Ponies, Luna thought, were not made for fighting.
Luna stood in the alcove, watching the wafts of dust as they shone in the slivers of light piercing the slatted panels. The shifting shadows beyond and above caused the lances of her sister’s warmth to dance about her, sometimes drifting across her wings or settling for a moment upon her muzzle. At rare moments, the frozen cloud of her breath would be illuminated like a lantern from a passing beam.
The indistinct voice of the announcer sounded, a prelude to a swelling cheer from the amassed crowd that she could not yet see. There would be few ponies, she knew, a fact for which she was grateful. Only her tiny contingent of honor guard, Pegasi all, the ambassador, and perhaps tourists no greater in number than her hooves.
In her mind, Luna played out the dance to come: how to twist, how to lift, the sway of balance and the precise ballet of limb and barrel and head. She pictured the field, her partner across her, their moves driving and driven by each other, a perfect interplay of form.
They moved quickly through the orchard, their hooves crunching the Discordant frost coating the grass. The desperately full cart squeaked as its wheels turned.
“A pony isn’t made to fight,” said the filly Selene to the larger of the Apples. “It is obvious, is it not? We have no sharp talons, no teeth, no bony appendages to crush nor horns to maim. Ponies are runners. I have heard of ponies running for days with scarce any rest, and Pegasi are even further gifted with speed.”
Apple Tart gave a subconscious glance down towards Selene’s wings, splayed out to stabilize the crate of fruit on her small back.
“Even Unicorns,” Selene continued, “with their magic, and you Earth Ponies with your might will choose to flee en masse when threatened. It is not immediately apparent, as we as a race have adopted the techniques and traditions of cultivation and habitation. We are no longer free-roaming across the expanse of the world—there are now cities and fields and the idea of a fixed home. However, when stressed, it is rare to find a pony who will not flee—perhaps to another city, to a friend’s home, to a loved one, to a familiar place. In a grander case, particularly in the short-term, ponies will congregate and move, at least once. The adoption of fixed habitation and the concept of possession of territory will compel us on a cognitive level to return and defend, as evinced by the guardsponies, but this in truth runs contrary to our intrinsic nature. Psychologically and physically, we are fundamentally unfit for combat.”
She stamped a hoof to emphasize the point. The crate of apples on her back shifted and she lost her balance, caught only by the massive hoof.
“Careful, there, little’un. How about you do a bit less thinking about what a pony ain’t and ain’t not fit for, and focus a bit more on your chores while you’re doin’ ‘em, mm?” Apple Tart gave an amused rumble that passed for his laugh. “‘Sides, you an’ your sis Dawnbright are gonna change ev’rything, someday.”
The door before Luna swung wide, the onslaught of light matched only by the eruption of a cheer from thousands. She struck her regal bearing instantly, marching forward with a steady step and head high, more than vaguely aware of the additional weight that rested upon her forehead. About that there was nothing to be done. She unfurled her massive wings and stepped forward, her dark coat absorbing the illumination as she poured into the arena. The volume of the cheering only increased as she strode through the passage, into the pit of sand of a coliseum.
Encircling the expanse was a sea of faces, too many to take it at once. Dozens upon dozens of rows, rising up that all who desire can be granted a view to the field. Just as they were awash under the sunlight, so was Luna washed in their voices. She scanned them all, then turned her attention ahead, to the distant side, where another figure was making its own entrance.
Her opponent was making much greater a show, flaring his gigantic wings to the cheers, bobbing his head or throwing it back, flashing his pristine plumage. He was larger than Luna had anticipated, fully a match for her own size. She could not help but take notice of his talons.
Forward they proceeded, toward the center of the great oval of the arena. Breaking through the incoherent din, the announcer continued to cry in their language, inciting the mass to an even greater fervor. Luna was adequately familiar with the tongue that she could identify the generalities of the message. Dark, stoic and unflinching, the god sent to fall: the Mare of the Moon. The bright and flamboyant: the champion of the People.
The harbinger of glory reclaimed for the People, Sir Dupaul Goutin, Noble-Ascendant of Aerie d’Aix-en-Foix.
