. He was barely even considered part of the crew.

I’m not made for this, Featherweight thought. I don’t care how many diplomats and important ponies are on this boat, I just want to go home. He grumbled, turning away from the sailors. His eyes widened as he took in the view spread out before him.

Everything was blue and white. The sun was high in the sky, hidden behind a thick swath of clouds that banked to the west, the same direction the ship was facing. Following the path made by the sky brought his eyes to the silvery line of the horizon, one that seemed to dive straight into the bright turquoise waters of the Pacified Ocean, where sharp white waves moved about above the barely discernable flashes of colourful fish underwater.

Wow, it’s beautiful, he thought, before kneeling over and vomiting again.

Featherweight’s trip had not started all that well; he had not actually wanted to board this vessel at all. He would have preferred to be on one of the two escort ships flying behind. At least then I wouldn’t be on the big, scary ship. And they have less navigators. I’d actually do something other than mope around....

The heavy thump of brisk hoofsteps startled him out of his reverie. As soon as the clops reverberated throughout the area, a noticeable change overtook the sailors, each becoming stiff-legged and slowing to crawl-like speeds.

Featherweight perked his ears and lifted his head to peer through a lock of his brown mane. Four yellow hooves were planted near him, supporting a cleanly pressed blue uniform that he vaguely recognized. “Are you okay, soldier?” The voice was rough, coarse, and distinctly feminine.

He nodded and said, "Yeah, I'm alright." Featherweight rubbed his eyes with the back of his hoof, clearing his vision. When he opened them once more, he gasped, choked on his own spittle, and bent over coughing.

Th-that’s... that’s Spitfire! his mind screamed even as he looked up again between fits of coughing.

The captain of the Wonderbolts stood above him, tall and proud in her navy blue officer’s uniform. The sun glinted off her aviator glasses, which hid her eyes even as they framed her frown. “Are you sure? You’re rather red in the face,” she said before touching his forehead with a hoof.

Best. Day. Ever! Featherweight tried not to smile too much or tremble as the mare returned her hoof to the ground. Oh no, I-I have to say something. Oh, Celestia, no. I always say something stupid. He began to fidget. “Um, I, uh, I’ve never flown before,” he managed.

One of her eyebrows poked out from behind her glasses. He saw her head shift to glance at his back, from which sprouted two unkempt wings. “On an airship, I mean. Over the sea, and stuff....”

“What’s your rank, colt?” she asked, turning her head to stare down the length of the small deck.

“I... I don’t have one, Miss Spitfire,” Featherweight said. He pushed himself to his hooves and tried to smile at his heroine. She glared at him in return and stood with her chest puffed out to display her many medals and tokens of rank.

“No rank?” she repeated, shaking her head from side to side, her disappointment lodging in Featherweight's gut like a needle. “You can tell me about it later. Follow me.”

The mare walked by him, her fiery orange tail flicking at the air below his muzzle while his eyes trailed upwards into hers. “Now,” she ordered, pointing with her head to a nearby doorway.

Featherweight coughed against his dry throat and trotted after her on shaky legs. This is it. All this time wasted. I should’ve run away when they had asked me. Spitfire bit the large fly-wheel in the door’s centre and spun it around, unlocking the massive, gilded door.

Light poured onto the little balcony where they stood, when she opened the doorway and stepped aside. The young stallion blinked against the brightness as he entered.

The Sol Aeternus was, quite possibly, the most luxurious ship ever built, rivalled only by her sister ship, the Battleship Selenic. Its cleanliness was due, in part, to the flagship’s owner, Celestia, being onboard at that very moment. The outside of the ship was a three-tiered mosaic of balconies and large, thick windows that gave hints of beautiful staterooms and offices fit for royalty. Despite that, Featherweight had rapidly learned that not all of the Sol Aeternus was frills and fanciness.

The interior of the vessel was sparse, painted only in drab greys, with touches of gunmetal on some of the more important pieces of equipment. The room he found himself in was a perfect example of that.

Spitfire trotted by him and into the long corridor that bisected the ship, the top of her mane almost touching one of the rigid titanium beams that held the vessel together. “Come,” she said over the thumping of her hooves on the metal grated floor.

Featherweight hesitated until the airtight door slammed itself shut behind him and its lock spun around, clanking in place. “Yes, Ma’am!” He sped up until he was right behind Spitfire, catching up just as the mare came to a halt beside a door with the words MESS HALL printed above. She opened it, instantly releasing a flood of flavourful odours.

