The King's Speech.

by Jed R

Rating: mature
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Alternate Universe, Human, Sad, Original Character
Length: 6577

Is a King a King without a land to rule over? Is a King a King of people or of property, of the soil or the souls?

King William V of the House of Windsor, monarch of a land that no longer exists thanks to the evil of the Tyrant Sun, prepares to give a very important speech...

A side story set in the universe of The Conversion Bureau: The Other Side Of The Spectrum.

Published 2014-07-20 21:20:01 UTC
Last updated 2014-07-20 21:20:01 UTC

The King's Speech.

The Conversion Bureau: The Other Side of the Spectrum.

Side Story: The King's Speech.

Written by Jed R.

Edited by redskin122004, Rush and Doctor Fluffy.

Additional Proofreaders:
Beyond The Horizon, Kizuna Tallis, TB3, Proudtobe.

At this critical moment in our history we will certainly lose the trust and respect of the world if we just abandon those fundamental principles which guided the men and women who built the greatness of this country and Commonwealth. Today we need a special kind of courage, not the kind needed in battle but a kind which makes us stand up for everything that we know is right, everything that is true and honest. We need the kind of courage that can withstand the subtle corruption of the cynics so that we can show the world that we are not afraid of the future.
- Queen Elizabeth's Christmas Message, 1957.

December 25th, 2022.

Is a King a King without a land to rule over? Is a King a King of people or of property, of the soil or the souls?

King William V of the House of Windsor, formerly the Prince of Wales, didn't know the answer to these questions, truth be told, though he desperately wished that he did. He had lost his land, and many of his people with it, along with his father (best not to think about his father, now either dead or a soulless, mindless, grinning newfoal somewhere in Equestria), his stepmother and many more besides. But he was still, in name at least, a King, still the King of Britain, whatever that still entailed now that Britain had been swallowed by the barrier and her people scattered.

When the American President and other members of what was left of the UN council had suggested this particular little propaganda piece, he had to admit to being surprised. He wasn't the King of anything anymore, he thought. Even before Britain's fall, it hadn't meant as much to be a King in modern times, and now the only land he could claim any sovereignty over was in a distant, unknowable state. Why did they want him to do this? Why did they think anyone would listen? It had been the place of his forebears, but they had been Kings and Queens of a nation that still existed... what was he?

And yet, after being spoken by a polite and friendly PHL mare (whose name he had quite forgotten, though he seemed to recall it started with... a B? Maybe a D?), he had agreed, and for better or worse he had to do it. He hoped to God that he would do it well.

His father had made such a feat seem effortless for the brief time he had been King (no, don't think about him!). His grandmother, though - God rest her - had been even better at it. She had carried the responsibilities of her crown with solemnity and dignity even to the grave. William hoped that, if he should face death by the same cause, that he would have the same courage and the same dignity. He doubted he personally would, but he had learned during this crisis that everyone - and everypony, he thought with a half smile that lacked real mirth - had hidden wellsprings of courage that they could reach for in the darkest times.

"Excuse me, Your Majesty?" a pale blue PHL pony said, her eyes wide at the thought of speaking to royalty.

He was suddenly brought back to his surroundings: a television studio inside the main UN building, set aside for precisely this kind of propaganda work. The young blue PHL pony, her cutie mark that of a single feather - no, a quill - was stood outside the door to the main studio.

"Hm? Yes?" he asked, smiling slightly.

"Sorry to keep you waiting sir," the pony said, a soft smile on her face. "They're just finishing setting up now, they'll be ready soon."

"It's quite alright," William assured the young mare with a smile. "I'm used to waiting around." He grinned, remembering his time serving in the army some years ago. "Once you've been in the army, 'hurry up and wait' seems to be the maxim for your entire life. Doubly so for royalty."

The mare giggled slightly, but otherwise still seemed somewhat overwhelmed to be in his presence. She wasn't looking at him, instead studiously staring at the ceiling. He supposed he couldn't blame her: while he was an unimposing (if fairly tall) man, with large teeth, a large nose and thinning hair, he was still a King and some people - and quite a few ponies - still insisted on acting like that was somehow important.