“What do you know of the griffins, sister?”
Time spent dining with her sister was time always cherished by Celestia. This was rarely spoken plainly, but it was from time to time mentioned in one form or another. It was also expressed in the silence of the meal: discussion would be soft and personal, with the affairs of state left to other chambers and less precious moments. It was by unspoken consent only that the great preponderance of such times took place following the sunrise.
By unfortunate corollary, the precious nature of such simple moments was sullied all the further when matters of governance or politics inexorably found their way to the table.
Luna was acutely aware that her sister had such unfortunate business on her mind. Such was the effect of being an immortal creature, even accounting for a millennium apart. It was only a learned grace that kept Luna from inquiring directly, as she so desired, and kept to distract herself with the delicious scones as her sister found the words. In fairness, the pastries were adequately delectable that such a task did not mistake itself for a chore. Luna chewed slowly, savoring both the flavor and texture of the flaky dough, the glow of the morning sunlight making its presence known against her back and neck and wings.
Luna swallowed delicately—politely—before answering. “As much as has been necessary. To be honest, I am grateful that our dealings with the hegemony has been as scant and amiable as one could hope. Why do you ask?”
“You have received no reports, then? Nothing noteworthy?”
“None that would draw our attention.”
Celestia watched her carefully. Luna pretended to be unaware of the scrutiny.
“Then,” said Celestia, “you have yet to learn of a declaration from the Highmarch? I was to understand it was delivered early in your session of Night Court.” Luna shrugged and indicated she was chewing and could not politely answer. “Does a declaration to the effect of claiming expansive tracts of Equestrian soil come as a surprise to you?”
At length, Luna swallowed. “‘Tis presumptuous prattle.”
“It is tantamount to a declaration of war.”
“Let them wear themselves into oblivion. What is a century to us? Their madness shall fade and we shall prevail.”
“Luna…” Celestia sighed. “Luna, playing the long game is not acceptable. Our little ponies will never accept apparent complacency.”
“I fail to see why not. They trust you implicitly. Place those territories under my tenancy and defer fault to my poor judgement. Ultimately, there is nothing done by mortals that we cannot undo.”
Celestia sagged and lifted a hoof to the bridge between her eyes. “Luna… What if Twilight, or one of your Ponyville friends, lived in those territories?”
“Then they would be to evacuate. There is more than adequate territory to absorb refugees. They would establish a new home in no more than three years, I would anticipate.”
“Luna you are missing the point.” Celestia drew herself up and walked around the table to settle against her sister. “That is not how our little ponies think. They treasure their homes. They treasure their lives and their friends.”
Luna frowned. “If the purpose of this debate is to elucidate my disjointed frame of reference to all other creatures excepting yourself, I fail to understand why you befoul this morning to address such a topic.”
Celestia brushed Luna’s cheek with her own, and Luna returned the gesture.
“No, Luna, I confess that is not the reason. As I’m sure you have already anticipated, I will not accept your first choice to wait out the proverbial storm. Our ponies expect a direct response, and I wish to discuss with you our options. Unfortunately, our opportunities are few, and none are satisfactory.”
“You are thinking militarily.”
“I am. I have sent couriers to respond, seeking a diplomatic envoy to discuss parley, but, if I—and you, I’m sure—are reading the situation correctly, an occupation force is already being outfitted along the frontier. It is likely they will descend in the full of winter, barely months from now.”
“You presume what they seek foremost is territory?”
Celestia nodded. “I do.”
“Perhaps you are mistaken. We shall discover, upon the return of your couriers, though I suspect their goal is not mere land. They have fared well enough, lavishly, even by their standards, for generations. I propose the Highmarch, or perhaps one or two adequately zealous and charismatic Nobles, instead seeks recognition; glory. Too long have they sat quietly in their aeries, underappreciated, content in the tales of bygone esteem.” Luna collected another scone and took a bite. It was perfect. “I have reviewed the history spanning my abeyance. They must know the might we can amass against them if adequately moved. However, the simplest solution is obvious—it is unsurprising that you have overlooked it. You forget, my dear sister, griffins think individually. They value status and glory.”
