For the Good of Equestria: The Alicorn Warby brokenimage321ChaptersSombra: The Worst That Could HappenPhilia: A Soldier and AfeardFirefly: The Caged BirdSombra: The Calculus of WarPhilia: The God of MadnessSombra: Reap the WhirlwindCelestia: One Flap of a Seagull's WingsBarleycorn: A Candle in the DarkSombra: The Worst That Could HappenKing Sombra V, son of the late Queen Luna (Wise Ones rest her soul) and King Sombra IV (good riddance) walked down the hallways of the Crystal Spire, flanked by his guards. His Brilliance was in his late twenties and still quite handsome. Most ponies said that Sombra was the spitting image of Father, but Sombra himself disagreed. He had inherited more than a little of Mother’s grace: he stood a little taller than most, with long, slender legs, and a gentle curve to his neck. His coat, too, bore her mark; it was steely, like Father’s, but the steel bore a tinge of blue from Mother. And, on good days, Sombra thought that he caught a faint sparkle of stars in his mane... But, though he clearly had Mother’s blood in him, Sombra, just as clearly, was a creature of Father’s line--that is, he had inherited Father’s horn, but not Mother’s wings. Most visiting dignitaries knew not to mention this, and those few servants that whispered curiously about it were prone to suddenly leaving on extended vacations, never to be seen again. It didn’t matter too much, of course: though he was only the second-oldest child, his sister’s desertion had ensured that the Crystal Crown would pass to him—as, indeed, it had done. Very few were willing to challenge the power of the holder of the Crystal Heart, be he an alicorn or no, a fact Sombra leveraged for all it was worth. As his mind drifted across his family, he found his thoughts dragged, inevitably, towards the map he kept in his study—the map that was to be constantly updated by his aides when they caught the merest whiff of movement—the map that had not changed in months: the location of every known alicorn on the planet. It was ambitious, but necessary—the presence or absence of an alicorn meant so much, to anything he did, that the map was among his highest priorities. Mentally, he ran down the list: Cadance, eldest sister: vanished, her figure placed off to the side. Lux and Umbra, twins, third and fourth sisters, respectively, ruled their separate kingdoms from the old summer palace and the Saddlehorn by the western shores. Stella, fifth sister, had carved out a kingdom of the southern provinces. And Amare, technically controlling the northeast part of the former Alliance, actually under the hoof of a regent who would rule in her stead until she was of age--or, at least, that’s what he said--was sister number seven. (Sisters, sisters, always sisters—whatever magic made them Alicorns was reserved only for females. Sombra was more keenly aware of this fact than he liked to admit.) Of course, the figure representing Auntie still sat quietly off to the side; she, too, had vanished, but the sun had kept moving, so, wherever she was, his aides were fairly certain that she wasn’t dead. It was speculated that, wherever she had gone, she had taken Cadance with her, and that the two of them plotted quietly, looking for a gap in his armor. And then, of course, there was Philia… Sombra pushed open the door to his throne room and froze. Philia, the sister just younger than him, a her coat a beautiful lilac, lay on her back, sideways, across his throne. Her flank bore no cutie mark as of yet, though she was in her late twenties. This was of no surprise to those that knew her. Sombra smelled it before he saw it: at her hooves lay a stallion, wearing crystal armor, his body twisted and broken, lying in a pool of his own blood. Sombra took a half-step backwards in disgust—then looked up at his sister. “Blood and fire, Philia,” he growled, “How many times to I have to tell you—the guards are not your private playthings.” Philia lolled her head around and stared at him with uncomprehending eyes. “Things flings dings,” she said, in a faint, sing-song cadence. She swiveled her head back around, and, with her magic, lifted one of her knives—a long, wicked, curved thing, dripping with blood—and licked it. “King brings wing things,” she added. Sombra shuddered as he watched her hold out a wing, then wipe the blade on it. King brings wing things, she had said. The phrase lodged itself in his mind. Well, that was the hope, at least, he found himself thinking. Philia was, well… disadvantaged, might be the polite way to say it—and, she being not only an alicorn, but a proper Crystal Princess, “polite” was about the only way to say it. She had her moments of clarity, but those were few and far between (the fact that one of her babblings had come out almost coherent seemed to hint that another episode was coming on), but, for the most part, she just wandered the palace, muttering to herself and indulging in whatever fantasies she desired. Overwhelmingly, these seemed to be of the incredibly violent sort. But, for all her liabilities, she was an alicorn, which meant that he couldn’t just dispose of her—after all, a single alicorn could scour a battlefield clean of a conventional foe, and the only way to even fight an alicorn was with one of your own—though such battles left scars across half the countryside. Those few that would not respond to the threat of the Crystal Heart would fear an alicorn, unhinged or no. He had tried his best to keep Philia’s condition a secret, but, at this point, it was openly whispered in the streets. Well. There was more to fear from a crazed alicorn than a sane one. So, perhaps that counted for something. “Philia,” Sombra said, his voice stern, but his eyes afraid. “The throne is my chair, remember? I need it.” She turned to look at him, and he flinched. He had the sudden mental image of her lunching at him, glittering steel at his throat— “Chair,” she repeated. “Chair nowhere. Chair bare air.” And yet, she rolled off the throne and landed lightly on her hooves. She shook herself and tucked her knife into a dragon-leather sheath she kept hidden under her wing, already holding a half-dozen others. She turned and descended the few steps to the floor, then walked down the carpet towards Sombra—heedless of the gore and viscera she tracked through. As she passed Sombra, she turned to stare at him, the faintest glimmer of understanding flickering in her eyes. “Brother,” she said. “Other smother mother. But—” She swallowed, and her head jerked twitchily to one side. “I kept the raiment of them that slew him,” she finished, quoting from some old book he’d doubtless never heard of before. She did that a lot. Sombra watched her go, watched as she paused, then practically skipped out the door, a chill running down his spine. He sighed, then walked to this throne, carefully stepping around the dead guard, trying not to notice the almost-artistic thoroughness with which he had been dispatched. He climbed to his throne, sat, and rested his forehead on one hoof. “Steward,” he called into the emptiness—and, suddenly, the steward was there, standing at the side of his throne. He was very good at that. Sombra looked down at him. “Get someone to keep an eye on Philia,” he said. “I think she’s coming around again.” The steward bowed imperceptibly. “And get someone in here to clean this up,” he said, gesturing at the dead guard. “I can’t run my kingdom with a corpse in my throne room.” Author's Note Philia's quotations are not complete nonsense... Philia: A Soldier and AfeardOnce upon a time, there was a little princess… Philia found herself standing in the library. She was there for an important reason—she needed something from within. Desperately. She bent down low to the quivering librarian standing in front of her. “I am mad," she said carefully, "but north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.” She stared at him, waiting a response, but all he did was tremble. “Y-your highness?” he shivered out. Philia sighed to herself. Why was he not understanding her? This wasn’t hard. It was time to try a different tactic: She made another one of those strange little half-twitches, then spoke again. “Wind blows northerly,” she said, enunciating each syllable, “I go north. That’s who I am.” Another half-twitch. “I shall stay until the wind changes.” Again, uncomprehending stares. Why was he being so difficult? All she needed was help finding the book she was looking for, somewhere in this dusty old library! Was he too stupid to understand that? One more time. She cleared her throat: “The walrus and the carpenter—” ...who lived in a crystal castle, in the middle of a beautiful kingdom… She was nine. She sat in her own nursery in the castle. Normally, she would be in the big toy room with her brothers and sisters, but since she had bit Cadance last week, she had her own room to play in. It wasn’t as nice as the big one, but it wasn’t bad. She had her own nanny, who had a nice dress for her to wear when she was acting bad. It was tight and she couldn’t move her arms, but new clothes were always fun. She sat, and played with her dolls. Fillies played with dolls; Father said so. But her dolls were like when she had watched Father lie on top of Mother as both of them made funny noises: she knew they did it, but she didn’t know what they were supposed to be doing, or what the appeal was to doing it in the first place. But fillies played with dolls. So that’s what Philia did. She waved them about, and smashed them together, and, sometimes, she threw them around to see the noises they would make. And sometimes, if she was really bored, she twisted off their heads to see what was inside. She played quietly with her dolls, until suddenly the room went dark—but just for a flash. Something had passed her window. She got up and skipped joyously to the windowsill and gazed out at the novelty. She looked up, side to side—and down— ...but she was kidnapped by an evil prince… She was herself again. In the library. She ran a hoof down the spines of the books. She knew the name she was looking for, though, how she knew it was not entirely clear to her. Thinking of the name made her think of it—of the writhing, sinuous, serpentine body that she saw in her dreams. She knew the name of that body, and knew she had to find it, though where and how still escaped her. She would save him. And he, in turn, would save her. (She realized suddenly that there was something on her hooves—something red and sticky, like strawberry jam. She had only a vague sense of knowing where it had come from, but such facts didn’t especially concern her. This sort of thing was happening increasingly often, and she had just started to accept it as mere fact. And to challenge observable fact—well, that way lay madness…) And then, she found a book. Not the book, but a book—but, nevertheless, it practically buzzed under her hoof with the knowledge that it contained. She took it down and flipped it open. She read it through for a few moments, before she found it. The Name. She opened her mouth to read it aloud— ...a very wicked prince, who wanted to keep the princess locked away forever. She was eleven. She stood in an open field next to Father. She hated Father. She wore another new dress, like the one she used to wear in the nursery. But this one was hard and sharp, and glittered in the sunlight. It made it hard to breathe—hard to see—though she could still move her arms, at least. A lot of ponies were running towards them. They were mad about something, but Philia didn’t know what. She watched them with faint interest, curious what they wanted to say. And then Father spoke. He told her to do something. He wasn’t mad—but she knew that voice. She knew that was his about-to-be-mad-unless-you-do-what-I-say voice. So, she did it. She used her horn, and she did it. And all the angry ponies fell down… At first, it wasn’t all bad for the princess... Philia in the library again. A tall stack of books beside her, each with The Name in them. And in front of her was an old map, showing the entire Crystal Empire—and more. Philia read through the books, and, each time she saw The Name, she made a little mark on the map. And the marks were getting smaller, tighter, and closer together… ...but still… Twelve. A body underneath her, and she stabbed it and stabbed it over and over again. It leaked strawberry jam, which got all over her hooves... ...the princess… Thirteen. Now she was the one being stabbed over and over and over and over and over again, tears running down her face, her mouth full of cotton... ...wanted to fly free. She had to work quickly. Her mind was hers again, well and truly hers, but she didn’t know for how long. Focusing on a