"Are you alright?" he asked her after a moment.

"Oh? Yes!" she said, smiling nervously. She hesitated for a moment before speaking again. "It's just... well, you knew Lyra Heartstrings, didn't you?"

William smiled softly. So that was it. For a moment, he'd believed she was just overwhelmed to be in his presence - something he still got - but for once, it was nothing to do with him. It was to do with someone - well, somepony - he had known.

"Yes, I knew her," he said softly, smiling slightly.

"What was she like?" the young pony asked.

William grinned at the question, before pondering it. How best to sum up Lyra Heartstrings...? “She was…. we can say all we like about her prowess in battle. But I hope to God that becomes a footnote in history because Lyra was never about battle. If there was a peaceful solution, she’d try for it. And she always knew that it could accomplish so much more than fighting if -”

"Your Majesty?" a voice said, interrupting William's description. He looked up, to see a thin man with slicked back hair looking at him from the door to the studio. "Sorry to interrupt, sir. We're ready for you."

"I'll be in shortly," he said with a smile. The slick-haired man said nothing, merely going back inside. William turned his attention back to the young mare.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"True Quill, sir," she said with a sincere smile. "I'm the PHL journalist who'll be writing about today for our propaganda pamphlets."

"A laudable position," he said with a grin. "I suppose it explains your cutie mark."

"Yes sir," she said brightly. "Been a journalist ever since I was in school."

"Well, Ms Quill," William said. "The most important thing I can say about Lyra - at least without sitting down and talking for five hours straight, which is the least amount of time I'd need to do her justice - is that she succeeded, and I can say without any exaggeration that she saved humanity.”

“But the Barrier’s still here,” True Quill pointed out.

“Well, thanks to her, the HLF aren’t the sole resistance faction fighting the Empire,” William explained. “Thanks to her, there are places on Earth that ponies and humans can live together as friends, and most of the world hasn’t become something like an upper-class production of Mad Max. She brought ponies and humans together. You, and ponies like you, are living proof of that. I can think of nothing she would have preferred more for her final legacy than that knowledge."

True Quill smiled. "Not a bad soundbite, sir," she complimented.

"I'm royalty," he said with a shrug. "I grew up with it." He stood up and moved to the door, before turning to say one last thing. "Doesn't mean it isn't true, though. I meant every word."

With that, William took a deep breath and stepped into the small studio.

Here goes nothing, he thought to himself.

***

"#But if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?
And if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like you've been here before?

How am I gonna be an optimist about this?

How am I gonna be an optimist about this?"

Three humans and two ponies were sat in a fairly empty bar somewhere in New York, somewhat melancholy pop music playing softly in the background. The humans' names were Sam, David and John, and the two ponies were called True Grit and Steady Hoof. They were rather unusual in this place: the two ponies aside, the humans were also somewhat out of place, for where most of the patrons had New Yorker accents, or Irish at a pinch, these three had broad English accents - specifically, Sam and David were both from the North of England and spoke in vaguely Yorkshire tones, and John was Liverpudlian. Not that any of those labels really mattered anymore, since Yorkshire and Liverpool were both gone forever.

"And I'm telling you," John said with a hiccup that was really more of a burp, "the little pony bastards are fucking creepy."

All three of the men had fled from Britain when the country was destroyed by the Barrier. John was a civilian, dressed in trenchcoat, shirt and tie, with blonde hair in a vaguely spiky hairdo. Sam and David were both military, with cropped hair, wearing camouflage uniform fatigues. Sam had blonde hair too, and was clean shaven. David was dark haired, and had allowed a little stubble to grow on his chin. The three of them had met during the evacuation of the country, Sam and David guarding the civilians from the oncoming hordes of ponies, newfoal and Royal Guard alike. True Grit, meanwhile, was a dark green unicorn stallion with scars on one cheek and a battered kite shield for a cutie mark, and Steady Hoof was a grey Earth Pony stallion with a tower shield cutie mark, who for the most part seemed remarkably unscathed. Physically, at least.