Celestia stared at her, becoming aware of what Luna was implying. “Luna, you cannot be serious. From an attitude of oblique pacifism moments ago, you are now proposing—”
“I am!” Luna turned, beaming, an oddly vicious simple on her lips. “We shall grant the Nobles their glory and an opportunity to save face! Spare the field as the days of old, and let them face Us in the arena.”
Luna and Sir Dupaul met in the center, separated by some ten meters. At such a distance, even for her, it was difficult not to admire him. Bereft of armor or armaments save what his body supplied, his form was immaculate. The sunlight danced on his ivory plumage, tiny licks of light playing off of the daggers of a moustache adorning his beak. Beneath the feathers and fur was a fully-muscled form in the prime of life, both bulked and toned. The forelegs flowed down into vicious talons, the hulking rear legs ending in paws that were each as large as her head. His tail lashed in controlled excitement, each motion sending a curiously enticing ripple across his hindquarters. She assessed his reach, his strength, the limits of flexibility of both his joints and his spirit. As closely as his eyes followed her, Luna could only presume he was taking similar stock.
As one, they spread their wings and bowed to one another, a hush falling over the throng. A turn, and the bowed again towards the Loft—what Luna had been informed where the attending Highmarch Nobles and the Equestrian ambassador would be seated—and once more to the opposing stands. Each bow was accompanied with a hush that bordered on reverent, only for the cheers to swell again.
One more bow to each other, a step away, and the horns sounded.
Dupaul immediately launched himself into the air, claws forward, the frozen air swirling against the sand. He hovered, then jinked left, then right. Luna watched, unmoving for this, then took to her own wings with a gout of air. Ponies weren’t made to fight. Speed would be her primary advantage here, and altitude would give her speed. But she could not pass the high banner, with its pennants whipping in the exposed gale above.
Luna sat obediently in the phaeton, imagining the landscape and clouds being carried past her. The wind had already begun to take a chill as they flew northwest, to where the prairied plateaus and steppe met the ice-splintered peaks.
“…And that’s pretty much all they’ve shared with us,” said First Contact, an aide to the ambassador to the Highmarch hegemony. “It’s enough to get on with our day-to-day affairs, but, I’ll be honest, Your Highness, they’re kind of a proud lot. Don’t like others poking around in their business, and especially not us ponies. Dunno if it’s because we’re more influential than them, or if it’s just because they still think of us as ‘prey.’” She chuckled, trying to sell it as a joke.
“Let us hope,” said Luna, “that it is the former. Review the terms for the duel, if you would. Have the stipulations been augmented?”
Contact paged through the binder before stopping at a flamboyantly-penned sheet.
“Let’s see… Single combat in the grand arena. Uh, sorry, Your Highness, but I don’t think ponies can pronounce its name… I can’t, anyway. Uh, held before the collected peoples of all greater and lesser aeries, tourney trumpet sounding on the stroke of high noon. No arms nor armor, and, naturally, you are to be handicapped with a magic suppression device on your horn.”
That elicited a chuckle from one of the Pegasi drawing the phaeton. “Yeah, if you wanna challenge a god, make sure she can’t do god-like magic while you’re fighting her. That way it’s fair!”
Inappropriate thought it may have been, Luna couldn’t help but crack a smile of her own at the barb. “Peace, my noble Fleetfoot. I shall defeat them on their own terms.”
“Yeah, yeah. And what’s that about no armor? I thought they would be all over that stuff. Or… whatever.”
“As a matter of course, they do,” First Contact explained. “Though in honor duels they have a propensity to eschew it for some reason. Maybe because it should be more about the combatants than the armorer? I can’t really say, ponies rarely get involved in such affairs.”
“Indeed,” Luna said. “Furthermore, armoring in the setting of a duel serves a danger to both sides. One must strike harder and at more sensitive targets to exact damage, and deformed metal serves as a significant risk to both opponent and the one who wears it.”
