Wings of Crimson Sky

by TwilightUCrazy

Rating: teen
Tags: Adventure, Second Person
Length: 3405

The griffons called her the "Red Death". That, of course, wasn't her real name...

Fifty years ago, there was a war that shattered the peace of the world. Now, whispered amongst the mists of myth and legend are the tellings of the mare known as the "Red Death". Buried somewhere within the echoes of the Crimson War lie the answers of her disappearance. Where is she? What did she do? And why did she leave?

My name is Velvet Quill, and those are the answers I seek.

"And I looked and like a knife against the sky glinted a white form
In her eyes burned a cold and distant fire, like the flames of Tartarus
Behold, the Angel of Death
Her wings hot with blood"

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2015-11-20 04:30:01 UTC

Foreword

FOREWORD

It is unofficially dubbed many things.The Fourth Griffon War. The Great Equestrian War. The Blood-Rain War. There are any number of names it goes by. To myself, and other historians, it is known by its official name as The Crimson War, though if you simply say “The War”, anypony with even a precursory knowledge of history will know exactly which you're referring to. Such is to be expected from the most ruthless bloodbath our nation has ever known. Everypony has a grandfather or grandmother who served. Walk up to anypony in the streets and talk to them, and they will claim they knew somepony who fought in the skies or the trenches. All along the eastern coasts, villages are dotted with memorials of great heroics, noble sacrifices, and grand, sweeping battles. Statues depict the heroes of Equestria in full battle regalia, facing east towards the Celestial Sea as though eternally vigilant, standing guard over their charges for as long as their memorials stand and ready to take up the blade once more. Every year, fillies and colts flood the streets on Remembrance Day in honor of the day so many wrapped themselves in Equestria's colors.

My name is Velvet Quill. I came to knowledge of the Crimson War in my youth, when my grandfather would spin marvelous yarns of valor of both himself and his fellow soldiers. I and my six brothers would gather around the fireplace as he told us of Hearthwarmings past he had spent hunkered down in foxholes with only winter cloaks as gifts. And as my brothers slept the night away in comfort, I drew closer and listened on in my fascination of the desperate eves he had spent holding new lines-of-battle that had been drawn day after day. He spoke joyfully of friends he had made, solemnly of those he had lost, respectfully of brave stallions, mares, leaders, and frantically of the fight for survival. He always told them so well and of such enthusiasm as to make you feel as though you were there.

When I entered school and we began our history lessons, I earned my cutie mark for my research projects on the War. I was fortunate – not all families had a living veteran. Many of them had perished during the conflict. My grandfather had a wealth of photographs, medals of valor, and even books he had written of his experiences. And I pored through all of them. I was always fascinated, learning something new – some detail that had escaped me before. It wasn’t long before I had interviewed all the veterans in town. Some had been airponies, some special tactical forces, and others were frontline troops. And every little nugget of knowledge I acquired made me only hunger for more.

And then destiny called loudly out to me. I had just graduated from school and was submitting my application to Equestria University when my grandfather passed away, and he had left me all of his old war memorabilia. My parents had protested, believing I had become too focused, too obsessed with the War alone, and not on other aspects of it. And it was true – there was certainly more fascination to be found in the battles and the heroes than in the politics of the day. I had glossed over much of the history of the start of the War itself. Let’s face it – I was a little filly at the time, with no interest in the nitty-gritty of how nations were run or international diplomacy or the geopolitical state of affairs at the time. I knew going into college that I would need to do research into the heart of the war itself and where it all began. I had chosen that as my first research assignment.

I was perusing some of my grandfather’s old letters one evening – letters to friends on different fronts, back home in Equestria (Grampy had taken part in the invasion of the Griffon Nation). And it was then that I discovered a detail that had escaped my attention before.

Many of these letters I had been going through, I had never seen before. When I was young, I would often stay up school nights into the wee hours of the morning, hiding under the covers with my lantern as my only companion. Cover to cover, I read letter that my grandmare had kept and sealed away. I thought that, over my young years, I had come to read them all several times. Most I had memorized by then. I read through them constantly still to keep their details – dates, names, locations and more – fresh in my mind.

But these were different. These were letters that my Grampy had never given me before – secret letters I had never laid eyes upon before.

As you can likely guess I missed several, several classes reading through this brand new pile of information. Most of it was rather unremarkable – additional details to more-exotic locations deep into the Auroral Mountains, ambushes by minotaur tribes, bloodstained notes that Granny had kept sealed for the fear of opening them and the like. I admit, even my ravenous need for knowledge hesitated to find out the details of what was contained therein. My hesitation passed however, and I tore into them as well.

And then I found it. The first mention of the Mare with Red Wings. My grandfather had been stationed somewhere in the Frozen North when he mentioned his first sighting of her. There was excitement in his pen that I had never seen in any of his other letters or correspondence. It was a letter saying that she did exist, that she was real, how he couldn’t believe that the hero whispered about in legends all across the Equestrian Armed Forces wasn’t a fabrication. He rambled on incoherently in his letter, stating how everything would be alright, so long as she led the way.