The five of them were discussing the newfoals themselves. John had the least experience with the abominations - Sam and David had been unfortunate enough to fight the things, and it was an experience they didn't particularly feel like talking about, while True Grit and Steady Hoof had both met newfoals in Equestria itself - the two of them had been Royal Guards, but had both resigned their commissions before the war with Sombra, both agreeing that neither of them had signed up to kill ponies. After that, they’d heard horror stories about the field hospitals (which seemed to make the shell-shock even worse in some guardsponies) which made them glad they’d returned to their respective hometowns. Unluckily enough for them, war and pressgangs had crept up on them anyway, and they had both fled to Earth to join Lyra's PHL after realising they could no longer countenance merely standing by: one thing they’d agreed on was that erasing the history, culture, and souls of an entire species made it hard to see Equestria as the hero in this war. And so, heavy hearted, both of them had decided that fighting - even against their fellow ponies - was their only choice.

John had been lucky with his own encounter, by comparison: it had been with an unarmed, recently created newfoal - he had managed to "shiv the little bastard", as he put it. The others knew that story because John had already told them it at least a half dozen times, most of those when he was drunk and had little better to discuss.

"I mean, I don't mind ponies in general," John continued, nodding at Grit and Hoof, who nodded back with ironic smiles. "If they’ve made their way to the PHL, they’re nice enough, good on 'em. Don't call me one of those bloody HLF wankers who wants to kill anything on four legs that talks..."

There was a cough from somewhere in the bar, but the three men ignored it.

"... but they're creepy. All smiles and shit," the drunken Liverpudlian finished. "Can't pissin' stand 'em."

“Things are like zombies,” True Grit muttered. He and Hoof had been on the frontlines, where newfoals were sadly all-too common… and took far too many bullets to go down. “They just don’t die!”

"We know what you mean, John," Sam said with a sigh. He and David were on a very brief leave to get some RnR - mainly because they hadn't had altogether that much (read: any) since Britain had fallen. That they had gone to a bar was testament to how horrible their individual experience had been. “Damn near everyone calls them zombies, and as far as I'm concerned, that's insulting zombies.”

David remained silent. He was always the quieter of the two of them, and being in the army left him somewhat maudlin (though he would have said he was just 'thoughtful'). Steady Hoof, meanwhile, couldn't talk anymore - his vocal cords had met the business end of a Guard's spear and, while he had survived (just) thanks to some field surgery, he would never talk again without reconstructive surgery that he just couldn't get in these times. True Grit usually translated for him, since the two knew the same Royal Guard morse-code.

"You know who I miss?" John added, changing the subject the way only a man who is drunk as the proverbial lord can. "Sting."

David groaned and put his head on the bar, though whether because he had heard that particular subject from John before (and they really, really had) or because he had a headache from drinking so much wasn't quite clear. Maybe it was both.

"That guy was fuckin' legend," John continued, oblivious to his friend's irritation/headache/irritation headache. "Brilliant singer. Crap songwriter though - couldn't stop talking about how much his love life stank."

"Something you had in common?" Sam asked, trying to sound cleverer than being pissed allowed.

"Piss off," John said with a frown. He sighed, and took another drink from his whiskey.

There was a moment's pause as the five of them took more swigs from their respective drinks.

"How're you enjoyin' leave, Dave?" John asked David.

David grunted noncommitally. John threw Sam a look.

"We've had it rough," Sam explained softly.

"I feel for ya," John said sincerely. "Can't be fun, dealing with those creepy bastards."

"It's not," David muttered, speaking for the first time in a while. There was a brief pause as John processed David's less-than-cheerful tone.

"Why don't you join up?" Sam asked John after a moment. "You're still young enough to..."

"Die horribly or get turned into a pastel pissin' pony by the purple pastel pony potion," John cut him off with a sharp hand gesture. He blinked, then sniggered at his alliteration. "I wonder if they piss in pastel too."