task helped her keep her mind clear—especially this task. The task. She quickly gathered some supplies and stuffed them into her saddlebags. On the top went the map, with a name circled in red ink. She ran to the highest balcony, stepped out onto it, took a deep breath, and spread her wings... So, she hoped and hoped that, one day… Philia was four years old. It was snowing outside, but she sat in the palace, a cheery fire going in the fireplace. Beside her sat Mother. Philia wanted very badly to sit on her lap, but her tummy was getting big again, and there was nowhere to sit. But still, she snuggled up against her, under the blanket they shared, and listened to her voice. She felt her breathing. Felt her heartbeat. When she was with Mother, her head didn’t hurt so much. She didn’t feel so funny all the time. And that was nice, but that didn’t matter to her; most of all, she loved Mother. And she was happy. Mother was reading to her from a book. She was telling Philia a story. She finished one page, then turned it. But she did not read the second page. She stared at it a moment, then moved to turn it again—but not before Philia saw the illustration… a shape she had seen in her dreams. “Mother,” she asked, sitting up, “what’s that?” “That?” she repeated, pointing. She didn’t say anything for a while. “That,” she said finally, “is the god of madness.” And then she said The Name. ...a dragon would come and save her from the prince. Firefly: The Caged BirdFirefly looked up as the big entry doors opened and shut. At this time of afternoon, that could mean only one thing. Firefly was a pretty mare, not as young as she had been, once. Her pink coat and blue mane hid a fiery temper, still strong as ever, and she had been quite the stunt flier, back in the day. She still would be, in fact, if it wasn’t for her current… condition... She tried to peer over the crowd, to see to the doors, but she could see nothing from where she lay. She stood, painfully, and started to wobble forward, trying to waddle around her swollen belly. She gritted her teeth, desperately wishing she could fly, even just to stretch her wings. Almost there, Firefly, she thought to herself. Just another month or two, and you’ll be back in shape again. Firefly pushed her way through the tight-packed crowd of mares, most of them twittering uselessly over this or that. She rolled her eyes; it still astonished her just how shallow the other girls were. To be sure, their… situation… left few options for conversation, but you would think they would have some kind of thought in their heads aside from their next hooficure. She found herself unconsciously scanning the mares she passed: the earth ponies, the pegasi, the unicorns, even a zebra or two. She glanced at them all, the young and the old and the tall and the small and the crystal and the plain—each time, taking note of how big their bellies were—of how long they had to go until… well… Finally, she managed to push her way to the front of the crowd—and, to her faint surprise, found a young earth mare. She was very pretty, with a pale green coat and a pink mane, and sat on the floor with tears in her eyes. The two big gelding guards flanking the doorway did not move as Firefly approached. Wordlessly, Firefly bent down and took the little mare in a hug. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “You’re okay…” “I wanna go home,” the mare sniffled, her voice trembling. “I know you do,” Firefly said. “We all do.” Firefly rubbed her back for a moment, then looked down at her and smiled. “What’s your name?” she asked gently. “Rose,” she said. “Prairie Rose.” “Prairie Rose,” Firefly repeated. “I’m Firefly.” Rose nodded against her. “How old are you?” Firefly asked, gently. “F-fourteen,” Rose muttered. Firefly’s eyes widend. “Fourteen? Sweet Celestia…” Rose looked up at her. “Is that… bad…?” she asked. Firefly watched her a moment, then sighed and closed her eyes. “You don’t know where you are, do you?” she asked. Rose shook her head. Firefly sighed, then stood and held out a hoof. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go someplace private.” She glanced around the packed room. “Or, at least, as private as we can…” Wordlessly, Rose stood, and Firefly led her back though the crowd. At the far end of the room, they mounted a short staircase, passed another gelding guard, and reached a small, circular balcony, overlooking the common room on one side, and, through a series of tall, narrow windows, the crystal city on the other. They found a white mare with a golden mane lazing about on a pile of thick pillows, luxuriating in the sunlight. Firefly clicked her tongue. “Sundance,” she said to the white mare, “Can we get some privacy?” Sundance opened her eyes and looked up. From where she lay on her back, Firefly could see the barest hint of a baby bump. “Oh?” Sundance said. “She a new girl?” Firefly nodded. “Oh. Well, in that case…” Sundance stood, then walked past them towards the stairs. As she passed Rose, she bumped her affectionately with her hip. “Good luck tonight,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. Rose stared wordlessly back at her, her mouth slightly open. Firefly shot Sundance an acid glare. When she had left, Firefly led Rose to the pillows. She eased herself down with a painful sigh, then patted the pillows beside her. Rose sat, nervously and swallowed. Firefly sighed. “Rose,” she said, “There’s really no nice way to say this, so I’m going to be frank with you.” She took a deep breath. “Rose,” she said, “you find yourself in the unenviable position of being the newest addition to the harem of the Crystal King.” Rose gasped and recoiled in horror. “And,” Firefly continued, “Since you’ve just arrived, King Sombra is probably going to want your, uh… your attention tonight.” Rose’s eyes went wide. She instinctively wrapped her arms around herself and began to cry again. Firefly sat up and pulled her close. “There, there,” she said, “It’s not all bad… it’s a cage, but it’s gilded, at least…” Rose hugged her tighter. “I-I-I n-n-n-n-...” she stammered, then swallowed. “Never done it before?” Firefly prompted, a faint, sad smile on her lips. She sobbed. “Cirrus and I,” she whimpered, “w-we were going to… but… t-they came, and said, if I didn’t go—” “They were going to hurt him,” Firefly finished. Rose nodded. “And Mama and Daddy and Ivy and Willow…” “I know,” Firefly said, patting her on the back. “I know. And I’m sorry.” She tried to fake a little smile. “But hey—you’re here now,” she said. “And that means you’re safe. It’s not all bad,” she added. “As long as you please the King, things are alright here.” “P-please the King…?” she asked nervously. Firefly nodded. “King Sombra really only cares about two things,” she said. “A good lay, and a fertile mare. His tastes are… eclectic, but it’s children that he really wants, so…” she shrugged. “Kind of a toss-up on any given night. And, if you conceive, you’ll be well taken care of until the foal comes.” Rose sniffled again. “Why does he need so many?” Firefly raised an eyebrow. “Mares?” “Foals,” Rose replied. Firefly bit her lip and looked away. She knew why. They all did. But perhaps that could wait a little--at least, until after Rose had already had her heart broken once… Firefly heard Rose sob again, and turned back to look at her. She watched her carefully for a moment; this little mare—no, this little filly—was either a very good actress, or she was the real deal. She thought for a moment more, then shrugged; she was carrying Sombra’s child, and, as long as that was true, the guards wouldn’t dare lay a hoof on her. Which meant... She leaned forward. “Can I trust you?” she asked. Rose looked up, confused. “Huh?” she asked. “Can I trust you?” Firefly repeated. Rose nodded, mystified. Firefly nodded to herself, then leaned back and took a breath. “Where you from, kid?” she asked. “O-old Equestria,” she replied. “One of the northern provinces.” Firefly nodded. “I thought so,” she said. “You had the accent. I’m from Cloudsdale, myself…” She sighed. “Or whatever they’re calling it now…” Rose sniffled. “Still C-cloudsdale,” she said, “But the mayor’s just a puppet, and he’s considering ‘Umbropolis’ to try and keep the peace.” Firefly nodded, sadly. She turned pensive for a moment, then leaned forward. “Things are going to be alright,” she whispered to Rose. She licked her lips, then leaned even further forward “I work for Celestia,” she whispered into her ear. Rose gasped and jerked her head back. “You what?” she gasped. Firefly nodded, then beckoned her close again. “I know where she’s hiding—and she sent me here to see what was going on.” Rose sat very still as she listened. Firefly took a breath and continued. “I know it’s scary—and you have the right to be scared—but I won’t let anything happen to you. Or to him,” she said, nodding down at her own belly. “Or her,” she added. “Whatever. I’m going to protect all of you from—from whatever happens.” Rose nodded slowly. She bit her lip, swallowed, then sighed. “What… is happening?” she asked. “Momma and Papa wouldn’t tell us—they were trying to keep us safe—and, when I asked the guards, they all lied to me…” Firefly watched her face for a long moment, then sighed. “I… think it might be best to start at the beginning,” she said. “It’s a… a long and complicated story. And knowing it at all is treason.” She scoffed. “But I’m carrying the king’s child—what are they gonna do to me?” She smirked—but her face quickly fell. She settled deeper into the pillows, then turned back to Rose. “Settle in,” she said. “We’ll be here a while.” Firefly took a deep breath as Rose adjusted herself. She thought for a moment, then began to speak. “It… it all started back in the day,” she said, “back when Princess Celestia and Princess Luna still travelled. The two of them ended up in the Crystal Empire one winter, trying to convince old King Sombra to join the Alliance. But, trapped in the Palace with the King like that…” she swallowed. “Well, Celestia fled in the spring, as soon as the storm cleared. But Sombra still married Princess Luna, made her Queen of the Empire--and, almost before the ceremony was done, she was pregnant with his child: their oldest, Princess Cadance. And, almost as soon as she was born, Queen Luna was pregnant again—this time, with the current King Sombra.” She sighed. “They had a new foal once a year or so—sometimes twins—for over a decade. Everyone thought they were happy—that all their kids just showed that they couldn’t keep their hooves off each other, despite their difficulties with the Alliance.” Firefly closed her eyes, and a tear ran down her cheek. “But Sombra couldn’t keep the lie going forever.” Rose’s eyes widened, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, she shrank back, deeper into the pillows. But Firefly couldn’t stop—she’d been wanting to scream this story from the balcony at the ponies below, shriek at them to wake up, to kill the children in their wombs, to throw themselves on the spears of the guards to keep them out of his hooves. She wanted to—but she was not that foolish. This story has burned inside her for over a year, and now, it was finally spilling out. “I-it took Luna a long time to figure out just what was going on,” she continued, hestitant. “To find out just what Sombra was planning, By that time, Celestia had already gone into hiding—Sombra had sent assassins after her once, and she knew he would do so again—so, Luna was all on her own. It was just him and her… her husband,” she spat, “isolated up here in the far north, with no one else to turn to--just as he’d planned, all those years ago. And, when Sombra stopped asking her if she wanted more children, she started to understand. It took her another little while to work up the courage, but, when she did, she told Cadance, who still had a good heart, to go find her Auntie, and told her where to look. Cadance fled the Empire in the dead of night—and the next day, Queen Luna sent a message, in the only way she had left to her. She...” She swallowed again. “She killed herself.” Rose’s eyes widened. “K-killed herself?” she repeated. Firefly nodded, sadness in her eyes. “Threw herself from the very tip of the Spire, in the middle of market day. Half the Empire watched her fall, including one or two of her children. Everyone saw her jump, saw her corpse where it lay broken on the crystal--and everyone knew that something was wrong.” She looked away.” “There were too many ponies to silence… though Sombra still tried.” Rose began to tremble, but Firefly couldn’t stop. “Sombra, he… he was afraid that his plans had been blown—that Cadance had been sent to warn Celestia—so he started his plans earlier than he had