“Oh, I guess that makes sense…”
“Your Highness,” said Contact, “no disrespect intended, but there is a stipulation in these terms… Your Highness, there is a clause exonerating both parties in the case of death. Is this a duel to the death?”
“‘Tis a formality, only. ‘Tis a traditional term of honor duels amongst the griffins. Also practical, in that, should the unthinkable occur, ‘twill likely stay further diplomatic complications.”
Luna carefully failed to mention that her meaning of ‘diplomatic complications’ likely equated to the slaughter of all pony attendees to the duel and a total war campaign against the Equestrian heartland. Idly, she pondered where the griffins managed to construct and test a device capable of inhibiting—or at the least annulling—an alicorn’s magic.
Around the arena the pair flew. Circling each other or giving chase to gauge reaction, they wove around one another and amongst the scattered stone spires, occasionally drifting over the stands to particularly enthusiastic cheers.
Like Pegasi, it was a challenge to imagine as having a difficult relationship with the air. A race of predators they were. For all the force and savagery their body could impart, the innate strength of a griffin was his ability to ambush his prey, espying the target at great range and pouncing undetected from the air. Tantamount were precision, control, and speed. It came as no surprise to Luna, then, that Sir Dupaul flew with a grace in keeping his position. Dupaul knew the air, and his wings carried him through it with practiced ease.
Luna, however, loved the air. Where Dupaul’s flight was smooth and efficient, Luna was effortless and immaculate. This duel was fully a spectacle, and she intended to put on a show. She slowed for a moment and Dupaul put on a burst of speed and charged. Luna jinked at the last moment, curled in a split-S, building speed, her eyes following Dupaul’s track, and continued her arc through most of a circle, back to vertical. Her wings pumped and she went up and up and up, corkscrewing evenly alongside the titanic spire that held the pennant up high. In a direct line Dupaul closed again, targeting her at the apex.
A body’s length apart, Luna flashed her wings, sending herself beneath him at the final moment, looping under and over, then diving down towards the earth once again. The crowd cheered, equal parts laughter and indignant roars. Luna watched the emotions playing across Dupaul’s visage as they descended. He nodded in acquiescence of her flamboyant evasion. Luna did not smile. The griffins thought her a monster, cold as starlight. She had decided before departing for the hegemony that she would disabuse them only of the former notion if she had any choice.
Dupaul banked into an intercept, tracing a large arc, using his uninterrupted speed to close distance. Again, Luna spun at the last moment in a clean evasion, just out of reach of his claws. His wings flared to brake and he spun, attempting to catch Luna before she could change her track again. With little room to maneuver, Luna decided to feign sluggishness and use her momentum, jabbing her forehooves out into his outstretched talons, jarring his limbs as she swung around him like a pendulum. In passing, she tucked a wing and struck out with the bony joint directly into Dupaul’s wing socket, sending her twisting momentum into the strike and dampening it at the same time. For her efforts, Dupaul’s wing shuddered and froze. Pulling away, she felt a coldness pierce one of her forelimbs as a talon found purchase. She didn’t have to look to know a gash now ran down the end of her cannon. They separated, inertia carrying them apart. The ocean of people roared.
They were far from crippling blows, both, but they were significant. With a wing that was no longer fully responsive, Luna would have much greater dominance of the airspace. With her leg, she now had a more sensitive target at longer range, a potential opening for a more dangerous attack. Unfortunately for Luna, a damaged wing meant Dupaul would likely not charge her in the air, resulting in a more defensive approach… or even more reckless air assault. She cursed herself for not considering the implications before striking, as he was now, contradictorily, a much more dangerous target on the wing.
“Is that the best Equestria’s champion can do?” Dupaul jeered, loud and defiant. “First blood is mine, Mare of the Moon! How will you answer?” The crowd erupted to his words.
Grudgingly, Luna spiraled to the sand of the arena, maintaining distance from her opponent. She would let him come to her. She splayed her limbs and lowered her head, a challenging pose. A bloom of warmth on her forehead reminded her that she was instinctively channeling her magic, the device affixed to her horn converting it into thermal entropy. She refused to look down at the burgeoning sting that was the wound on her leg.