"Doubt it," Sam said with a shrug. "But I've never seen a pony piss."

"Pastel ponies pissin' pastel piss," John sniggered drunkenly, amused by his own poor humour.

"We don't, you know," True Grit said quietly, sounding vaguely irritated at this particular line of thought.

Steady Hoof tapped on the mahogany of the bar, and True Grit looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Hey, it was just a question, don't get pissy," John said, holding up a hand, and he sniggered at his own bad pun.

Sam groaned. John when he was sober could be irritating, what with his constant cynicism. John drunk was just plain annoying. He gave Grit an apologetic look, but the Unicorn just shrugged.

"#Oh where do we begin?
The rubble or our sins?
Oh where do we begin?
The rubble or our sins?"

"This song is bloody depressing!" David suddenly yelled. "Isn't there anything else on?!"

"Play some Biting Elbows or something!" yelled a drunken Scotsman in the back of the bar. “Or something from Vinyl Scratch…”

The barkeep, an Irishman with a mop of sandy blonde hair, shrugged.

"You're welcome to change it if you can find something else lads," he said softly. "But there's not many channels left."

"Swap it to anything," David said, "just not that bloody depressing pile of wank."

“I’m with ‘im!” the Scotsman yelled over, despite the fact that he was only about twenty feet away from them. “By God, there could not be a worse song to play during the apocalypse…”

The barkeep shrugged. "Suit yerself, lads."

He adjusted the radio switch. A woman began narrating in Swahili.

“...The hell is this?” John asked.

“Sorry, sorry,” the barkeep said. “Get a bunch of customers that like the sound of Enitan Adebayo’s narration. Can’t understand a word of it, and I suspect you can’t either.”

He was met with four identical glowers.

“Right,” he said. “Sorry, sorry.” He twisted the radio’s knob until it was suddenly blaring out the British National Anthem. Almost on reflex, Sam and David stood up. John gave them a look and smirked.

"Still got your military sticks firmly up your rectal cavities, huh?" he asked. Sam and David looked vaguely sheepish, and quickly sat down. "What's this anyway?"

"People of Britain," a familiar voice spoke from the radio, "my subjects... my friends. I address you via radio and television for the first time in a long time."

"Bloody hell," Sam said, eyes wide. "Is that Wills?"

"You know, I think it might be," David replied, looking faintly surprised himself. "Didn't know they still did the King's Speech."

"They don't," Sam said with a frown. "They haven't done since Britain fell."

"Apparently they're starting up again," John said softly.

"Want me to change it, lads?" the barkeep asked, not sure how to interpret the men's tones. They sounded at once amazed, confused, and slightly melancholic, and he wasn't sure that was a great combination in drunk men. He'd seen thousands of variations of drunken tones in his stint as a bartender, and that rarely signaled something wonderful.

"No," David said at once. "Let's hear what Wills has to say."

“He’s certainly got my attention,” the Scotsman said.

The barkeep shrugged again, turning back to wiping his bar. "If you insist, fellas."

"It's been a trying time." There was a soft laugh from the King. "Sorry. Something of an understatement there. We're living through times that would make 'trying times' something of a relief, aren't we?" He paused. "Recently, I've been thinking about a question - it's been plaguing me, actually. Is a King still a King if he doesn't have a land?"

"Sounds like pseudo philosophical bollocks to me," the barkeep muttered, but the four drunk men shushed him.

"What is a King's Speech?" True Grit asked Steady Hoof quietly. The other pony could only shrug.

"It's an interesting question, and it brought me to a different one," Wills continued. "Is a people a people without the land?"

John, David and Sam shared a glance, frowning at each other.