hoped. He went to war, to try and conquer the world--and brought his children along as soldiers, some of them still in diapers. And, though they won many battles, his children weren’t as powerful—nor as easy to control—as he had hoped. Their war stalled, just inside Alliance borders—and then, Sombra himself died. Stabbed to death in his sleep.” Firefly swallowed. “Everything went to Tartarus then,” she said. “The children had tasted their own power, and were determined to use it. Some of them immediately claimed power over old kingdoms. Some of them bided their time until they were stronger. And the younger Sombra came back to the Empire, took it for himself. There’s been a lot of fighting, and a lot of dying—and now, where there were two kingdoms, there are now over a dozen. About a third of them, all the big ones, are ruled by Sombra’s children, or regents claiming to work for them. The other two-thirds are petty kingdoms squabbling to carve out a name for themselves—but, without alicorns to protect them, everyone knows it’s only a matter of time.” Rose said nothing. Firefly let out a long, slow breath. “So, that’s about how it stands today,” she said. “A rat’s nest of standoffs, flimsy promises, and fear. Peace-but a fragile one, with everyone waiting for someone to make the wrong move, or to show a trace of weakness. No one’s brave enough to try and antagonize anyone else, not until they get a little more powerful. Celestia’s been watching, and she thought this might be a good time as any to make a move.” She turned to look out the window. “But she didn’t know about the younger Sombra,” she said. Rose swallowed, but did not speak. “Since he was… oh, about twelve,” Firefly said, “Sombra has been mating with any mare that would hold still. We thought this was just another case of a randy princeling, mad with power… but no mere lecher treats his sex toys so well,” she said. “We didn’t realize it until I came here—but Sombra, he… he wants…” She swallowed, then turned to look at Rose, who stared back at her with her big, green eyes. He wants to turn you into a weapons factory. She shrugged. “He… he wants to, um… sample mares from all over Equestria. Find his favorites. He’s, uh, a bit of a connoisseur.” She turned and glanced sidelong at Rose--but, if she had heard the lie, she did not show it. Instead, she was beginning to tear up again. “Sample?” she repeated. “Is… that all we are to him? Just, like… desserts?” No. Worse. “I’m afraid so,” she said gently. “He treats us well, but, at the end of the day…” Rose closed her eyes, and tears rolled down her cheeks again. She was quiet for a moment. “Firefly?” she said, her eyes still closed. “Can you…” “Yes?” Firefly asked. Rose took another breath. “Can you… hold me?” she asked. “Until…” She swallowed, then went quiet. Firefly nodded. “Of course,” she said. She held out her arms, and Rose snuggled into them. Firefly began to stroke her mane, and, after a while, began to hum softly to her—an old, Cloudsdale lullaby from when she, herself, was a child. She felt Rose smile, then snuggle deeper into her shoulder--and, after a few minutes, she began to breathe, slow and deep. Firefly chuckled a little, lay her head on hers, and then, began to dream— “Excuse me,” said a high-pitched male voice. Both of them awoke to see a tall, black gelding standing in front of them. As they came to, he bowed deeply. “Miss Prairie Rose,” he said gravely, “His Brilliance requests the pleasure of your company tonight.” He held out a hoof. Rose shrank back, and did not move. Firefly looked up, then reached out and smoothed her mane. “You have to go,” she said. “I know it’s hard, but you have to.” She took a deep breath. “Just… be prepared to do what he asks. He might ask anything of you, but know that he’s a bit of a sadist, so…” She shrugged faintly. “And, uh… I know this might sound heartless, but…” She lifted Rose’s chin until she could meet her trembling gaze. “Try to enjoy it,” she said, “if you can.” Firefly smiled reassuringly, then ran a hoof down her neck and onto her back. “And whatever happens,” she said, “I’ll be here when you get back.” She nodded to the gelding, his hoof outstretched. “You’d better get going,” she said. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Rose, eyes wide, stared at Firefly. Slowly, she stood, swallowed hard, and put her hoof in the gelding’s. He led her, not unkindly, back down the stairs into the main lobby, then out the door. As the two of them left. Firefly snarled. Sombra: The Calculus of WarSombra left her—what had her name been? Rosa? Rose Quartz?—weeping on the floor of the love-chamber. She had been satisfactory, but nothing remarkable. He had been hoping for a mare with a little more… perhaps spunk was the word, but only time would tell if she was what he really needed. In any case, this was not the first time that this sort of thing had happened, and his servants knew how to take care of her. They were very good at taking care of his mares--after all, they’d had plenty of practice. Sombra walked to returned to his private chambers, where his servants had already drawn his customary bath. He lowered himself into the steaming water, eager to get the mare-stink off of him, and burbled in pleasure and his body sank below the surface. He liked his water hot, just this side of scalding; it made him feel alive after a long, strenuous day. As he luxuriated in the steaming water, Sombra’s thoughts began to wander—and, once again, he found his mind lingering on the Paradox. And silently, he cursed his biology. Sombra was a stallion—which, as it turned out, was both his greatest strength and his most crippling weakness. Kingdoms rose and fell by the presence or absence of alicorns, and, thus, whoever could bring more alicorns to bear, won. And Sombra was keenly aware that alliances among his family were at best, difficult, and, at worst, outright hazardous for one’s health. So, the quickest way to get alicorn allies was to breed them. It was simple mathematics, he reminded himself: in terms of quantity, he had the advantage. His sisters had one womb apiece, which meant, when they finally figured out that this war would be won by numbers, and numbers alone, they would be able to birth no more than one alicorn a year—if they were lucky, that was. Genetics has its role to play, as well. (Sombra wasn’t certain what the birth ratios would be among half-alicorns, but he knew Lux had dropped a little alicorn filly with the help of that damnable husband of hers. So, though the chances might be low, it was possible.) However, those were the rules for mares. As a stallion, Sombra had access to as many wombs as he wanted. He could have hundreds of children a year—perhaps thousands, if he really exerted himself. And he would need those children; as a unicorn among alicorns, it was like the old saying—biology had forced him to bring a dagger to a swordfight. And thus he kept his harem. It was an open secret that the prettiest mares, both inside the Empire and out, had a habit of vanishing suddenly in the night, only to later appear in his little jewelry box—his position as Crystal King did, after all, afford him a few perks. The sex was just a side-benefit, though: what he wanted, what he needed, was children. Alicorn children. And yet, thus was the Paradox: though he had as much alicorn blood in him as every one of his sisters, he, as a mere unicorn, was apparently unable to sire them. Twenty years and hundreds of foals—each stronger and more powerful than any mundane pony had a right to be—but none had what he desired most. He had bred a thousand hoofsoldiers, but not a general among them. And yet, there was the hope: alicornism was, like the war itself, apparently a numbers game. So, he gathered his little gems to himself and filled them with foals. The foals themselves were all well taken care of, of course--the best education, the cushiest military jobs--after all, even quarter-alicorns were immensely powerful. But few of them knew the name of their father--and even fewer their mothers. This was by design, of course--for, if a tool refused to serve its master adequately, it had to be replaced, didn’t it? One of these days, Sombra thought to himself, he would find a mare who shared the spark of godhood. And when he found her, he would make her his queen--and then wring her dry. Chain her up if necessary; after all, the fiasco with Mother could not be allowed to repeat itself. The war was too important for any one mare to matter. (Sombra was, suddenly and unaccountably, reminded of the whispers he had heard. There were rumors—faint, but persistent ones—that, when Auntie had left the Crystal Empire, she, too, had been with child. Of course, the child never materialized, but the rumors accounted for that, too: some claimed the filly had been born an alicorn, like her mother, but had been secreted away as a sort of contingency plan; some claimed that the colt had been born a unicorn, who now worked as a blacksmith somewhere in Old Equestria, the potential for alicornhood lurking, undiscovered, within his loins; some claimed the filly had been born a mere pegasus, or perhaps a unicorn, and had been married off secretly at the earliest opportunity as a favor to some lecherous count; and some claimed that Auntie herself had taken action against the foal, to ensure it would never see the light of day—though, whether she had done so before or after the child had taken its first breath, not even the boldest dared speculate. (Sombra wondered briefly what it would have been like to meet his half-cousin—and whether they would have been a boon to his cause, or a thorn in his side.) Suddenly, Sombra decided that he had finished with his bath. He got out of the tub, and, silently, his servants appeared to towel him off. They clipped on his ermine cape, the same Father had worn, and placed the crown gently on his head. He stepped outside his room—and was immediately accosted by one of his aides. “Milord,” he said, bowing quickly and jerkily, without preamble. “You asked us to keep you appraised of the movements of your family, and—” he swallowed. “There’s been a development.” Sombra raised an eyebrow. “Go on,” he said. The aide bowed again. “Philia,” he said. “She has gone, milord.” Sombra stiffened. “Where?” he snapped. The servant shook his head. “We don’t know,” he said. “She killed your archivist, rifled the library, and fled.” “I want her found,” snapped Sombra. “Send out every pegasus we have—I want her back, now.” And yet, even as the aide scurried off, Sombra found himself—well, not pleased, but... perhaps relieved would be the word. Philia was the only thing keeping the wolves off his kingdom—but, was it worth holding a tiger by the tail to keep the wolves at bay? He shook his head. He could not allow himself to think like that. A loose alicorn was a dangerous alicorn, and Philia more than most. And he would not move another figure off his board—not while he still had the power to bring her back. Sombra sighed, then slowly walked towards his throne room, inwardly dreading what further surprises might await him there. As he walked, he let his mind wander again—and he found himself, once more, indulging his deepest fantasy—the secret, blasphemous wish that he, too, had been born with a set of wings. Oh, to be certain, the power of an alicorn backed by the Crystal Heart would be fearsome indeed—but, more importantly, that would mean a solution to his Paradox. If he had been born an alicorn, and yet male, well—he could flood the earth with his offspring. He would accomplish Father’s dream—but beyond even his wildest expectations. He, a male alicorn, would have the power to rule the earth, in a very real sense. Well. If wishes were dishes… he thought. And yet, try as he might, he could not push the thought from his mind. Philia: The God of MadnessFor a moment, all was still. Then, with a mighty roar, the waters surged apart, and a massive, dripping globe of murky water lifted itself from the lakebed. Slowly, it hovered over to the nearby dry land, before it suddenly fell, spraying mud and water in all directions, and leaving pale crabs and sickly fish squirming on the grass. Philia stepped forward urgently, crunching one of them underhoof. Philia was alone, by a small, swampy lake, fed by a sluggish stream. The clouds were gray and lowering, almost obscuring what was left of the towers of Canterlot, still on the mountaintop a few miles away. A chill wind blew, carrying with it the smells of age and decay. But Philia did not see the towers, or feel the cold, or smell the ruin. She was focused, totally and completely, on the object. Philia reached up and frantically started to pull the lakeweed