He licked his lips while his stomach kindly reminded everypony within earshot that his last meal had recently gone overboard. Ponies—only a small portion of the ship’s crew—were lined up at the front of the room waiting for the very large cook to place a few steaming plates on their trays. Across the room, long tables were bolted to the ground, some of them already taken by talking and eating ponies.

All sound in the mess ceased the moment Spitfire entered. Spoons hovered by mouths and ponies froze with cups already at their lips, all of them staring at Spitfire with wide-eyes. “At ease,” she grumbled. They snapped out of attention, but continued to eat in a calmer, more subdued manner.

Featherweight kept his head low as he followed the authoritative mare, aware that he was getting a few quizzical looks from the soldiers and sailors in the room. Great, now I’m going to be the talk of the ship. The pegasus who’s scrawny, who can’t fly well, and who can’t even take care of himself. I’ll bet that even Spitfire’s only doing this because she doesn’t want to see my pitiful face around.

Spitfire trotted to the edge of the kitchen and waved to the chef, who smiled in response and opened the door into the kitchen proper.

The enticing scent of cooking cabbage and baking pastries hit Featherweight’s empty stomach like a sack of bricks to the muzzle. He tumbled forward, limbs feeling light as air and incredibly clumsy as his world swam. Spitfire placed a hoof on his shoulder, supporting him with a firm, but comforting grip. “Whoa there, soldier. Take your time,” she said as she guided him beyond the closed ovens and the tables covered in half-finished meals.

They trotted to the back, where a pair of fridges jutted out of the wall, and a single young stallion in a dirty white shirt was assaulting a monumentus pile of dishes with gusto. “Sit,” Spitfire ordered as she pushed him to his rump.

He did not try to resist, sitting hard on the metallic floor and twiddling his hooves as he watched Spitfire’s head disappear into one of the fridges. His eyes wandered along her lithe body before snapping away. He licked his lips.

She popped out of the fridge, clutching a metal can with her wingtip. “Here, colt, drink some of this,” she said before placing the can at his hooves. “It tastes bad, but it’ll get rid of your nausea.”

Featherweight looked at the can, his mouth opening and closing uselessly. “Thanks, Miss Spitfire,” he finally said.

She grinned at him, the same smile he had seen on countless posters—the sort of posters he wouldn’t dare show his mother. “Thanks, kid, but don’t call me ‘Miss’. I’m too young for that. Call me Captain Spitfire.”

He gave her a stiff nod. “So, colt, what’s your name?” she asked. “And what’s the problem with your rank, or lack thereof?”

“M-my name’s Featherweight, Mis— Captain. And I was only brought on board a few hours before departure.”

Spitfire tilted her head, then made a show of gently removing her glasses and tucking them into the breast pocket of her uniform. “A few hours?” she pressed, her bright orange eyes piercing into him.

“Y-yes. Um, I was in the Crystal City, where the ship was docked. And I was all on my own, visiting the local library and taking some pictures. The head navigator and his second got sick with a cold, so they couldn’t board. So the ponies in charge had to find replacements. They found two others that have lots of experience in the city but I was there, and I have my navigator credentials, from the schools in Cloudsdale, they asked if I would come, too, in case the others got sick or something....” Featherweight babbled, the information quickly flooding out of him.

“Uh-huh. All right, I think I heard something about that through the grapevine. Now... what’s your name again, navigator?”

“Featherweight, Captain.”

She nodded and gave him a kind smile that made his heart do a backflip, somersault, and a contortion twist, all at the same time. “Pleased to meet you, Feather... Wait.”

She knows my name! his mind screamed as he became faint once more, a serene smile adorning his face.

In one swift movement, Spitfire was holding him in place with both forehooves. “Whoa there, Feather. Calm down. Just drink the thing I gave you and go rest a bit. The airsickness will pass,” she said before lowering him to the ground.

She hugged me! Spitfire hugged me! This is the best day ever! I’ll have to tell Pip when I return, he’s the one that liked this kind of fiasco. “Yes, Ma’am,” he squeaked after a few seconds of gleeful hesitation.

Spitfire backed away, staring at him with an abstract amusement crossing her features, like a mother watching her child’s first attempt at art. “You know, I was sick, too, the first time I got onto one of these airboats,” she whispered. “But an old friend of mine, a very old friend, gave me something very similar to what I just gave you, and in only a few minutes’ time, I was kicking, trotting, and galloping along with the best of them. Drink up, soldier.”