"I began this address with the phrase 'people of Britain'," Wills went on, sounding thoughtful. "But what are the people of Britain really? We're homeless: our country, our cities, our heritage... all of it has been destroyed, swept away by the madness of Celestia the Tyrant Sun." He paused, his voice cracking. "Our PHL brothers and sisters, our allies from America and those countries that yet survive... as much as they sympathise, can they understand what we and our brothers and sisters from other lost countries have lost? They are threatened, they are in danger, and the PHL know that their country is slipping further and further into insanity... but it's still there."

The three men weren't looking at each other now. They were looking at the bar, each lost in thought. It was a question, wasn't it? David and Sam had sworn themselves to the defence of King and country, but the country was gone. John had always defined himself as a Liverpudlian. But what was a Liverpudlian without Liverpool? True Grit looked sidelong at his friends: it wasn't something they had ever discussed in detail, what the humans felt like losing their country. Most of the soldiers Grit had spoken to were Americans, or others who had yet to lose their countries entirely. He’d rarely been among European soldiers.

Steady Hoof, however, had wondered if having his home become a fascist nightmare he couldn’t understand had given him some level of understanding of those displaced by the Barrier. Looking at the emotional faces of the men he was sitting next to, he figured it was best not to bring it up - not that he could.

"Is a people a people without the land," Wills repeated quietly. "Are we British? Are we merely 'human'? Or are we nothing?" He paused, allowing his words to sink in. "It would be tempting to deliver some platitude about how we must forget our bonds of nationality, stand together as a single human race against the evil that threatens us. I'm certain those who have asked me to continue this tradition tonight would like that very much. But were that truly the case, they wouldn't have asked this of me: there would have been no need."

There was a long pause.

"I swore to serve the people of Britain," William said after a moment, his voice solemn. "In this time, I am reminded of the oath I swore upon my coronation. It was rushed, but the words were what mattered. I swore to serve, govern and protect the Peoples of the commonwealth. Not the land, the people. Because, much as the land is gone, we are the people of Britain. We share a heritage, a culture, an identity, a suffering. We have the same British humour, the same cultural upbringing. We listened to the Smiths or the Beatles or the Police. We watched Dad's Army, Doctor Who, the footie." Here, William paused again, and when he some his voice cracked with emotion. "We lost our loved ones, brothers, uncles, aunts... parents. We saw our nation destroyed. But we have survived."

The three men shared another glance. None of them looked so drunk anymore.

"As long as one person from that isle still breathes," William said, "the core of our nation - it's ideals, it's history - remains, no matter what happened to the rocks and the soil. As long as one of us remembers what Britain stood for, we remain the people of Britain. We do not fight for vengeance, for vengeance implies we have nothing left. We fight to save Britain - to save what made her great. We fight for each other." He paused. "The same is true for every nation that has been lost. We fight for our people, because it is our people who are the core of our culture, not our lands."

There was a long pause, and the three men half wondered if that was it from Wills.

"My subjects... my friends... my countrymen," William concluded, "I wish you all the best on this Christmas Day. Keep hope alive, my friends. Keep the soul of our nation - all our nations - alive. I swear to you: one day, we will return there. One day, Britain, France... all the nations we've lost... shall be restored. Whether you are of faith or not, may God bless you all. Merry Christmas."

***

William stood down from the chair he had been sitting on, smiling slightly.

"Ve wrapped!" a vaguely Germanic voice spoke. A pale blue Earth Pony named Photo Finish - who had been chosen to be the director of this little speech - stepped out from behind a monitor where she had been observing everything. "It looked vonderful! Absolutely vonderful!"

"Yeah, looked wonderful," the slick-haired man said with a glower.

“Didn’t it?” Photo Finish asked, a smile on her face.

The man's glowering intensified. He’d worked hard on that speech, after all. He and a couple of other people present - UN propaganda types, mostly - looked angry, no doubt annoyed that William given a message that was somewhat different from the message of unity they had been wanting. He couldn't bring himself to feel too upset or ashamed though (although he felt a little guilty - British desire to not rock the boat and all, that was America's job after all): after all, he felt his message had been more honest.

You'd never convince an American to not be an American, or a Frenchman to not be a Frenchman, or a German to not be a German, and you'd certainly never convince a Briton to not be a Briton.