from the thing she had dredged from the bottom of the lake. Auntie had thought to hide it from prying eyes—But Philia was smarter than her. Philia had found it. A clump of weed came free, revealing a stone carving of a fanged mouth. She paused, then stroked it gently; was it laughing? Or screaming in pain? In the end, was there really a difference? Philia pulled harder at the weeds. And, as she tore, the form began to take shape—a writhing, serpentine body, full of mismatched limbs and snarling teeth. The form she had seen in her dreams. A statue of Discord, God of Chaos, God of Madness. She sat back on her haunches, in the pile of mud and torn plant life, her chest heaving. Father’s library was not the best in the world—though it was a close race, to be sure—and every book she had found had spoken of this place. Of this thing—the last object he had been known to touch. Surely, there was a clue; surely, he had left upon this statue some spark of his being. Otherwise, the trail ran cold. Otherwise, she was lost. Otherwise, the Princess would never find her Dragon. As she searched the stone, she felt her madness, always lingering at the edge of her consciousness, threaten to consume her. She gritted her teeth and tried to stave it off—but that only made it stronger. She had mere minutes before she became a raving lunatic again. She inspected every inch of the statue—not a mark on it. As perfect as the day it was carved. And no messages from him either. She stepped back and lit her horn with a manic light, hissing and spitting as it flickered in and out of being. She gently probed the statue with her magic—and yelped as she jerked her head back. Whatever the statue was, it was practically burning with magic—a pure, white magic, in swirling bars and cages—and, within, behind the locks, behind the barriers, she thought she could feel a roiling mass of blackness. She grinned wickedly. So. There was a message after all—but Auntie had tried to lock it up. She might be smarter than her Aunt, but in a magical duel, she was drastically outclassed. She could not challenge her Aunt’s power directly. But, perhaps she didn’t need to. She lit her horn again, then closed her eyes, and, once again, she saw the pattern of the magic form in front of her—blinding-white bars, dancing in slow patterns, whirling chains spinning about, great, magical locks with no keyholes. And, in between the bars—in between the chains—in between the locks—gaps. Where a Princess could, perhaps, worm through. Make contact with what lay beyond. She didn’t need to see everything it held, after all; she just needed a taste. That would be enough to set her path by. And she was sure she could slip through the bars and steal one. She forced a little more power into her horn, and the light glowed a little stronger, a little steadier. She strained, and, in her mind’s eye—around, above, and behind the gibbering madness that threatened to consume it—she shot a tiny, crimson spark at the statue. It flew like a nervous insect—short little darts forward, anxious flits to the side, but always, always, moving forward. Past the locks—past the chains—past the bars—towards the black mass. It hovered above the surface for just a moment, an anxious dragonfly--and, then, it plunged in— A massive surgeof magical power exploded from the blackness. Philia reeled back as her crimson spark became a burning sun, then shot back out at her, breaking the bars, bursting the chains, and shattering the locks. Even as the last of her mind succumbed, she felt the blackness surge outwards, consuming all. A deep bass laugh echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once, and the statue itself began to tremble. A mighty crack, and it crumbled—and, suddenly, the God of Madness himself stood before her. Philia stared up, eyes wide. “Discord,” she gasped—and then speech left her completely. She began to babble nonsense, endless noise, and frantically walk in tight, mindless circles. Discord ignored the raving pony at his feet. He stretched, and felt his back pop pleasantly; two-and-a-half centuries, give or take a decade, was a long time to be crammed into a statue. He worked through a couple more simple stretches, scratched himself, then turned—and saw that pony, still turning in her circle, still babbling. “Thanks are in order, I suppose,” he said. Philia looked up at him, eyes wide and trembling once more. “A down-a, a down-a,” she repeated. “Spirit of chaos, spirit of strife.” “Ah,” he said casually. “You know me, then. That’s convenient, at least.” A flash of light—and suddenly he was wearing a bright, floral-pattern shirt, and holding a suitcase. “Now, if you’ll kindly point me in the direction of the nearest Sun Princess,” he snarled, “I must be off. I have business to attend to.” Philia’s eyes grew wider, and her whole body began to tremble. “Wait!” she gasped. She had waited her whole life for this—and her emotions began to boil, almost pushing back her madness. She turned in her circle once or twice more. “Wait wait wait wait,” she repeated, as she continued to tremble, as sweat began to trickle down her face. Abruptly, she stopped—still trembling, still frantic—then turned to face away from him. She hiked up her tail, revealing herself to him. “Wait,” she repeated, urgently, pleadingly. For a moment, neither of them moved. Discord let out a low whistle. “Are you really…?” he asked himself, faintly amused. “Well. At least this is more interesting than most offerings you mortals give me.” He glanced up at Philia’s face, looking back over her shoulder at him, sweat dripping for her forehead, eyes crazed, expression manic--then to her exposed backside, and back again. “You know,” he said walking around her in a circle, “I think I will take you.” She trembled a little more, a shiver of anticipation running down her spine, watching him carefully as he paced around to her front. “Only,” he added, “perhaps not in the way you had in mind.” Without warning, he reached out and grabbed her by the skull. Her eyes rolled back as she went limp, her tail falling back into place, her back legs beginning to sag. “Let’s see here,” Discord muttered to himself. “What toys do you have for me today…?” Slowly, Philia fell into a sitting position. Dim gray light began to gather at the tip of her tail and the edges of her wings. “Hm,” Discord continued to mutter, “Quite a bit of insanity—though that was to be expected, really—” The light began to creep inwards; where it had gone, Philia’s hair and feathers had turned gray. “But also anger,” Discord continued, “and sadness, and—ooh, way down at the bottom there, a little love. Dried up and crushed almost flat, of course, but it’s better than nothing.” The light was now halfway up her tail and down her wings, and her hooves had began to glow. “Let’s make this simple,” he said to himself. “Get rid of that love,” he said, and twitched one of his fingers. Philia convulsed. “That just gets in the way. And sadness, too”—another twitch, another convulsion—“You won’t be much use to me moping. And let’s bring your psychopathy and your cruelty to the fore”—twitch, convulsion—“might as well, while we’re getting out the cobwebs anyways. And let’s open up all that knowledge you have stored in that head of yours. Could be useful.” The creeping light had accelerated. Philia was half-consumed by it already. “And, of course,” he said, “let’s get rid of that madness of yours—though a little can be fun, a case such as yours is rather inconvenient, if I do say so myself…” He tensed his entire claw, and Philia drew a painful, shuddering gasp. Discord released her, and she dropped to the ground, limp. The shining light, and the grayness behind it, raced up her neck and onto her head, then slowed as it gathered around the points where Discord had touched her. It lingered here for a moment, four isolated lavender spots still visible on her skull--then swallowed them whole. Philia, her coat now a pale gray, lay still for a moment—then, her eyes fluttered open. Slowly, she stood, then looked up at Discord, her eyes clear, her gaze sharp. “Philia, is it?” Discord asked. “Well, Philia—you work for me now.” She bowed her head. “Indeed, Lord Discord,” she said, in a smooth, velvet voice. “I am happy to serve.” “You should be,” he said with a smirk. “I assume you know what to do?” She nodded. “Strike the joints,” she said. “Break their grip. Collapse their house of cards, and spread chaos in your name.” “Good girl,” Discord muttered. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.” He leaned forward a little. “Do you job well,” he said, “and we’ll see what we can do about that reward.” He hesitated. “Your carnal reward.” He hesitated again. “Y’know, the… the sex thing.” Her eyes flitted across his face, faint concern in her eyes. “I… understood, my Lord,” she said hesitantly. Discord rolled his eyes. “Of course you did,” he muttered. “You’re smart, for your age…” He turned and began to walk a circle around her again, inspecting his handiwork. He paused as his gaze flitted across her flank. “You don’t have your cutie mark,” he said in faint surprise. She shook her head. “Insanity affords few opportunities for self-discovery,” she said simply. Discord chuckled. “You’d be surprised,” he said. He looked into her eyes. “Would you like me to fix that for you?” he asked. She bowed a little. “You may do with me as you please, Lord Discord,” she said. “You’ve made that clear,” he muttered. He reached out a finger, and a spark of purple flame ignited on its tip. He touched her flank, and a searing, almost-pleasurable pain shivered through her body. Discord dragged his fingertip across her skin, drawing an intricate pattern, as Philia let out a faint moan. Finally, Discord stepped back, claw on his chin. “What do you think?” he asked. “I’m not much of an artist, but I think it’s a fair likeness.” Philia looked at her own flank—at her new cutie mark. She examined it a moment, then smiled. “I like it,” she said simply. “Good,” he said. He thought for a moment, then nodded. “While we’re on this whole self-reinvention kick,” he said, “you might as well think of changing your name. ‘Brotherly Love’ doesn’t really jive with the whole ‘agent of chaos’ shtick, after all…” She shook her head firmly. “I have one more task I must do,” she said, “before I can shed that name.” He raised an eyebrow. “You have a target already? What did you have in mind?” She bowed a little. “You have seen my mind, Lord Discord,” she said. “You know my secrets.” Discord stared at her for a moment—then let out a little gurgle of pleasure. “Ooh,” he said. “Ooh. I like it. I’m keeping you.” She bowed again. “I am glad you are pleased,” she said, “but you understand—I do this thing for myself, not for you.” He smirked. “Those aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive, you know,” he said. “At least, not in this case.” He looked up and nodded to the north. “Now,” he said, “get. You and I both have work to do.” She bowed one more time. “I shall seek you out when I have completed this task,” she said. He shook his head firmly. “Don’t call us,” he said. “We’ll call you.” And with that, he vanished. Philia stared at the spot where he had stood for just a moment before a faint smile flitted across her lips. She turned to the north and spread her wings. Author's Note FWIW, the Discording process in this chapter is based on an old headcanon of mine: that S2 Discord didn't flip the Mane 6's personalities--he dug into their subconciousnesses and found the parts of their personalities that they hated about themselves, and brought them to the fore. So, he emphasized Fluttershy's cruelty (seen in "The Best Night Ever" and "Putting Your Hoof Down"), Rarity's selfishness ("Sisterhooves Social"), Twilight's unfriendliness ("Friendship is Magic," "Amending Fences") and so on. He's just being a little more hands-on this time around. Original reddit thread, for those interested. Sombra: Reap the WhirlwindSombra threw wide the doors to his throne room—and saw, too late, that it was filled with blackness. “What is the meaning—?” he barked. But steel-gray magic grabbed him by the throat and dragged him forward. The doors slammed and locked behind him. The magic released him, and he hunched over, gasping. “You know,” a voice called, echoing from the darkness, “It’s remarkable what a little time away can do for your mental health.” Sombra swallowed nervously. That sounded like Philia—but he had not heard her speak like that before, not in… not in years. And there was a cold, hard edge that made him tremble to his core. “Philia,” he called in return, trying to keep his voice from shaking, “I-is that you?” He lit his horn, but the inky darkness did not