I dug more, as you can imagine, but despite all of my extensive library-hunting, book-scrounging, and all the research notes that I had taken, I could never once find mention of this so-called “Mare with Red Wings” or anypony that fit her description anywhere. The notes told of an albino thestral (or “batpony” in laypony’s terms) whose wings, hooves and tail were stained red by years of blood and combat, at least in appearance. Grampy described her golden stare as one that could pierce the armor of Princess Celestia herself, and could frighten storms into submission. A pony like that would stand out, after all. If she was real, I was convinced I would be sure to find mention of her somewhere, provided she truly was as influential as my grandfather’s notes described. Of course, ponies have a way exaggerating a description for effect or emphasis. I personally am a mare of truth, and often overlooked such things to find the reality beneath. Grampy, however, had never been a stallion to mince words or craft poetry. He was a simple stallion, plain-spoken and straight to the point. He had never believed in garnishing a tale. Anything less than the truth in his mind was an insult to the fallen. It was because of this fact that this mysterious mare stuck with me long after I shelved the letter.

For much of my undergraduate years, I never even bothered looking at the note, but always my thoughts returned to her. No matter how I reasoned it, I couldn’t conceive of a reason why she had been snuffed out of the history texts. If she truly had been so influential on Equestria’s morale and in shaping the future, surely there must have existed some proof of her existence. A bard’s song, battlefield reports, briefing memos, journal entries – any kind of documentation. Yet no matter where I looked, no matter how – admittedly – obsessed I became, there was simply nothing more out there regarding her.

It was an itch I couldn’t scratch. My grandfather wasn’t a crazy stallion by any means. I had considered every possibility along the way – that his own imagination may simply have run away with his better senses, or that he had not seen the mystery mare in the correct light. The way he spoke of her with such detail, however, the way he spoke with such intense admiration and unyielding respect was enough to convince me that there was a deeper truth hidden beneath. I refused to believe that it couldn’t be true, no matter how little evidence there was to go on.

I searched for months, however, with no results. No historical text ever corroborated her existing or even having been born. I had no name to go on for searching through birth certificates, no squadron number or military records or mission briefings. I had only a description. Every living veteran I approached would roll their eyes and dismiss her as mere myth – a bedtime story for the cowards in the armed forces who were too frightened to truly be soldiers.

I admit, to anypony who’s reading that cares, that I was the reason he probably had a black eye for days.

Even my determination would only carry me so far though, and gradually I began to second-guess my search – and even the validity of my own grandfather. Had he simply been swept away by the passion of a powerful moment? Was he overcome by emotion, and just thought that he had seen something – something that never truly existed to begin with?

I got my breakthrough during my seventh year of school. Through all my coursework and equinology studies, I had still kept up with my digging. My professor, Doctor Trailhawk, had been my grandfather’s good friend since their youth. Perhaps it was simply out of worry or perhaps loyalty to his old friend, but the Doctor had seen fit to take me under his wing as his personal apprentice keeping the Canterlot Archives organized. He had pulled me aside one afternoon, noting my stumbling grades and my lackluster attendance. He had asked me if there was anything he could do to lift my spirits and I told him that no, there was nothing – unless of course he could descend into history and make the Mare with Red Wings real. You must understand that I had spent the last seven years of my life searching for more on her – you can only imagine how I felt when I was beginning to suspect that my time and my efforts had all been a waste.

That is, I thought so – until my professor’s face paled. The way he stared at me in stunned awe and disbelief… I knew that I had stumbled onto something; my first clue in years.

“How do you know about that?” he asked closely, leaning in to whisper in my ear. I didn’t understand why he seemed so secretive all of a sudden. Had I stumbled upon something that I wasn’t supposed to find out? What had my grandfather seen? What had he mentioned in that letter that I wasn’t supposed to see?

From there, the professor showed me his private collection of war memorabilia. If anything, it was more impressive than Grampy’s. Old chests of armor, griffon uniforms, medals of valor, and the insignia of a ranking general. I learned that day, that my own instructor had been one of the commanding officers during the occupation of the Griffon Lands. He, among others, had led my Grampy’s army through the griffon’s home country, to the siege of Aurorastasia, Talongrad, and on to Griffonstone itself. He had been there for it all. Seen it all. Gone through it all.

Naturally, I had questions for him. The one that most itched at me was what he knew of the Mare with Red Wings.

And he told me. He told me how she had been called many things. Nothing, of course, was ever really learned of her name. The title that most seemed to stick, he explained, was the “Red Death”. It had been a griffon name for her, passed on by prisoners that had been taken. Short, imposing, and catchy, the label simply stuck to her after a few battles.

You cannot begin to imagine my elation at finding out that for years I had been right. For years, a search that I thought had been fruitless – just a fairytale in a storybook – had been real all along. At last, my grandfather had been vindicated. The wild letter he had written telling of a myth had been for real, and it did more in that moment to rejuvenate my enthusiasm for her search than a thousand essays on the legend surrounding her. And yet, I had so precious little to go on. Professor Trailhawk insisted that, instead of obsessing over chasing a ghost, that I should finish my studies, earn my doctorate, and complete my thesis.