"Now, ve must haff photos!" Photo Finish added, rushing off to grab a camera.

"No," William said softly, "I think I'll head off now. I've said my peace, so to speak."

"But," Photo Finish began, but William stood up before she could continue.

"Thank you all," he said to the camera crew and the boom operators, his voice cracking a little with emotion. "Thank you for making this possible."

With that, he left the room before any of the officials present could react.

"It's a shame," Photo Finish said softly as he walked out, before shrugging to herself. "He vould haff looked good on a photo. Although... zat hair..."

***

William had just managed slip away from UN officials (most of whom were baying for his blood, albeit in legalese and politician-speak rather than literally, although it was a close run thing) when he ran into someone.

"Excuse me -" William said apologetically, only to see a bottle of John Smith's thrust into his hand. He barely had a chance to grasp it (and wonder how a bottle of a quintessentially British beer could even be here) before looking up to the person handing it to him. "President Davis?"

"Just Jack for now, Will," the President smirked as he look him over, holding another beer in his hand. "Nice speech. Glad you brought your own. Ms. Finish was also impressed with it, very hard to impress that mare."

"I rather think the writers are somewhat upset about my... shall we say, 'diversion' from their own," William sighed as he opened the bottle, raised an eyebrow and had a sip. Jack gave a small bark of laughter at that before taking a swig of his own drink.

William looked over the President, he looked haggard and aged, a far cry when he first met the Texan when he took office. It was common for Presidents to go through a similar process (He remembered that President Obama’s hair had turned almost entirely gray over the course of eight years) but few had gone through anything remotely similar to the crisis that President Davis found himself attempting to handle. He was far away from the standard Presidents of the past. He openly drank, even during speeches and in the public areas, he didn't always dress to impress anyone, and openly carried a weapon on his person.

Very far removed from every other standard President. Though few could blame him for carrying a weapon now. Or the drinking.

And yet, the people loved him. He was in your face and didn't back down. He'd bring you a set of his favorite beer along with whatever alcohol was favoured by the person he was meeting. His Senate and Congress despised him for all the laws he pushed through. At any attempt to block a new law, President Davis was on the air, explaining what the law stated and then simplifying in layman’s terms. Suffice to say, any attempts to discredit him met in failure.

"Your father and grandmother would be proud of you," the President said quietly, causing William to seize up at his words. The man reached up and placed a hand on the King's shoulder, looking him in the eyes. He gave a sad smile as he continued. "You did what was right, not what others thought was needed. Your country is gone, but its people are not. Be proud of who you are, where you came from, and your history."

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, tapping it several times before handing it to him. "And not all its history is wiped away."

William felt the walls breaking down, walls that he had built up when the war started and he had lost his grandmother, walls that he had reinforced when his father died and the last count of British survivors fleeing his home country - all too few for his liking - had come in.

It was a painting, one he remembered very well as he stood for hours with his stepmother and father, along with the rest of his entire family. He remembered his grandmother getting up after it was finally completed and demanding that while they were all still here, they should all have dinner and watch some episodes of Christopher Eccleston's Doctor Who run (her favourite Doctor), causing them all to laugh.

Jack leant in close and swiped the picture aside to reveal the entirety of the Crown Jewels themselves, lying in a little crate. Next there was a painting of William's great-grandfather, and then another painting, this time of Queen Victoria... Jack kept flicking through photos, showing a good half dozen priceless items that were as much a part of British heritage as the Royal Family itself.

"I promised you that we will save what we can," Jack whispered. "Many people died to get these items out, and I don’t want their sacrifice to be forgotten. We may be all humans, but it was our histories that forged us into who we are today."

William wasn’t sure what to say, his very core shook as he continued to see priceless artefact after priceless artefact. He looked up to the President in shock.

"I thought... I thought all of these were lost to the barrier," he whispered in awe.

"I may have given an order to break into Buckingham Palace and historic museums and take everything when the palace was being evacuated," Jack said with a grin. "I'd rather have every piece of history saved rather than have a nice picture of it."