She’s so... nice. “Thanks, for everything,” he said again before grabbing the can with both wings and bitting off the cap. He upended the bottle, noticing too late the wince that crossed Spitfire’s face.

It was horrible.

A thick, viscous liquid filled every part of his mouth, flowing around like molasses in a blender. Every part of his tongue fired off, telling him that whatever it was that he had put into his mouth, it needed out, and now.

“Spit it out!” Spitfire ordered, losing her cool for a few moments.

He obeyed, sputtering and spraying everything within a metre in front of him with a thick layer of the green-brown ginger-smelling liquid. Everything, including Spitfire.

The mare blinked at him, her eyelashes sticking together while her mouth hung agape in surprise. Her hair, just moments ago the envy of young ponies everywhere, was now matted down and covered in the goopy substance while her proudly trimmed and sharply cut uniform was soaked in it. One of her medals dropped to the ground, the clatter muffled by its goo wrapping.

“Oops?” Featherweight said, cringing back and trying to make himself smaller. His rump bumped into a stack of dirty dishes precariously placed on the table behind him. With detached wonder, both he and Spitfire watched as the entire thing came tumbling down on the other side to crash and shatter on the once-clean floor, sending bits of fine china and leftover supper everywhere. “Oops?” he repeated as the cooks, the dishwasher, and one of the waiters turned to glare at him.

A deathly thick silence filled the kitchen and the mess hall, all eyes on him and the plastered Spitfire.

Nothing can save me now. Not even a goddess.

The intercom blurted, the ship-wide system echoing across the entire ship and bouncing off the metallic walls before a monotone male voice spoke. “Could one Captain Spitfire please report to the main deck? I repeat. Captain Spitfire to the main command room.”

Spitfire reached into the inner pockets of her jacket and pulled out her aviator goggles. With pristine patience, she unfolded them and slid them onto her face before rising to all fours. “Featherweight, was it?” she asked, not even bothering to face him.

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

“We’ll talk, later,” she said. There was no trace of venom in her voice, just pure, detached coolness. It was far worse. “In the meanwhile, confine yourself to the main hangar. There’s nothing you can mess up there.”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

Everypony watched as she trotted out of the kitchen, through the mess hall, and into one of the corridors beyond. The only sound was the constant thump of her hooves on steel as she slowly departed, not one of the dozen-odd ponies daring to even breath too loud.

“Oh, Luna. I’m such a screw-up,” Featherweight lamented, bowing over until his forehead thunked on the floor.

One of the chefs nodded his head. “Yes, and you can go be one elsewhere. Out! Out of my kitchen before you set the oven on fire and uncook my meals. Out!”

Tail between his legs, Featherweight recapped the bottle, placed it on the nearby table that had previously been covered in dishes, and raced out of the room, tears threatening to overwhelm him while his mind scrambled about, a jumbled mess.

No, no, no! This could not be any worse, he thought as he slid into the corridor and began galloping towards the rear of the ship.

He found himself in a blurry maze of heavy steel doors, where the thump of his hooves and the quiet drone of the ship’s engines ruled. Something in his foggy mind latched onto a sign as he approached a bend in the corridor, a sign reading HANGAR. He slowed to a halt long enough to unlock the door, throw it open, and sneak into the room.

The door clunked shut behind him, leaving him in almost total darkness, save for the scattered grey light slipping in from a pair of portholes. Mangled, abstract shapes were everywhere in the large room, taking up every corner and piece of floorspace up to the end, where everything ended on a pair of doors ten times his height.

Featherweight breathed evenly, calming his frayed nerves as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the partial darkness. Calm, calm down. It’s going to be fine. I have to stop overreacting and look at this for what it is. Yeah, just like she used to say. Her....

“Okay. Look at it for what it is,” he whispered, his voice echoing eerily across the room. So, I got airsick. That’s normal; lots of ponies get like that the first few times, even pegasi. And then I met Spitfire, that’s a good thing. I’ve always wanted to meet her. Yeah, that’s good. And then I got sick and spat on her.... Not so good. But I can make it up to her. He licked his lips and took another breath, watching as a puff of steam poured out of him.