retreat. “After a manner of speaking,” came the reply. A sudden woosh, and the voice came again—this time, from his left. “Close enough, anyways.” “I don’t have time for games, Philia,” Sombra barked. “Make this darkness spell go away—I have things I need to do.” Whoosh. “No, you really don’t,” she said. “Your schedule just cleared up—except for… hm, what’s this?” she asked, her tone suddenly mocking. “Nine o’clock—family time with sister dearest.” He spun—he had felt something standing behind him. He watched the shadows for any sign of movement, but all was still. “You know, Sombra,” Philia said, from yet a different corner of the room, “when my mind cleared, so did my memory.” For a moment, Sombra did not react—but then, slowly, his eyes went wide, and he began to tremble. “I thought as much,” she said. “I must admit, Sombrey—you did an excellent job of hiding your dark side.” Whoosh. “Even I thought your harem was the end of it.” Whoosh. “I knew you could be cruel to your enemies...” She cackled wickedly. “But, to your own family…?” Sombra whipped his head back and forth, trying to track her voice. He was openly sweating now, eyes wide and unseeing. “After all,” she said, “It was you that convinced me to murder Father. You said that, if I got all the strawberry jam out of him, that the battles would be over. That we could go home. And you tried that trick again, no less than… oh, four times, was it?... each time, with representatives of your enemies. After all—” Whoosh. “—you had the perfect fall mare at your hooves, as it were. You had nothing to do with it—it was all Philia, going off the deep end again. I took the blame—I gained the reputation—and you...” She snarled from the darkness. “You took the crown.” Sombra let out a little strangled gasp, but did not move. Philia chuckled darkly. “You have no idea how much pleasure it gives me to see you sweating so, brother,” she said. She paused—and he could practically hear her grin. “Speaking of pleasure,” she said, “Did you force me before, or after I first bled? I forget… but I still remember the taste of the cotton sheets you stuffed in my mouth.” Whoosh. “I knew you were desperate for a child,” she said. “But I didn’t know you wanted it that badly. I mean, in the name of Tartarus, I was insane—if you had simply asked, I might have even given it to you.” She was quiet for a moment. “You’re lucky I didn’t conceive,” she said, gravely. “Nothing good would have come of that union. It might have even spelled your doom.” Another pause. “Perhaps even before I got my chance.” Sombra looked around again, eyes wide and mouth dry. And suddenly, she was beside him. He jumped back and cried aloud, but she simply stood there, looming over him, staring down with a haunting smile, her eyes cold and sharp. After an agonizing moment of silence, Philia spoke. “I learned something fascinating from the griffons the other day,” she said, almost casually. “Would you like to see it?” Sombra bobbed his head. “Y-y-yes, Philia,” he said. “W-w-w-whatever you want.” He swallowed. “W-what is it?” She grinned a little wider—and, with a flash of magic, she stabbed him deep, under the jaw. Sombra let out a gurgling scream. “How to field-dress a horse,” Philia said, matter-of-factly. * * * It had been several minutes since the screaming had stopped. The crystal guards stood outside the door, blades and spears at the ready, waiting. They’d tried to breach the door to the throne room, but it electrocuted anyone who tried—two smoking corpses pushed to the side made that clear. They shuffled nervously. One or two of them glanced at the others. And one tried to subtly wipe the sweat from his brow. And then, the door unlocked. Instantly, all stood at attention, and held their weapons at the ready. The door swung wide, and out billowed thick, smoky blackness. The circle of guards cried aloud. “Stand down,” ordered a voice. They looked up—and several of them gasped and dropped their weapons. A stone-gray alicorn was striding out of the black, walking with the measured grace of born nobility. Her hooves were bloody, and flecks of gore had sprayed across her chest. She wore the steel Crystal Crown, its points, too, dripping in blood. As she walked into the center of the room, the guards shrank back: on her flank had been burned an eight-pointed figure--eight arrows, pointing in all directions. The Chaos Star. The sign of the servants of disharmony. “I am Apoleia,” she roared into the stillness. “Empress of the Crystal Empire. You will obey me, as you obeyed my father before me, or I will slay you where you stand.” No one moved. Apoleia looked between them, and nodded, satisfied. “Good,” she said. “First things first—” she nodded to three guards, standing in the front row. “You, you, and you,” she said, with a nod back over her shoulder. “Clean up the throne room. Sombra left a little mess in there.” Nervously, the three guards sheathed their weapons, then, heads bowed, filed into the throne room. As they entered, one of them gasped, and another started retching. Apoleia turned to the rest of the soldiers, her eyes glittering. “As for the rest of you--” Suddenly, they heard the sound of hooves in the hall. “Your Brilliance!” came the frantic cry. “Your Brill--!” A great, black gelding skidded to a halt in the entryway, and saw all the soldiers--and, towering above them, a giant gray alicorn--staring back at him. He swallowed, then stepped back, his ears drooping. “His Brilliance is indisposed,” Apoleia said imperiously. “Her Majesty will answer for him. What is it?” He bowed his head. “There’s been a breakout in the harem,” he said to the floor. “Two of His Brilliance’s mares have disappeared.” “Ah, yes,” Apoleia purred. “I’d almost forgotten about Sombra’s toys.” She thought for a moment, then looked up. “For those mares that are already with foal, continue to take care of them as you have. Perhaps Sombra’s seed will finally bear fruit. As for the others...” Her eyes glittered. “Put them to the axe.” A gasp rippled through the room. “Silence!” she roared--and suddenly, all was still. She glared at the soldiers, daring any of them to speak. When no one ventured, she straightened up. “The Crystal Throne will be mine forever,” she hissed. “I will tolerate no claimants, false or otherwise. Is that understood?” A murmur of reluctant agreement. Apoleia nodded. “Then, I will say it again: kill the whores that are not with child. Kill any mare that Sombra so much as touched--them, and all their foals with them. Is that clear?” Another murmur. “As for the escapees,” she added, “Find them, and butcher them. Leave their bodies to rot in the streets, like the animals they are. I will not tolerate traitors, whether they carry an alicorn child or no.” She turned to the gelding. "You may take the fourth battalion to aid you." The black gelding bowed and murmured something, then backed out of the room. Apoleia watched him go, then turned to the soldiers. “Officers,” Apoleia commanded, “Gather my generals and meet back here in a half-hour. We march South the day after tomorrow.” She smiled. “After all, this peace has gotten entirely too boring, hasn’t it?” Heads bobbed, and a smattering of Yes, Your Majesty’s murmured through the room. “The rest of you,” she said, “Say your goodbyes and prepare for the march. I will not wait a moment longer than I must.” She lifted her head a little. “Dismissed.” For a moment, no one moved. Empress Apoleia glanced around at the staring soldiers, then snarled. “When I give an order,” she growled, “I expect it to be followed. GO,” she bellowed. An electric shock rippled through the crowd; several turned and ran, though most managed the dignity of a faintly militaristic march. No one spoke; none of them were entirely certain just what had happened. As they filed out, Apoleia watched them with a critical eye. “You, there,” she called suddenly. “Captain.” A tall, blue stallion paused, then turned and bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty?” She tossed her head a little. “After my meeting with my generals,” she said, “You will report to my chambers. I require your services.” Every soldier in the room froze. The very crystal itself seemed to suck in a breath. The captain stared back at her, then bowed his head. “I-I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” he said, bewildered, “B-but, what are you asking?” “I’m ordering you to report to my chambers,” she repeated. “I understood,” he said. “But…” he glanced up nervously. “W-what sort of services do you require…?” She sighed heavily. “Do I really need to spell it out for you? Fine.” She leaned closer. “Tonight, you will mate with me. Is that clear?” He stiffened. “But, Your Majesty—” he choked out. “I’m—I’m already married—” “Then your wife will surely be pleased that you are sacrificing your own comfort for the sake of the Empire,” she growled. He stared back at her, eyes wide, and began to tremble. As Apoleia watched him, her gaze--well… softened wouldn’t be the right word. That sort of talk implied compassion. Perhaps cooled might fit; a little of the fury drained from her look, but none of the malice. “I would have you know,” she said, “there is no love in this. I am no nymphomaniac like my brother. This coupling is purely practical in nature: you are tall, strong, and intelligent, all traits that will pass on to your offspring.” She smiled—a chilling smile that froze the hearts of all who saw it. “After all,” she said, “it’s high time that I started contributing to the war effort.” Celestia: One Flap of a Seagull's WingsOne meteorologist remarked that if the theory were correct, one flap of a sea gull's wings would be enough to alter the course of the weather forever. The controversy has not yet been settled, but the most recent evidence seems to favor the sea gulls. -Edward Lorenz It was night in the Crystal Empire. The magical dome, powered by spells stronger than Celestia could understand, kept the howling blizzard at bay, letting the city bask in stifling summer warmth. Celestia stood in Luna’s chambers. She had barely managed to break out of her own house arrest not a quarter-hour before, and had, by a stroke of luck, managed to find Luna’s chambers. And now, she was about to have the most important conversation of her life. “Luna,” Celestia said, putting a hoof under Luna’s chin and raising her gaze, “Do you trust me?” A pause—and Luna nodded. “Then I need you to trust me, one more time.” Slowly, Luna nodded again. Celestia closed her eyes in relief. “What should we do?” Luna asked, in a tiny voice. “We need to go,” Celestia responded. “King Sombra is planning something, and we need to get away.” Luna opened her mouth to respond, but Celestia pressed her advantage. “You know it’s true,” she said. “You know how strange he’s been with your negotiations--how hard he fought, and how quickly he caved. No sane stallion would do such a thing…” she swallowed. “...not unless he had been playing you all along.” To her own astonishment, Luna bowed her head—then nodded. She looked back up at Celestia, tears in her eyes. “I know,” she said. “I know. I… I didn’t want to believe you… but…” She swallowed. “Where can we go? There’s nowhere we can hide here in the city…” Celestia looked over her shoulder, at the false night sky, and thought she could see the storm beyond. “We go the only place we can,” she said. “We go out.” Luna’s eyes went wide. “Are you crazy?” she said. “That’s impossible. We wouldn’t last the night!” Celestia noticed the fear in Luna’s eyes, and felt her gut twist. “No, it’s not,” she said. “I did it.” Luna shook her head. “B-but you, you’re—” she sighed. “You’re stronger than I am, Celestia. A-and you know how the weather works. You could do it, but I don’t think I could. Not in a million years.” Celestia swallowed. She could feel her moment slipping. “Luna, trust me—” “I do,” she said. “But what you’re asking is madness.” She stepped forward, and put her hooves on Celestia’s shoulders. “Now,” she said, “I need you to trust me.” Celestia’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean?” Luna nodded over Celestia’s shoulder—out the window, at the storm beyond the city. “Out there, we wouldn’t be of use to anyone—especially not as two alicornsicles.” She chuckled a little. “But here—here, we can do something. We can work against whatever it is that Sombra is planning.” She smiled crookedly. “Maybe save a few more lives that way.” Celestia say back on her haunches, a faint panic bubbling up into her mind. She slowly shook her head. “Luna,” she said carefully, “I don’t think this is a good idea…” Luna smiled, then laughed. “Oh, come on, Celestia,” she said. “We’re big girls, we can take care of ourselves.” She