Everything changed, however, when he fell ill. Professor Trailhawk – Colonel, I later learned – never had a family. I had been the closest thing he had to a daughter, and he took me aside one evening. I had just been packing to leave and was helping him into his bed, when he handed me a key he had kept in his nightstand. “For when I am gone,” he said to me. He passed away later that evening and was entombed in the Hall of Heroes in the new Canterlot Memorial Cemetery. My heart broke when he left me. There had been so many stories he had yet to share with me – so many unrecorded, undocumented experiences. But I knew that he would have wanted me to carry on – to find the answers that I had sought since my youth.

I’d torn apart half of his residence looking for what he had left me. I only figured it out after a couple weeks of thinking it through. Naturally, a hidden spot would be safest right under one’s nose, and the Colonel and I had spent countless hours of research in his library. There were more books than anypony could hope to read in a lifetime – he had been an avid reader, apparently, and hoped never to run out of reading material. Many were in languages that I hadn’t heard of, and only the professor himself knew. The night of the Colonel’s passing, he had requested a particular book from the shelves – a book he had set aside on his nightstand and had never even opened. I knew that he had long been ill, but it was rare that he didn’t have reading material in his hooves or wasn’t leafing through some document. And as I returned the book to its shelf, a passing glimpse revealed it to me. The slot for the key he had given me.

It was like something from a storybook. Right before my eyes, a hidden compartment in an old library slid open to reveal a musty old room, kept away from the world. The professor had oft disappeared over my years under his tutelage, and I couldn’t help but wonder if this had been where he had vanished to. It was well-kept – not a speck of dust in the place, no mildew, and cold, just the way I had always pictured such secret rooms.

On a table within, I found a letter addressed specifically to me.

My Dear Velvet Quill:

Your grandfather was always right to brag about you. Never in my entire career of teaching have I met a student with half of your talent and passion for learning. Sadly, it seems that my time has come to an end, and I hadn’t the strength to tell you this in-person – a gross injustice to be sure. Know that you were my favorite pupil; an example to others that follow in your hoofsteps as you trace the myriad paths of history.

I knew that you had come under my wing, hoping to find clues as to the identity of this legendary mare you have been chasing most of your scholarly life. I was saddened to know how little I could offer. You could never know my desire to tell you all of the secrets I had been sworn to until my dying breath.

This had caught my attention, you can imagine. So with tear-filled eyes I continued on.

But it is with equal parts sadness, relief, and jubilation that my long, painful days are done. For so long, it hurt me – nay, agonized me to hold my tongue on all that I knew. And now, naturally, with my death comes the forswearing of my oath of secrecy – secrets that I now render unto you, my precious student.

I’m ashamed to admit that I grew excited as I read on. My most precious mentor had passed away – but it seemed that he had left me one final gift with his demise – spirits be praised – and it took all of my effort to continue reading through my blurry eyes.

As I have told you, the Mare with Red Wings, the so-called “Red Death” is very real – and likely very much alive even today. For decades, since the end of the War, I was forbidden to speak of her. Celestia herself saw to that. I only told you what I did to free your spirit from the despair of believing your grandfather – a good stallion – was mad or a liar. The tales you likely heard in your grandfather’s notes were nothing short of fact.

The reason her existence was kept hushed, to this day… well, you would have to ask the Princess herself that. Following the war, nopony knew where she vanished to. Perhaps it was believed that knowing of her existence would have provoked a search for a corpse – or a hunt. The legends told of this mare aren’t understated in the least – I have borne witness with my own eyes. With her own hooves and sweat, she is credited by those of us who know with saving both Equestria and the Griffon nation from destruction.

It is believed by many in the know to this very day that we only won the war because of her, and that just maybe knowing of her disappearance, other radicals among griffonkind would have taken up arms against us.

No matter the reason, nopony knows where she is now. All I know is that she was among the mercenaries who were bought to rescue Equestria in her darkest hour – one of many. But there were teeming masses who saw her and her accomplishments – few that are alive today. Those who are, I have been sure to keep in constant touch with. They will tell you nothing, unless you insist that I sent you with my blessing. Tell them that that I have charged you with telling the tale that no other pony can.

Tell the world – let not history die with us, my darling pupil. I entrust its safekeeping to you. The lessons we have learned cannot pass away with us. That is all that I have taught you, and I trust you to undertake this endeavor.

It is your destiny, Velvet. Your legacy awaits you.

Your humble teacher and friend,

Trailhawk

Attached was a list of ponies the Colonel had kept in touch with over the decades. Littered amongst the room were endless letters and correspondence. Ponies everywhere from what is now the Manehattan region, the village of Fillydelphia, the Equestrian Valley, and even notes from as far north as the White Plains.

All had one thing in common: They were veterans of the war.

This, my fellow scholars, is my thesis. This is my quest for the Mare with Red Wings – the greatest sky warrior who ever lived. What you are about to read are interviews with a number of war veterans and witnesses to the so-called Red Death and her feats and accomplishments. These interviews are not modified, tampered with, or censored in any way. What you read here is what was said, and was written by enchanted quill. I seek only the truth, and only to express it. Any thoughts and opinions expressed are mine and mine alone.

And with that, our story begins.