Dupaul followed, swooping low, then arcing up in a pounce, talons and beak flashing. Luna feinted towards his weakened wing, saw him twist to intercept, then spun to the opposite side beneath his attack. Again her wing-knuckles launched out into the other wing socket, and she continued to whirl—an instant bought, her hind legs came to bear, her slowest and most powerful weapons, and flashed them against his side, hooves making contact as his talons caught his mass on the earth, collapsing his shoulder and the wing with a crushing blow.
A roar swelled from the throng as Dupaul skittered across the sand, barely managing to keep from tumbling over himself, tail lashing. His eyes flashed with pain and fury. Luna simply watched. His leg was still dangerous, but the wing was pulled tight against his body, obviously misaligned. Unless he became desperate—desperate enough to force himself through the pain to use it—his left wing was no longer a tool to him.
“It will take more than that to stop me, Pony,” said Dupaul, spitting the final word with loathing.
They circled slowly, Dupaul tracing the wider circle opposite Luna. She could run, she could fly. She could evade him until he wore himself to exhaustion, much akin to the realities of her existence. That was not, however, the point, in this moment. She had to meet him, on his terms. She had suggested it. So, she would wait for him.
She lowered a wing slightly, feigning distraction. As she expected, Dupaul noticed and immediately launched himself forward. Luna retreated, buying herself distance to observe his attack. He gave a swipe with each talon, both dodged with what she gave to appear as panicked steps. His right wing flashed forward to strike. A feint. Luna played along, ducking her head and shifting her own wing to counter strike when she anticipated his wing would land. A talon rose up sharply, darting towards her lowered muzzle. Even as her own wing moved to meet his wrist before contact, the sand for two meters flashed into steam as a flood of instinctive shield magic passed into the inhibitor. The wash of heat further startled Dupaul, his strike stalling, and Luna’s counterattack landed in a joint between the talons.
Dupaul snarled in anger, his head darting forward to use his beak. Luna dodged to the side. A flurry of talons was again evaded, and she pulled out of distance. The sting in her own leg swelled again, and she could not stop herself from looking down at the now four gashes running its length, the entire limb slick with blood.
Perfect Form frowned at Luna in disapproval. “What brings thee here in such a state, mine esteemed pupil?”
Luna huffed. “That which ever brings me to your dojo. I wish to dance.”
“You are drunk, Selene.”
“Call Us not that!” Luna snapped. “I deplore when she names me thus, why cannot you use the name We choose? Why cannot she?”
“You dishonor thy elders, Selene, both thy sister and myself! Quit thy insolence!”
Luna scowled, but dropped into a supplicating bow. “Forgive me, Maestro.”
“Now, the matter remains… Luna, you wish to dance while you art impaired.”
“I do not become drunk, Maestro. Forsooth, am I to return to the Ball? Why dost thou think We departed and came hence!”
Perfect continued to frown, but nodded. “If you insist, I will dance with you. But if you falter or fail my direction, you shall be dismissed for a week, is that understood?”
Luna sucked air sullenly. “…Yes, Maestro.”
“Very well. Rise. Take position. We will begin with the forty-eight form.”
Luna opened her mouth to demur, but caught herself. “Yes, Maestro.”
In unison, they danced. Step, spread, turn. Spider Eats Grass. Flash, tuck under, lift. Spread, Up and Hammer Down. Through the practiced motions they flowed, movements nearly perfectly synchronized, even if to Luna the hardwood floor felt like quicksand. Then they did so again, and a third time. Perfect managed to keep her astonishment hidden behind a severe countenance.
“Good,” said Perfect, after the fourth repetition. "You have retained your balance, at least. Your transitions, however, remain crude, and your movement are disjointed. You are blocking your power.”
“I know that,” Luna growled.
“Dost thou?” Perfect Form lifted an eyebrow.
Luna sucked again, lips pursed, impetuous.
“Very well, Luna. I will not deny thee. Let us dance, then.”