giggled a little. “I mean, really—what’s the worst that could happen?” Barleycorn: A Candle in the DarkBarleycorn bit his lip as he walked down the main road of Two Mills, looking this way and that. Well, even calling it a road was generous. More of a cart track. Two Mills wasn’t big enough for roads—just a little farming community, a dot on the map between the Empire and the former Alliance, home to fifty or so ponies just trying to keep their heads down and eke a living from the dirt. Or, it hadn’t been, at least. Two months ago, they had seen the first of them—war refugees from the North, pretty crystal ponies, lean and haggard—many of them ill, many of them injured. Two Mills had tried to help, and then sent them on their way. But they never stopped—more, and more, and more of them came, fleeing the smoke and fire. They told stories of the Army—of the horde of screaming fanatics, slaughtering stallions, mares and foals without hesitation. Of the burning fields, forests, and villages they left in their wake. Of the roads torn up, and temples pulled down, and the blood--so much blood. And, at their head, the great, gray alicorn, one that no one had seen before, who led the destruction with the meticulous precision of an true artist. And so, the trickle of ponies had become a river—and the river had burst its banks. Two Mills had once been a quiet, farming community (in fact, its two mills was about the only interesting thing about it)—but now it had turned into a sort of migrant camp. Barleycorn and his wife had managed to fence their garden, but otherwise, nearly every square inch of the town was filled with ponies—hungry, injured ponies, wanting rest, wanting safety, fleeing south, towards the demons they knew, and away from the devil they didn’t. And those devils, he suspected, were rising to meet the challenge; he waited, any day, for armies of steel and gold to come marching up from the south, armies that would crush little Two Mills under their weight. Barleycorn walked down the main road, looking to his left and right, at the huddled sleepers, shivering from cold, or hunger, or a dozen other things. Mothers trying to hush their frightened children. Fathers glaring warily at other fathers, each waiting for the other to make a move. Fear and exhaustion and worry on every face. He stepped around the abandoned luggage in the middle of the path, around the broken wagon that lay, shattered, where it had fallen, around the sleeping ponies that would never rise again, and shivered. Barleycorn was an old stallion, he knew that. He and his wife had spent almost their entire sixty years here, save for a trip or two to Canterlot to see the Princesses, back when it still stood. He wanted to flee—but he knew, just as surely, that he couldn’t. He had roots here. He and his wife had birthed and buried children here. He couldn’t just leave. Not when it was all that he had ever known. And he wanted to help the ponies, too, but that was an equal impossibility. He and his wife had given out their only blankets to the first group of refugees, thinking that they would be the only ones. And they had fed the first few groups, with hot stew and warm bread—but, as more and more and more came, both the stews and the slices of bread became thinner and thinner, as more and more ponies fought, sometimes to literal blows, for less and less. And now, there was nothing. He and his wife had to survive on a few small sacks of grain, and all they could scrape from their tiny, fenced-in garden, at least until harvest. Or, what was left of it, anyways; much of their fields had been trampled by the fleeing ponies, and much more of it eaten, still green, by the desperate. Barleycorn had sworn to himself that he would not leave Two Mills until he died—and, every day, that mysterious time seemed to creep a little closer. Barleycorn sighed and hung his head—and then he heard it. Somewhere, close by, a foal was crying. No, not a foal—an infant, screaming in that desperate way that only the newborn can. He frowned, then turned to follow the sound. Who in their right mind, he found himself thinking, would want to bring a foal into this world of misery? He rounded the corner of one of the barns--and froze. In the middle of the mass of huddled ponies sat two mares, both very pretty. They both looked up at him. The first, a young, green-and-pink mare had a hollowness to her stare, despite the dusky rose on her flank. She looked ill--but, whether from the journey, from some illness picked up on the road, or from the swelling bump in her belly, he couldn’t tell. But the other—the other looked at him with an expression full of exhaustion, fatigue, and a sort of quiet triumph. Her blue mane and pink coat were matted with sweat, and tear tracks were beginning to dry on her cheeks. And, in her arms, she held a little colt, still wet and bloody from the birthing. He screamed, stopping only to hiccup, frightened, as he nuzzled against his mother. Even though he had yet to be cleaned, Barleycorn could see he had a brilliant white coat, and the barest nub of a horn poking through his rainbow-striped mane. And, as Barleycorn watched— —his eyes went wide, and he began to tremble— —the little colt spread his wings. Barleycorn stood, unmoving, for a long moment—and then, slowly, fell to his knees.
Sombra: The Worst That Could HappenKing Sombra V, son of the late Queen Luna (Wise Ones rest her soul) and King Sombra IV (good riddance) walked down the hallways of the Crystal Spire, flanked by his guards. His Brilliance was in his late twenties and still quite handsome. Most ponies said that Sombra was the spitting image of Father, but Sombra himself disagreed. He had inherited more than a little of Mother’s grace: he stood a little taller than most, with long, slender legs, and a gentle curve to his neck. His coat, too, bore her mark; it was steely, like Father’s, but the steel bore a tinge of blue from Mother. And, on good days, Sombra thought that he caught a faint sparkle of stars in his mane... But, though he clearly had Mother’s blood in him, Sombra, just as clearly, was a creature of Father’s line--that is, he had inherited Father’s horn, but not Mother’s wings. Most visiting dignitaries knew not to mention this, and those few servants that whispered curiously about it were prone to suddenly leaving on extended vacations, never to be seen again. It didn’t matter too much, of course: though he was only the second-oldest child, his sister’s desertion had ensured that the Crystal Crown would pass to him—as, indeed, it had done. Very few were willing to challenge the power of the holder of the Crystal Heart, be he an alicorn or no, a fact Sombra leveraged for all it was worth. As his mind drifted across his family, he found his thoughts dragged, inevitably, towards the map he kept in his study—the map that was to be constantly updated by his aides when they caught the merest whiff of movement—the map that had not changed in months: the location of every known alicorn on the planet. It was ambitious, but necessary—the presence or absence of an alicorn meant so much, to anything he did, that the map was among his highest priorities. Mentally, he ran down the list: Cadance, eldest sister: vanished, her figure placed off to the side. Lux and Umbra, twins, third and fourth sisters, respectively, ruled their separate kingdoms from the old summer palace and the Saddlehorn by the western shores. Stella, fifth sister, had carved out a kingdom of the southern provinces. And Amare, technically controlling the northeast part of the former Alliance, actually under the hoof of a regent who would rule in her stead until she was of age--or, at least, that’s what he said--was sister number seven. (Sisters, sisters, always sisters—whatever magic made them Alicorns was reserved only for females. Sombra was more keenly aware of this fact than he liked to admit.) Of course, the figure representing Auntie still sat quietly off to the side; she, too, had vanished, but the sun had kept moving, so, wherever she was, his aides were fairly certain that she wasn’t dead. It was speculated that, wherever she had gone, she had taken Cadance with her, and that the two of them plotted quietly, looking for a gap in his armor. And then, of course, there was Philia… Sombra pushed open the door to his throne room and froze. Philia, the sister just younger than him, a her coat a beautiful lilac, lay on her back, sideways, across his throne. Her flank bore no cutie mark as of yet, though she was in her late twenties. This was of no surprise to those that knew her. Sombra smelled it before he saw it: at her hooves lay a stallion, wearing crystal armor, his body twisted and broken, lying in a pool of his own blood. Sombra took a half-step backwards in disgust—then looked up at his sister. “Blood and fire, Philia,” he growled, “How many times to I have to tell you—the guards are not your private playthings.” Philia lolled her head around and stared at him with uncomprehending eyes. “Things flings dings,” she said, in a faint, sing-song cadence. She swiveled her head back around, and, with her magic, lifted one of her knives—a long, wicked, curved thing, dripping with blood—and licked it. “King brings wing things,” she added. Sombra shuddered as he watched her hold out a wing, then wipe the blade on it. King brings wing things, she had said. The phrase lodged itself in his mind. Well, that was the hope, at least, he found himself thinking. Philia was, well… disadvantaged, might be the polite way to say it—and, she being not only an alicorn, but a proper Crystal Princess, “polite” was about the only way to say it. She had her moments of clarity, but those were few and far between (the fact that one of her babblings had come out almost coherent seemed to hint that another episode was coming on), but, for the most part, she just wandered the palace, muttering to herself and indulging in whatever fantasies she desired. Overwhelmingly, these seemed to be of the incredibly violent sort. But, for all her liabilities, she was an alicorn, which meant that he couldn’t just dispose of her—after all, a single alicorn could scour a battlefield clean of a conventional foe, and the only way to even fight an alicorn was with one of your own—though such battles left scars across half the countryside. Those few that would not respond to the threat of the Crystal Heart would fear an alicorn, unhinged or no. He had tried his best to keep Philia’s condition a secret, but, at this point, it was openly whispered in the streets. Well. There was more to fear from a crazed alicorn than a sane one. So, perhaps that counted for something. “Philia,” Sombra said, his voice stern, but his eyes afraid. “The throne is my chair, remember? I need it.” She turned to look at him, and he flinched. He had the sudden mental image of her lunching at him, glittering steel at his throat— “Chair,” she repeated. “Chair nowhere. Chair bare air.” And yet, she rolled off the throne and landed lightly on her hooves. She shook herself and tucked her knife into a dragon-leather sheath she kept hidden under her wing, already holding a half-dozen others. She turned and descended the few steps to the floor, then walked down the carpet towards Sombra—heedless of the gore and viscera she tracked through. As she passed Sombra, she turned to stare at him, the faintest glimmer of understanding flickering in her eyes. “Brother,” she said. “Other smother mother. But—” She swallowed, and her head jerked twitchily to one side. “I kept the raiment of them that slew him,” she finished, quoting from some old book he’d doubtless never heard of before. She did that a lot. Sombra watched her go, watched as she paused, then practically skipped out the door, a chill running down his spine. He sighed, then walked to this throne, carefully stepping around the dead guard, trying not to notice the almost-artistic thoroughness with which he had been dispatched. He climbed to his throne, sat, and rested his forehead on one hoof. “Steward,” he called into the emptiness—and, suddenly, the steward was there, standing at the side of his throne. He was very good at that. Sombra looked down at him. “Get someone to keep an eye on Philia,” he said. “I think she’s coming around again.” The steward bowed imperceptibly. “And get someone in here to clean this up,” he said, gesturing at the dead guard. “I can’t run my kingdom with a corpse in my throne room.” Author's Note Philia's quotations are not complete nonsense...