"You bloody Americans..." William choked back a sob as he looked at the photos. "Always getting in other people's business... thank you... thank you so much."

Jack smiled and raise his beer. "As Lyra always said, friendship is a powerful thing, and our countries have been friends for a long time now." He paused. "I'd like to say we are as well, Will."

William grinned, raised his bottle, and took a swig.

"Jack," he replied, his heart feeling lighter than it had in a long time, "who am I to argue with Lyra? Cheers."

"Cheers," Jack replied. The two of them shared another swig of their respective beers.

"King William!" a voice called down the corridor.

William groaned and turned to face the owner of the voice, one of the writers of the speech the UN PR division had wanted him to use. Before he could say anything, however...

"Mr Anderson," Jack said to the man with a friendly smile.

"Mr President!" Anderson, who was the same skinny man with slicked back hair from earlier, said. "Um, we were just coming to..."

"Congratulate King William on a speech well given?" Jack said with a slight warning undertone beneath the good-natured smile. "Maybe thank him?"

"Um... exactly, sir!" Anderson said nervously. "Um... congratulations, Your Majesty! And thank you!"

"You're welcome," William said, throwing Jack a questioning look. The President winked at him.

"Merry Christmas, Will," he said, before heading off, no doubt to scare more flunkies. Anderson looked torn for a moment, and then he too headed off. William laughed and drank the last of the John Smith's, before realising that he had completely forgotten to ask where the beer had come from. With a grin, he decided that it didn't matter, and he walked off.

***

Outside the building, he had (much to his consternation) a car waiting for him. Also waiting for him, to his surprise, was True Quill.

"Your Majesty," she said respectfully.

"Ms Quill," William replied politely. "What can I do for you?"

"I heard your speech, sir," she said quietly. "And I just wanted to say... I’m sorry.”

“For what?” William asked.

“All of this,” she said quickly. “The war, the newfoals, the barrier… we’ve done nothing but hurt you. Equestria’s arrival could have been something wonderful! We could have had a cultural revolution, conquered the stars together, made things of beauty… and instead, this happened. Whatever madness took hold of Celestia then infected that bitch Reitman… it took something that could have been amazing, ran it into the ground and turned it into a xenocidal nightmare. I’m so sorry!” there were tears in her eyes. “For everything.”

“Don’t be,” William said. “There wasn’t much you could have done… and even then, you weren’t part of the invasion. You were part of the PHL from the beginning, weren’t you?”

"Almost," Quill replied.

"Then there you go," William said with a smile. "You apologising for the actions of your countrymen is pointless. It would be like me apologising for Hitler. You aren't responsible for the choices others make, True Quill, only the choices you have made - and the choice you have made reflects the quality of all ponies." He paused, and then patted her on the shoulder, hoping he didn't seem patronising. "I know Lyra would have been proud to know that ponies like you stood by our side."

He sat down in his seat, looking out to True Quill before scooting aside. "True Quill, I would be honored if you join me for a traditional Christmas Dinner with my family."

True Quill looked startled at the invitation, before giving him a large bright smile. "I would be honoured to attend, Your Majesty."

As the two of them got into the car, William reflected on the occasion. It had been a Merry Christmas indeed, one he wasn't going to forget in a hurry.

***

The national anthem started again as soon as Wills had finished speaking, and the barkeep switched the radio to a different channel, one that was playing different pop music. He turned to look at the three Englishmen with a slight frown.

"You alright lads?" he asked quietly. They were sitting thoughtfully, their drinks by now almost entirely forgotten. For a moment, none of them spoke.

"Dave? John?" True Grit added, looking at the humans with concern. "Sam?"

There was another pause, and Steady Hoof and True Grit exchanged worried glances.

"Yeah," John said finally, smiling slightly. He downed the last of his whiskey and stood up. "I think we are."