They danced in earnest. Motions started slow, each move answered with an absorption or redirection or counteraction. Move by move, they gradually accelerated. The soft padding of the initial strikes soon became smacks and sharp, staccatoed slaps. Luna was forced to use full advantage of her extra limbs, whirling her wings into the slightest opening. Hoof, push, duck. Punch, weave, double strike, drop, lift. Spread, Up and Hammer Down. Faster and faster they moved, full force flowing. Each strike that Perfect landed was answered twice over for the insult, faster and harder they danced. A final twist and an opening presented itself— Luna punched out hard and sent her Maestro tumbling. Only a breath later did Luna recognize what she had done, and horror struck her harder than any punch.
“Maestro—!” She started to move for her, to help, but Perfect Form held up a hoof. Luna stopped instantly, forced to watch as Perfect carefully gathered herself to stand.
“I think thou dost now understand, Selene. However be thy body drunk, thy soul angers.”
A great roar boomed from the stands as another series of blows were exchanged. Dupaul swiped, Luna dodged and jabbed, keeping at greater distance, where she could maneuver. Her leg burned with every movement, her neck and withers protesting from their own collection of battery. With each pass, she slowed herself, only by a fraction. Make him think she is exhausted, lure him into overextending.
“Your time is ending, Pony. Yield. There is no shame in submitting to a predator.”
Luna jabbed in response, immediately weaving into Spider Eats Grass, down and away to the side. For all the danger and damage, she was enjoying this moment. This dance.
“Yield, Pony. You have fought well, but you must know how this will end.”
Ponies weren’t made for fighting.
She flashed her wingtips at his eyes, more to enrage him further than exact damage. Dupaul flinched. Luna closed the distance in a flash, propelling herself forward with legs and wing.
Two jabs lashed out in a lunge, smashing down as she caught herself, brought her head in and bit down savagely on his beak, torquing low into Spider Eats Grass. Dupaul’s legs collapsed, unable to support them both from his attempted counterattack, and his chest struck the ground hard. Spread, Up and Hammer Down, Luna lifted them onto their hind legs and brought her ruined foreleg and a wing forward, pinning his limbs. The cannon of her good leg rocketed up, the wrist joint colliding against his ribcage. One, two, three times she struck within a single heartbeat. Four, five, six, seven, eight, her onslaught continued, jackhammering her leg into his chest. He thrashed to defend himself—to escape—to no avail. Luna drove them both forward, rear legs running as her foreleg hit again and again and again.
He pulled hard, desperate, and Luna released him. Dupaul flung himself backward in reckless abandon, limbs splayed in shock at the sudden momentum. Luna’s leg speared forward in a punch, followed by her wing, as her body spun about. Her barrel twisted, her hindquarters aligned, and her hooves flew.
The moment froze in silence as her hooves broke through the air. Dupaul’s eyes quavered as the two shapes speared directly towards his head. When—there was no if—they landed, it would be over.
The strike tapped Dupaul’s beak with the lightest of touches, and his inertia alone carried him over his tail to crash backwards into the sand. A jeering, hissing roar erupted from the crowd.
Luna turned about and marched towards him as he scrambled back, foreleg and wing tucked against his ruined ribs. For tens of meters they processed, before the words were spoken.
“Yield,” Dupaul managed. “Yield, yield, yield…”
Luna stopped, waiting. Shaking, Dupaul supplicated himself, head low. A moment, then Luna bowed in response, accepting his surrender.
The horns sounded, soon lost in the voices of thousands.
Luna thought she might impart some words of wisdom to the Noble Ascendant. A reminder of the accord surrounding this duel. Her sister might have wished such an act, to ensure the peace. Luna did not, however. She saluted the stands, the Highmarch, and turned.
Her ponies—yes, she thought, hers, now—were safe. Let them remember her as the Mare of the Moon, as cold as starlight.
Author's Note
After much dawdling, I made a number of important edits and have published this at last. There are endemic issues that remain (thanks to R5h for confirming them over IRC), but they are beyond the scope of edits I was willing to make. Thanks to the writeoff group that brought this story into being. Thank you for reading.
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