Philia: A Soldier and AfeardOnce upon a time, there was a little princess… Philia found herself standing in the library. She was there for an important reason—she needed something from within. Desperately. She bent down low to the quivering librarian standing in front of her. “I am mad," she said carefully, "but north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.” She stared at him, waiting a response, but all he did was tremble. “Y-your highness?” he shivered out. Philia sighed to herself. Why was he not understanding her? This wasn’t hard. It was time to try a different tactic: She made another one of those strange little half-twitches, then spoke again. “Wind blows northerly,” she said, enunciating each syllable, “I go north. That’s who I am.” Another half-twitch. “I shall stay until the wind changes.” Again, uncomprehending stares. Why was he being so difficult? All she needed was help finding the book she was looking for, somewhere in this dusty old library! Was he too stupid to understand that? One more time. She cleared her throat: “The walrus and the carpenter—” ...who lived in a crystal castle, in the middle of a beautiful kingdom… She was nine. She sat in her own nursery in the castle. Normally, she would be in the big toy room with her brothers and sisters, but since she had bit Cadance last week, she had her own room to play in. It wasn’t as nice as the big one, but it wasn’t bad. She had her own nanny, who had a nice dress for her to wear when she was acting bad. It was tight and she couldn’t move her arms, but new clothes were always fun. She sat, and played with her dolls. Fillies played with dolls; Father said so. But her dolls were like when she had watched Father lie on top of Mother as both of them made funny noises: she knew they did it, but she didn’t know what they were supposed to be doing, or what the appeal was to doing it in the first place. But fillies played with dolls. So that’s what Philia did. She waved them about, and smashed them together, and, sometimes, she threw them around to see the noises they would make. And sometimes, if she was really bored, she twisted off their heads to see what was inside. She played quietly with her dolls, until suddenly the room went dark—but just for a flash. Something had passed her window. She got up and skipped joyously to the windowsill and gazed out at the novelty. She looked up, side to side—and down— ...but she was kidnapped by an evil prince… She was herself again. In the library. She ran a hoof down the spines of the books. She knew the name she was looking for, though, how she knew it was not entirely clear to her. Thinking of the name made her think of it—of the writhing, sinuous, serpentine body that she saw in her dreams. She knew the name of that body, and knew she had to find it, though where and how still escaped her. She would save him. And he, in turn, would save her. (She realized suddenly that there was something on her hooves—something red and sticky, like strawberry jam. She had only a vague sense of knowing where it had come from, but such facts didn’t especially concern her. This sort of thing was happening increasingly often, and she had just started to accept it as mere fact. And to challenge observable fact—well, that way lay madness…) And then, she found a book. Not the book, but a book—but, nevertheless, it practically buzzed under her hoof with the knowledge that it contained. She took it down and flipped it open. She read it through for a few moments, before she found it. The Name. She opened her mouth to read it aloud— ...a very wicked prince, who wanted to keep the princess locked away forever. She was eleven. She stood in an open field next to Father. She hated Father. She wore another new dress, like the one she used to wear in the nursery. But this one was hard and sharp, and glittered in the sunlight. It made it hard to breathe—hard to see—though she could still move her arms, at least. A lot of ponies were running towards them. They were mad about something, but Philia didn’t know what. She watched them with faint interest, curious what they wanted to say. And then Father spoke. He told her to do something. He wasn’t mad—but she knew that voice. She knew that was his about-to-be-mad-unless-you-do-what-I-say voice. So, she did it. She used her horn, and she did it. And all the angry ponies fell down… At first, it wasn’t all bad for the princess... Philia in the library again. A tall stack of books beside her, each with The Name in them. And in front of her was an old map, showing the entire Crystal Empire—and more. Philia read through the books, and, each time she saw The Name, she made a little mark on the map. And the marks were getting smaller, tighter, and closer together… ...but still… Twelve. A body underneath her, and she stabbed it and stabbed it over and over again. It leaked strawberry jam, which got all over her hooves... ...the princess… Thirteen. Now she was the one being stabbed over and over and over and over and over again, tears running down her face, her mouth full of cotton... ...wanted to fly free. She had to work quickly. Her mind was hers again, well and truly hers, but she didn’t know for how long. Focusing on a task helped her keep her mind clear—especially this task. The task. She quickly gathered some supplies and stuffed them into her saddlebags. On the top went the map, with a name circled in red ink. She ran to the highest balcony, stepped out onto it, took a deep breath, and spread her wings... So, she hoped and hoped that, one day… Philia was four years old. It was snowing outside, but she sat in the palace, a cheery fire going in the fireplace. Beside her sat Mother. Philia wanted very badly to sit on her lap, but her tummy was getting big again, and there was nowhere to sit. But still, she snuggled up against her, under the blanket they shared, and listened to her voice. She felt her breathing. Felt her heartbeat. When she was with Mother, her head didn’t hurt so much. She didn’t feel so funny all the time. And that was nice, but that didn’t matter to her; most of all, she loved Mother. And she was happy. Mother was reading to her from a book. She was telling Philia a story. She finished one page, then turned it. But she did not read the second page. She stared at it a moment, then moved to turn it again—but not before Philia saw the illustration… a shape she had seen in her dreams. “Mother,” she asked, sitting up, “what’s that?” “That?” she repeated, pointing. She didn’t say anything for a while. “That,” she said finally, “is the god of madness.” And then she said The Name. ...a dragon would come and save her from the prince.
Firefly: The Caged BirdFirefly looked up as the big entry doors opened and shut. At this time of afternoon, that could mean only one thing. Firefly was a pretty mare, not as young as she had been, once. Her pink coat and blue mane hid a fiery temper, still strong as ever, and she had been quite the stunt flier, back in the day. She still would be, in fact, if it wasn’t for her current… condition... She tried to peer over the crowd, to see to the doors, but she could see nothing from where she lay. She stood, painfully, and started to wobble forward, trying to waddle around her swollen belly. She gritted her teeth, desperately wishing she could fly, even just to stretch her wings. Almost there, Firefly, she thought to herself. Just another month or two, and you’ll be back in shape again. Firefly pushed her way through the tight-packed crowd of mares, most of them twittering uselessly over this or that. She rolled her eyes; it still astonished her just how shallow the other girls were. To be sure, their… situation… left few options for conversation, but you would think they would have some kind of thought in their heads aside from their next hooficure. She found herself unconsciously scanning the mares she passed: the earth ponies, the pegasi, the unicorns, even a zebra or two. She glanced at them all, the young and the old and the tall and the small and the crystal and the plain—each time, taking note of how big their bellies were—of how long they had to go until… well… Finally, she managed to push her way to the front of the crowd—and, to her faint surprise, found a young earth mare. She was very pretty, with a pale green coat and a pink mane, and sat on the floor with tears in her eyes. The two big gelding guards flanking the doorway did not move as Firefly approached. Wordlessly, Firefly bent down and took the little mare in a hug. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “You’re okay…” “I wanna go home,” the mare sniffled, her voice trembling. “I know you do,” Firefly said. “We all do.” Firefly rubbed her back for a moment, then looked down at her and smiled. “What’s your name?” she asked gently. “Rose,” she said. “Prairie Rose.” “Prairie Rose,” Firefly repeated. “I’m Firefly.” Rose nodded against her. “How old are you?” Firefly asked, gently. “F-fourteen,” Rose muttered. Firefly’s eyes widend. “Fourteen? Sweet Celestia…” Rose looked up at her. “Is that… bad…?” she asked. Firefly watched her a moment, then sighed and closed her eyes. “You don’t know where you are, do you?” she asked. Rose shook her head. Firefly sighed, then stood and held out a hoof. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go someplace private.” She glanced around the packed room. “Or, at least, as private as we can…” Wordlessly, Rose stood, and Firefly led her back though the crowd. At the far end of the room, they mounted a short staircase, passed another gelding guard, and reached a small, circular balcony, overlooking the common room on one side, and, through a series of tall, narrow windows, the crystal city on the other. They found a white mare with a golden mane lazing about on a pile of thick pillows, luxuriating in the sunlight. Firefly clicked her tongue. “Sundance,” she said to the white mare, “Can we get some privacy?” Sundance opened her eyes and looked up. From where she lay on her back, Firefly could see the barest hint of a baby bump. “Oh?” Sundance said. “She a new girl?” Firefly nodded. “Oh. Well, in that case…” Sundance stood, then walked past them towards the stairs. As she passed Rose, she bumped her affectionately with her hip. “Good luck tonight,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. Rose stared wordlessly back at her, her mouth slightly open. Firefly shot Sundance an acid glare. When she had left, Firefly led Rose to the pillows. She eased herself down with a painful sigh, then patted the pillows beside her. Rose sat, nervously and swallowed. Firefly sighed. “Rose,” she said, “There’s really no nice way to say this, so I’m going to be frank with you.” She took a deep breath. “Rose,” she said, “you find yourself in the unenviable position of being the newest addition to the harem of the Crystal King.” Rose gasped and recoiled in horror. “And,” Firefly continued, “Since you’ve just arrived, King Sombra is probably going to want your, uh… your attention tonight.” Rose’s eyes went wide. She instinctively wrapped her arms around herself and began to cry again. Firefly sat up and pulled her close. “There, there,” she said, “It’s not all bad… it’s a cage, but it’s gilded, at least…” Rose hugged her tighter. “I-I-I n-n-n-n-...” she stammered, then swallowed. “Never done it before?” Firefly prompted, a faint, sad smile on her lips. She sobbed. “Cirrus and I,” she whimpered, “w-we were going to… but… t-they came, and said, if I didn’t go—” “They were going to hurt him,” Firefly finished. Rose nodded. “And Mama and Daddy and Ivy and Willow…” “I know,” Firefly said, patting her on the back. “I know. And I’m sorry.” She tried to fake a little smile. “But hey—you’re here now,” she said. “And that means you’re safe. It’s not all bad,” she added. “As long as you please the King, things are alright here.” “P-please the King…?” she asked nervously. Firefly nodded. “King Sombra really only cares about two things,” she said. “A good lay, and a fertile mare. His tastes are… eclectic, but it’s children that he really wants, so…” she shrugged. “Kind of a toss-up on any given night. And, if you conceive, you’ll be well taken care of until the foal comes.” Rose sniffled again. “Why does he need so many?” Firefly raised an eyebrow. “Mares?” “Foals,” Rose replied. Firefly bit her lip and looked away. She knew why. They all did. But perhaps that could wait a little--at least, until after Rose had already had her heart broken once… Firefly heard Rose sob again, and turned back to look at her. She watched her carefully for a moment; this little mare—no, this little filly—was either a very good actress, or she was the real deal. She thought for a moment more, then shrugged; she was carrying Sombra’s child, and, as long as that was true, the guards wouldn’t dare lay a hoof on her. Which meant... She leaned forward. “Can I trust you?” she asked. Rose looked up, confused. “Huh?” she