The young stallion ventured forwards, cold air seeping up along his hooves from the metallic floor as he moved about slowly, surrounded by slumbering steel giants. The Sol Aeternus was not a warship, but as Celestia’s own flagship, she was more than capable of defending herself. Much of that ability came from what was held in that very room.

The hangar bisected the ship along the centre, wide and long, but short, just enough room to accommodate the twelve fighter planes docked there, all poised to take off at a moment’s notice. His eyes wavered over the insignia on the plane’s sides, the individual marks of every Wonderbolt, along with another mark, that of the Navigators.

Modern planes are special, he thought as he reached out to touch the stubby wing on one of the devices. They could fly and hover, like steel hummingbirds, but they required two ponies: a pilot, and a navigator to guide the way and watch over the instrumentation.

The ship shivered, a heavy clunk sounding out across the room, as if somepony had rammed a giant wrench against one of the support beams. That’s weird, he thought, pausing in his examination of the fighter planes.

The thump repeated, louder this time. The planes shivered in their moorings, and he felt the massive airship shift just a tiny bit. Something beyond the porthole flashed white and orange and red.

Trotting over, Featherweight reared up to place his face against the window to look out, blinking back against the bright, but cloudy, sky.

The sun was still out in force, warming his face as the light glinted off of a few grey objects in the sky. He narrowed his eyes and placed a hoof above them to block out the worst of the light, focusing on one of the objects just as a few flashes appeared at its side.

Thin white lines arced through the sky, gently dropping towards the Sol Aeternus until, just a few hundred metres off the side, they exploded.

Five gigantic explosions filled the sky beside the ship with smoke and flame as they expanded violently before fading into nothingness, leaving only a hole in the wispy clouds to mark their passing. A thunderous roar rocked the Sol Aeternus, making the ship recoil.

“W-we’re getting attacked?!” Featherweight said as he dropped back down. His jaw went slack and he began to tremble as he noticed more and more grey forms peeling out of the clouds above, like an angry swarm of parasprites.

The intercom screeched and the voice of a nervous stallion filled the air. “All ponies to battle stations. I repeat, all ponies to battle stations!”

Featherweight felt the Sol Aeternus shift underhoof as it began to sharply turn about, the entire deck tilting and making the planes buckle in their moorings. Celestia! What’s going on? I’m not even supposed to be here. I don’t want to die!

As he watched, the enemy warships formed up into a line, twelve ships strong, all of them armed with cannons made to tear ships like the Aeternus apart. He squinted, trying to see the ships in a clearer light, but catching only a glimpse of a blue line against the grey metallic sheets that covered them.

The doors to the hangar slammed open, and light filled the room as a dozen neon lights turned on. Featherweight spun around, staring with wide eyes as a dozen ponies raced in.

They wore the blue uniform of the Wonderbolts, modified to allow hoses and tubes to enter the skin-tight suit. Some slipped on full-faced helmets, while others just galloped or flew as quickly as they could towards their own craft. Behind them came the navigators, wearing similar outfits with thick furry fringes around their necks and dozens of pockets along their breasts. Two by two they filled the aircrafts and began calling out to one another, making quick instrument checks and hastily tapping fuel gauges over the building roar of engines starting.

Mechanics crawled across the room, dragging hoses filled with fuel and bucking the planes’ propellers to start them spinning. Five of them congregated around one plane, all of them staving off panic as they opened the engine housing and began hastily taking things apart in the already downed aircraft.

Featherweight bit his lips and backed up until his rump hit the wall. He didn’t belong here, not by a long shot. This was supposed to be a diplomatic mission, one to a foreign nation to help the ponies there and for Celestia to greet the new nobles, not a war outing. The Sol Aeternus was not made for battle, and they had left all but two escorts at the capitol.

“Oh Celestia, oh Celestia,” the young stallion chanted while the levels of frantic motion only grew.

The ship rocked again, ponies tumbling to the ground as the near misses glanced off of its side.

“Everypony, get in place!” a husky female voice screamed across the room, demanding order and making the pilots and mechanics jump. Spitfire stormed into the room, a fierce glare on her face as she stomped towards the front. “Get that gate open. Remove the wheel stops! You,” she said, pointing to the group fixing up one of the lead aircraft. “Are you almost done?”

One of them stood and saluted her with a grease-coated hoof. “Yes, ma’am! Two minutes, ma’am!”