David and Sam stood up too, their drinks emptied in one gulp, and the three of them put the money to cover their tabs on the table and turned to go. True Grit turned to Steady Hoof and shrugged, before draining their own drinks too.

"Mr Lake, Mr Elliot," John said softly, "I believe I have an appointment with a recruiting station."

"Mr Constantine," Sam said with a smile. "It would be my honour to take you to one."

"Wait," said the Scotsman from before. "I'm coming with you."

"You?" John asked.

"I was in the military too," he said. "Helped evacuate Glasgow. Joined the HLF-”

Everyone stared at him in disgust, and for a moment, True Grit was glad he couldn’t hear what Steady Hoof wanted to say.

“You little -” True Grit started.

The Scotsman threw up his hands, forestalling further insults. “I know. Say whatever you like, it’s probably true… I’m just as guilty for not stopping them. Personally, I didn’t think that bombing trains full of PHL, shooting up pony refugees, trying to take over military bases, or doing unspeakable things to foals helped Earth at all. The old man running the show disagreed, so I quit them a while back." He sighed. "All yammer and no hammer, I told them. But... that speech..." He shrugged. "I wanted to do good, and I just watched us turn into an ineffective nightmare that had to use goddamn cannons to be even remotely effective, while the PHL got even better with their weaponry, while they were praised as heroes… and we turned into a punchline. But for the first time in years, I feel like I could be part of somethin' better." He held out a hand. "Angus Reid."

There was a tense moment's pause, and then John grinned, grasping the proferred hand.

"Pleasure," John said cheerfully. "John Constantine."

"Sam Lake," Sam said with a nod. He still didn't entirely trust anyone who'd been part of the HLF.

"David Elliot," David added with a grin. He'd been raised a Christian, and forgiveness was one of the key tenets. Besides which, he felt there were too few humans in the world - too few Brits left especially - to hate one for an honest mistake. Besides, from the sound of it, Reid had genuinely wanted to help.

"Alright lads," Angus said with a smile. "I believe there's a recruitin' station waitin' for us. Shall we?"

Before they could leave the bar, however, a song came on the radio. John stopped, cocked an ear, and grinned.

"#In the town where I was born,
Lived a man who sailed to sea,
And he told us of his life,
In the land of submarines.
So we sailed up to the sun,
Till we found the sea of green.
And we lived beneath the waves,
In our yellow submarine."

"I love this song," David grinned.

"Why?" True Grit said, eyebrow raised. "It makes no sense."

"You just answered your own question," John said with a wink.

"Come on," Sam said, grinning. He headed out, and the others followed him, leaving the bartender shaking his head at his slightly strange patrons. As they walked out and stopped being able to hear the radio, John took up the tune (rather horribly, but drunk men don't care much about quality singing).

"#We all live in a yellow submarine,
Yellow submarine, yellow submarine
We all live in a yellow submarine,
Yellow submarine, yellow submarine..."

Pretty soon, the other three joined in, True Grit almost grudgingly, then, to his surprise, he found a smile on his face. Even Steady Hoof managed a low hum, the most he could do with his torn vocal cords. And, singing loudly, drunkenly and somewhat raucously, the six of them headed off into the night, feeling just a little bit better about themselves...

***

Author's Note

Well, here it is: my first attempt to actually write for this particular iteration of the TCB verse. Had to double check my dates, but I'm reasonably certain there's nothing here to directly contradict what's been written before. Thanks to redskin122004 for inviting me to join the Spectrum crew, and the rest of the crew for being welcoming. :-)

In case you're wondering, the point of this little short is to answer the same question Wills asks: is a people a people without the land? I figure that's a question a lot of people will be asking in this world (hell, even in ours), and having Wills answer it in this manner seems to be to be the best possible way of addressing that, while also being fitting.

If you've never read OSOTS, then go read it: it's the longest story on the Alternative Conversion Bureau group, and it's about as thorough a deconstruction of some of the more... contentious stuff in TCB fics ever. Also, it was a major inspiration for The Avatar of Albion, so that's a plus. :-)

Jed.