“You have one,” Spitfire responded, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I want three diamond formations out there. Group one, pick the lead ship. Two, the middle. Three, the last. Spread out on approach and try not to get hit. The sea’s a long way down and we don’t have time to stop and pick up your sorry flanks if you mess up. No sloppy flying!”

More shells ripped through the air near the Aeternus, sending ponies reeling across the room, but Spitfire held her ground, coat flapping in the shaken air around her as her wings spread out for balance. “Open the main gate!” she ordered.

Two ponies rushed across the room and tackled control panels on either side of the hangar’s front. The front wall split open, allowing a howling wind to sweep through the hangar and batter everypony as it filled the room with a spinning tornado, which slowly faded a few moments later.

The serene sky and merciless sea became visible, all still beautiful and blue, despite the snaking lines of missed shells dropping by them.

“Catapults ready?” Spitfire asked, her voice cracking like a whip against those slowing down. Mechanics zipped across the room, quickly clamping large hooks onto the underside of every aircraft. Cords ran from the hooks to a hole near the end of the short, stubby runway that was deploying out of the ship’s front with a gentle slide.

“Ready!” one of the mechanics screamed.

“We’re done here!” said one of those fixing the downed plane. They screwed the housing back on and gave the rotor a quick spin. The plane’s engine barked to life and added its hum to the cacophony.

Spitfire nodded, and with all the patience of a saint, lifted a wing above her head as she placed herself before the aircraft, directly between the two paths of the runway. “Planes one, two, and three, go!” she shouted as her wing swept down, slicing the air.

The first three planes surged forwards, the pitch of their engines rising as the cords tied to them wrenched them forwards at a breakneck speed.

They blew past Spitfire, only hooflengths from her tiny frame on either side. The blowing wind of their passing pulled at her mane and tail, turning them into twin flames that played in the air behind her.

Featherweight watched with a dropped jaw as the aircraft were thrown out of the hangar, the stubby protrusions at their sides springing open and unfurling into pairs of tarp wings that bellowed and snapped as they caught air.

The third plane was veering up to catch its comrades when something slammed into it from above, exploding, instantly vaporizing the aircraft. Tendrils of smoke poured out and bits of metal decorated the air where the plane had been. The explosion rocked into the hangar before fading.

Spitfire ground her teeth and spun away from the entrance, glaring at the next planes. “Planes four, five, and six, you’re up!”

Three more blasted out of the Aeternus, thunder and a calamitous wind left in their wake as they pulled up and out of sight. Featherweight picked himself up off the ground and looked back out the port hole. They were returning fire, a few thin lines of smoke trailing up and away from the flagship and into the clouds above. The Aeternus’ banking maneuvers allowed him to see one of the two escort ships, white vessels whose balloons were covered in gilded pieces of armour shaped like scrollwork.

Flames leapt from the escort, the oranges and reds dancing on the shining armour that bedecked it. Still, the guns along its sides fired relentlessly, pouring burning lead into the sky with a constant rattle of machine-fed firing.

But we’re outnumbered, Featherweight thought as he sank to the ground, shivering gently. From the corner of his eye, he watched the last three planes catapult out of the hangers before the doors were forced shut behind them, leaving only the weak neon lights to illuminate the echoing, empty room.

Mechanics dropped from where they had been standing and wiped their foreheads, mopping off the sweat. Nothing moved save for plumes of exhaust still floating in the air, filling Featherweight’s nostrils with the acrid stench of the pure fuels the airplanes used.

Spitfire slumped over, bending down with a heaving sigh as her bravery steamed out of her in an instant. Nopony said anything or even dared to look at her head-on.

He noticed that she was still stained with the ginger juice, but that wasn’t important anymore. The Aeternus shivered again, weaker this time.

The door to the hangar thumped open and a few looked up, snapping to attention as a long, white hoof slid into the room, forcing every shadow to cower away from its mere presence. “Captain Spitfire, prepare a ship. I’m leaving,” a mare’s voice called, calm and authoritative, as if asking for toast and butter and not to prepare to face overwhelming odds.

Spitfire saluted, a hoof crisply touching her forehead. “Princess. As your advisor I’d suggest cauti—”

“My dear, I have no time for caution,” Celestia said, bending her horned head to enter the room. She was composed, yet her eyes flashed with a vicious, righteous anger in the artificial light of the sunless hangar. “Ponies are dying. My ponies. And I intend to do something about it.”

She glanced across the hangar at the far back where, hidden in the shadows, was an aircraft. “Can that thing fly?”

Featherweight followed her gaze to the run-down vehicle. It was an older model, not yet an antique but not something to be prized. It was certainly not nearly as capable as the fighters that had just taken off. Spots of rust decorated the underside of the vessel, and its fixed wings were opened up along the side, tools laying half-out as if the plane had been abandoned mid-repair.

The cockpit was closed off and the entire middle of the boxy craft was sheltered by thick steel plates. At the aft were wide, rounded windows from which the navigator had a limited view of the surroundings. She’s going to fly in that?

“Can you pilot that device?” the Princess asked, turning to Spitfire.

She nodded. “Yes. Do you wish to go to battle with it?”

Celestia breathed in and out. “No,” she said, as if the simple word were a curse. “I need to run. Run away from my ponies in their time of need.” Her forehoof wheeled around to thump against the deck with a hollow sound. “I’m getting to the source of this treachery. Alone.”

“Then I will take you there.” Spitfire trotted by the princess, her back straight and her walk stiff even as the Aeternus bucked and shivered from another near miss.

I don’t know who’s fighting us, but their aim is terrible, Featherweight thought, gritting his teeth as he took a step forward and out the shadow. I can’t just stay here. I have to help. Right? Sh-she’s my Princess, and Spitfire’s there, too. I need to make it up to her, a little.

He opened his mouth to speak, to offer help in some form or another, when Spitfire turned to him and glared. “You,” she said. “You’re a Navi? Ours are all gone. Get in there.”

Featherweight froze, working his jaw while the Wonderbolt sped by him. “Now, soldier!” she snapped.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, trotting after her with slouched shoulder. Idiot, idiot, idiot. What’d I get myself into now. I’m going to die, aren’t I?

Spitfire grabbed the plane’s side door and slid it open, allowing a waft of musky air to escape the vessel. The interior was empty and somewhat clean, save for spots of rust and grime where a row of benches had once been. She hopped in and disappeared towards the fore of the craft, her head poking out a moment later. “You ponies!” she shouted to the mechanics stiffly moving about. “Get this thing airworthy!”

The room exploded into activity as the ponies gathered there surged forward on their sudden wave of purpose. They rushed around, picking up tools and cases and dragging them towards the back of the hangar as quickly as they could. The swarm parted around Celestia, giving the princess a wide berth as she gently made her way to the plane.

“You should get in there and start checking things out,” Spitfire said. Featherweight turned to her. She was calm, giving a suggestion, not an order. “This boat’s gear is a little dated.”

Featherweight nodded and climbed into the ship, ducking down to avoid the low ceiling as he made his way to the cramped seat jammed into the rear of the vehicle. There he found a tiny desk fitted with clamps that were clipped onto a few crumpled maps, and some navigation tools set against several windows. He sat down and blinked at the sooty glass-panes, seeing the shadowy forms of ponies milling around the craft as they tried to get it to work just a little bit better.

He pushed some of the papers aside until he found a tiny leatherbound notebook, one held onto the desk by a short chain bolted through its pages. Gingerly, he turned the book over, opening to its first page and staring at what he found there.

It was a logbook, a detailed account of every place to which that plane had travelled and all the coordinates and conditions the craft’s navigator had found there. It was a gold mine. “Captain Spitfire,” he said, his voice hardly reaching her through the banging and thumps the mechanics were making.

“What is it, Navi?” she asked, her own hooves playing over the controls and making sure they all responded.

“This plane’s called the Flying Goddess. I just... I just thought you might want to know that....”

The Goddess shifted to one side as a single hoof climbed in. “A suitable name, if I say so myself,” Celestia said as she pulled herself into the main compartment. “But its dimensions are certainly not made for one of my stature.”

Featherweight turned back to the log book and opened it to a fresh page, concentrating on writing down the day's date and the time and circumstances, as well as who was in the craft, all in an attempt to ignore who was on board with him. I’m in a plane, with Spitfire and Celestia. Oh God. If I mess up now it’s over forever.

“Are we almost ready to take off, Captain?”

Spitfire nodded. “Almost, Your Majesty. We need to realign this thing, and the port-side wing’s tank was removed. We’re going to be flying off centre and with only half our fuel. Tell the Navi where you want to go, Princess. I’ll fly you there.”

Featherweight swallowed hard as Celestia turned around and stuck her head into his end of the cabin. “Hello,” she said.

“H-h-hi, Princess,” he replied, beads of sweat rolling by eyes that were screwed open.

“No need to worry. You’re with me, after all. I’m sure this place is safe. Just do your best to guide us straight and true.”

He nodded, licking his lips as he struggled to steady his hooves, moving the maps about and drawing plans from the papers. “Where to, Majesty?”

Celestia pushed into the cabin with her head and, her horn glowing, unfurled one of the large maps and levitated his pen over one of the cities marked there. “P-pawn? Um, as you wish. I’ll start charting right away.”

“That's a fair ways off, isn’t it?” Spitfire asked

Featherweight stared at the map, estimating the distances as quickly as he could. “Almost sixty-five klicks, Captain,” he said, opening the tiny compartment under the table to pull out more instruments and to start doing the math.

“We’ll make it,” Celestia said as she moved to the fore of the plane. “We’re going to bring the fight to them.”

“We’ve got nothing, arms wise.” Spitfire made a sign to the ponies beyond the window and the Flying Goddess was jerked around, turning to face the exit.

“We have me,” Celestia said.

None of them dared to say anything more to the monarch until the plane locked into place and a catapult line was tied to the underside of it. One of the mechanics popped his head into the open side and bowed to Celestia before speaking. “Your Majesty, Captain, you’re ready to launch. We placed weights in your aft wing, but the tank’s still pierced. Port side’s full to the brim. Engine checks out and all the surfaces are cleared up.”

Featherweight saw Spitfire’s head bob up and down. “Clear the way and open the doors,” she said as she pressed the ignition start.

The mechanic began screaming gruff orders as he slammed the side door shut and cast the three within into darkness. Light poured in from the fore of The Flying Goddess as the hangar doors jerked open, revealing a sky darkened by smoke and filled with the glittering pieces of wrecked vessels.

One of the grey airships careened by them, dropping one hooflength at a time, like a pony dragged to the bottom of the ocean by a brick tied to its hooves. Fires played across the grey plating, seeping out between weld-lines that had burst open. The gun stations were torn apart, only one remaining relatively intact with its bent cannons pointing every which way.

“Sweet Celestia,” Featherweight gasped.

“No, not sweet in the slightest,” she said, her royal purple eyes following an insignia on the ship’s side. It read THE ROYAL CROWN OF THE WEST, the blue script flowing around the symbol of a mountain strewn with snow. “We’re going to pay them a visit. Captain, launch whenever you’re ready. Navigator, find us the shortest routes. The winds are violent today.”

Featherweight nodded and turned back to his table, stashing his tools and maps as quickly as he could into the various drawers with little care for order. He kept a compass, a large map of the surroundings, and a fountain pen that he jammed into his mouth.

Spitfire tapped a hoof against the window in her cockpit and lifted a wing, making the symbol of three in midair.

The mechanics beyond nodded and somepony screamed to clear the environs. He saw ponies high-tail away from The Flying Goddess, except for one pony, who ran up and bucked the forward propellor.

The plane rumbled, its motor grumbling before it barked to life and began shivering in anticipation. Just across the canopy glass in front of Spitfire, the propellor spun, a nearly invisible disk created by the spinning blade.

“Pitch, check. Throttle, check. Breaks, on. Gears down. Yoke... responding. Rudder... responding. Elevators... all check,” Spitfire mumbled to herself over the drone of the engine as her hooves played across the controls. “She’s got stubby wings, looks like a brick, and her motor’s underpowered. But I think she can fly,” Spitfire said as she looked to those behind her. “We’re taking off.”

Her wing formed a two, then a one, and then they were gone.

The Flying Goddess surged forwards, throwing Featherweight face-first into his desk as the craft was thrown out of the Sol Aeternus.

When he sat back up, both wingtips pressed against his bleeding nose, Featherweight had a stunning view of the flagship.

The Aeternus was tall, lithe, and long, a shining white blade that seemed to effortlessly slice through the sky. Along its sides, on the many balconies that adorned the craft, were mobile guns, hastily placed when the battle had begun. Swarms of bullets raced into the skies above like angry hornets looking to bite.

As Spitfire pulled back on the yoke and gained altitude, Featherweight could see the main deck of the vessel, a platform of exotic woods with a golden railing. On it, a massive gun had slid out of the floor, firing one massive salvo after another while ponies milled about the deck.

A hazy, shield fluctuated above, powered by dozens of unicorns on the deck with their horns aflame with magic. Twice as many of the horned ponies were on the ground, drooling or clutching at their horns as they lay unconscious across the wood-paneled surface.

One of the enemy shells fell from the sky, slipping through a gap in the shield. With momentus force it slammed into the deck, digging into theAeternus before finally exploding outwards and sending both flame, wood and steel flying everywhere.

Gouts of fire escaped the ship as it wheeled around, limping. But it fought back, even as the shield above flickered and died.

One of the escort ships went down in flames, pegasi jumping out of it while a few lifeships floated away before the fire could catch them.

Featherweight swallowed hard, only realising then that Celestia’s head was right beside his own.

She was crying.

“Spitfire, level off, please. I want to see them. Those hurting my ponies.” Her voice was strong, defiant. Angry.

The captain nodded and pushed down on the yoke while working on the rubbers. The Flying Goddess straightened out once more.

Featherweight pressed a hoof against his stomach. Oh, not the time to be sick, he thought. Of the five grey ships that had assaulted them at first, only two were left, but a dozen more were tearing out of the Western skies while a bigger ship, twice the size of the others and almost rivalling the Aeternus in length, floated towards them.

“How fast is this vessel?” Celestia asked, her voice just carrying over the rumbling engine.

“In terms of what, Princess?” Spitfire asked, only turning her face a little as she focused on the sky above. She jerked the rudder and yoke, sending them off to the side just before a shell screamed past, followed by a line of smoke. The explosion barked far below.

Oh, God, I’m going to be sick, Featherweight thought as the ship levelled off. Either that, or I’m going to die. Or both.

“Relative to those airships above. The Crown warships.” Celestia pointed to one of the groups zeroing in on the battle. “I see three formations of three and that one large battlegroup approaching. Can we outrun them?”

Spitfire nodded, tapping her controls. “Yeah, even this old wreck can outrun an airship, easy. What are you thinking, Majesty?” she called over her shoulder.

“Bring us closer,” Celestia ordered. “Navigator, start our course from a point one klick to the west and north of our current position. Avoid turbulent forewinds and take into account a heavy updraft.”

“G-got it!” Featherweight bent to the task, not questioning the ruler’s order as he began making quick calculations of their route based on the little data he had. Then Celestia opened the door.

Wind filled the cabin, beating and whipping about at the three ponies within as Celestia stuck her head out the door. Her mane slid out, becoming an ethereal banner of green and blue and pink as it floated out along the side of the craft. “Keep it steady!” the Princess screamed before lowering her head.

Her horn glowed, strands of magic sliding out of it like string from a ball, encircling her horn with a gentle grace. When she lifted her head, Featherweight saw that her eyes were glowing as she stared at the nearest formation of ships. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the wind.

Four beams boomed out of her horn, each creating a halo in the air as they zipped forward and into the enemy craft.

Four holes the size of a large stallion were punched through the vessels, spewing out the other side with gouts of flame followed by pieces of the craft tearing out from within. The metallic armour around the wound melted and peeled off until the beams subsided into nothingness, only a lingering presence in Featherweight’s vision.

Celestia slammed the door shut, allowing silence into the room once more. “That should have grabbed their attention, I would hope.”

The remaining ships began to steer, slowly turning towards theFlying Goddess while their cannons swivelled around and began to bark. Rounds filled the sky as point defence guns went off, trying to slice the Goddess out of the sky.

“Throttle full!” Spitfire screamed as she jammed a hoof on the throttle. The pitch of the engine changed and the Flying Goddess lurched into a faster pace, like a racer finding his second wind.

Celestia’s horn stopped glowing, covering them with semidarkness within the craft before she reached up and wiped the side of a hoof across her eyes. “Let’s get going. Things will be better, my little ponies. I promise.”

Author's Note

Edited by:
The Misfits

Hopefully the levels of epic I was hoping for have been reached somewhere along the line.

For the record, this story and another story by the name of "Of Solicitude" are both set in the same world at the same time but with different characters in different locations. Confuzzled yet? Perfect! Just a heads up, as characters from one story will meet characters in this tale at times, and the major arcing events of this tale, such as who the big bad is, is the same in both stories.

Cover art's Celetia by: http://sleepwalks.deviantart.com/art/Celestia-Paper-Vector-267038835
Also, a thank you yo Malus, JustAnotherTimeLord, IceColt and especially Frederic the Saiyan. Y'all know why.