asked. “Can I trust you?” Firefly repeated. Rose nodded, mystified. Firefly nodded to herself, then leaned back and took a breath. “Where you from, kid?” she asked. “O-old Equestria,” she replied. “One of the northern provinces.” Firefly nodded. “I thought so,” she said. “You had the accent. I’m from Cloudsdale, myself…” She sighed. “Or whatever they’re calling it now…” Rose sniffled. “Still C-cloudsdale,” she said, “But the mayor’s just a puppet, and he’s considering ‘Umbropolis’ to try and keep the peace.” Firefly nodded, sadly. She turned pensive for a moment, then leaned forward. “Things are going to be alright,” she whispered to Rose. She licked her lips, then leaned even further forward “I work for Celestia,” she whispered into her ear. Rose gasped and jerked her head back. “You what?” she gasped. Firefly nodded, then beckoned her close again. “I know where she’s hiding—and she sent me here to see what was going on.” Rose sat very still as she listened. Firefly took a breath and continued. “I know it’s scary—and you have the right to be scared—but I won’t let anything happen to you. Or to him,” she said, nodding down at her own belly. “Or her,” she added. “Whatever. I’m going to protect all of you from—from whatever happens.” Rose nodded slowly. She bit her lip, swallowed, then sighed. “What… is happening?” she asked. “Momma and Papa wouldn’t tell us—they were trying to keep us safe—and, when I asked the guards, they all lied to me…” Firefly watched her face for a long moment, then sighed. “I… think it might be best to start at the beginning,” she said. “It’s a… a long and complicated story. And knowing it at all is treason.” She scoffed. “But I’m carrying the king’s child—what are they gonna do to me?” She smirked—but her face quickly fell. She settled deeper into the pillows, then turned back to Rose. “Settle in,” she said. “We’ll be here a while.” Firefly took a deep breath as Rose adjusted herself. She thought for a moment, then began to speak. “It… it all started back in the day,” she said, “back when Princess Celestia and Princess Luna still travelled. The two of them ended up in the Crystal Empire one winter, trying to convince old King Sombra to join the Alliance. But, trapped in the Palace with the King like that…” she swallowed. “Well, Celestia fled in the spring, as soon as the storm cleared. But Sombra still married Princess Luna, made her Queen of the Empire--and, almost before the ceremony was done, she was pregnant with his child: their oldest, Princess Cadance. And, almost as soon as she was born, Queen Luna was pregnant again—this time, with the current King Sombra.” She sighed. “They had a new foal once a year or so—sometimes twins—for over a decade. Everyone thought they were happy—that all their kids just showed that they couldn’t keep their hooves off each other, despite their difficulties with the Alliance.” Firefly closed her eyes, and a tear ran down her cheek. “But Sombra couldn’t keep the lie going forever.” Rose’s eyes widened, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, she shrank back, deeper into the pillows. But Firefly couldn’t stop—she’d been wanting to scream this story from the balcony at the ponies below, shriek at them to wake up, to kill the children in their wombs, to throw themselves on the spears of the guards to keep them out of his hooves. She wanted to—but she was not that foolish. This story has burned inside her for over a year, and now, it was finally spilling out. “I-it took Luna a long time to figure out just what was going on,” she continued, hestitant. “To find out just what Sombra was planning, By that time, Celestia had already gone into hiding—Sombra had sent assassins after her once, and she knew he would do so again—so, Luna was all on her own. It was just him and her… her husband,” she spat, “isolated up here in the far north, with no one else to turn to--just as he’d planned, all those years ago. And, when Sombra stopped asking her if she wanted more children, she started to understand. It took her another little while to work up the courage, but, when she did, she told Cadance, who still had a good heart, to go find her Auntie, and told her where to look. Cadance fled the Empire in the dead of night—and the next day, Queen Luna sent a message, in the only way she had left to her. She...” She swallowed again. “She killed herself.” Rose’s eyes widened. “K-killed herself?” she repeated. Firefly nodded, sadness in her eyes. “Threw herself from the very tip of the Spire, in the middle of market day. Half the Empire watched her fall, including one or two of her children. Everyone saw her jump, saw her corpse where it lay broken on the crystal--and everyone knew that something was wrong.” She looked away.” “There were too many ponies to silence… though Sombra still tried.” Rose began to tremble, but Firefly couldn’t stop. “Sombra, he… he was afraid that his plans had been blown—that Cadance had been sent to warn Celestia—so he started his plans earlier than he had hoped. He went to war, to try and conquer the world--and brought his children along as soldiers, some of them still in diapers. And, though they won many battles, his children weren’t as powerful—nor as easy to control—as he had hoped. Their war stalled, just inside Alliance borders—and then, Sombra himself died. Stabbed to death in his sleep.” Firefly swallowed. “Everything went to Tartarus then,” she said. “The children had tasted their own power, and were determined to use it. Some of them immediately claimed power over old kingdoms. Some of them bided their time until they were stronger. And the younger Sombra came back to the Empire, took it for himself. There’s been a lot of fighting, and a lot of dying—and now, where there were two kingdoms, there are now over a dozen. About a third of them, all the big ones, are ruled by Sombra’s children, or regents claiming to work for them. The other two-thirds are petty kingdoms squabbling to carve out a name for themselves—but, without alicorns to protect them, everyone knows it’s only a matter of time.” Rose said nothing. Firefly let out a long, slow breath. “So, that’s about how it stands today,” she said. “A rat’s nest of standoffs, flimsy promises, and fear. Peace-but a fragile one, with everyone waiting for someone to make the wrong move, or to show a trace of weakness. No one’s brave enough to try and antagonize anyone else, not until they get a little more powerful. Celestia’s been watching, and she thought this might be a good time as any to make a move.” She turned to look out the window. “But she didn’t know about the younger Sombra,” she said. Rose swallowed, but did not speak. “Since he was… oh, about twelve,” Firefly said, “Sombra has been mating with any mare that would hold still. We thought this was just another case of a randy princeling, mad with power… but no mere lecher treats his sex toys so well,” she said. “We didn’t realize it until I came here—but Sombra, he… he wants…” She swallowed, then turned to look at Rose, who stared back at her with her big, green eyes. He wants to turn you into a weapons factory. She shrugged. “He… he wants to, um… sample mares from all over Equestria. Find his favorites. He’s, uh, a bit of a connoisseur.” She turned and glanced sidelong at Rose--but, if she had heard the lie, she did not show it. Instead, she was beginning to tear up again. “Sample?” she repeated. “Is… that all we are to him? Just, like… desserts?” No. Worse. “I’m afraid so,” she said gently. “He treats us well, but, at the end of the day…” Rose closed her eyes, and tears rolled down her cheeks again. She was quiet for a moment. “Firefly?” she said, her eyes still closed. “Can you…” “Yes?” Firefly asked. Rose took another breath. “Can you… hold me?” she asked. “Until…” She swallowed, then went quiet. Firefly nodded. “Of course,” she said. She held out her arms, and Rose snuggled into them. Firefly began to stroke her mane, and, after a while, began to hum softly to her—an old, Cloudsdale lullaby from when she, herself, was a child. She felt Rose smile, then snuggle deeper into her shoulder--and, after a few minutes, she began to breathe, slow and deep. Firefly chuckled a little, lay her head on hers, and then, began to dream— “Excuse me,” said a high-pitched male voice. Both of them awoke to see a tall, black gelding standing in front of them. As they came to, he bowed deeply. “Miss Prairie Rose,” he said gravely, “His Brilliance requests the pleasure of your company tonight.” He held out a hoof. Rose shrank back, and did not move. Firefly looked up, then reached out and smoothed her mane. “You have to go,” she said. “I know it’s hard, but you have to.” She took a deep breath. “Just… be prepared to do what he asks. He might ask anything of you, but know that he’s a bit of a sadist, so…” She shrugged faintly. “And, uh… I know this might sound heartless, but…” She lifted Rose’s chin until she could meet her trembling gaze. “Try to enjoy it,” she said, “if you can.” Firefly smiled reassuringly, then ran a hoof down her neck and onto her back. “And whatever happens,” she said, “I’ll be here when you get back.” She nodded to the gelding, his hoof outstretched. “You’d better get going,” she said. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Rose, eyes wide, stared at Firefly. Slowly, she stood, swallowed hard, and put her hoof in the gelding’s. He led her, not unkindly, back down the stairs into the main lobby, then out the door. As the two of them left. Firefly snarled.
Sombra: The Calculus of WarSombra left her—what had her name been? Rosa? Rose Quartz?—weeping on the floor of the love-chamber. She had been satisfactory, but nothing remarkable. He had been hoping for a mare with a little more… perhaps spunk was the word, but only time would tell if she was what he really needed. In any case, this was not the first time that this sort of thing had happened, and his servants knew how to take care of her. They were very good at taking care of his mares--after all, they’d had plenty of practice. Sombra walked to returned to his private chambers, where his servants had already drawn his customary bath. He lowered himself into the steaming water, eager to get the mare-stink off of him, and burbled in pleasure and his body sank below the surface. He liked his water hot, just this side of scalding; it made him feel alive after a long, strenuous day. As he luxuriated in the steaming water, Sombra’s thoughts began to wander—and, once again, he found his mind lingering on the Paradox. And silently, he cursed his biology. Sombra was a stallion—which, as it turned out, was both his greatest strength and his most crippling weakness. Kingdoms rose and fell by the presence or absence of alicorns, and, thus, whoever could bring more alicorns to bear, won. And Sombra was keenly aware that alliances among his family were at best, difficult, and, at worst, outright hazardous for one’s health. So, the quickest way to get alicorn allies was to breed them. It was simple mathematics, he reminded himself: in terms of quantity, he had the advantage. His sisters had one womb apiece, which meant, when they finally figured out that this war would be won by numbers, and numbers alone, they would be able to birth no more than one alicorn a year—if they were lucky, that was. Genetics has its role to play, as well. (Sombra wasn’t certain what the birth ratios would be among half-alicorns, but he knew Lux had dropped a little alicorn filly with the help of that damnable husband of hers. So, though the chances might be low, it was possible.) However, those were the rules for mares. As a stallion, Sombra had access to as many wombs as he wanted. He could have hundreds of children a year—perhaps thousands, if he really exerted himself. And he would need those children; as a unicorn among alicorns, it was like the old saying—biology had forced him to bring a dagger to a swordfight. And thus he kept his harem. It was an open secret that the prettiest mares, both inside the Empire and out, had a habit of vanishing suddenly in the night, only to later appear in his little jewelry box—his position as Crystal King did, after all, afford him a few perks. The sex was just a side-benefit, though: what he wanted, what he needed, was children. Alicorn children. And yet, thus was the Paradox: though he had as much alicorn blood in him as every one of his sisters, he, as a mere unicorn, was apparently unable to sire them. Twenty years and hundreds of foals—each stronger and more powerful than any mundane pony had a right to be—but none had what he desired most. He had bred a thousand hoofsoldiers, but not a general among them. And yet, there was the hope: alicornism was, like the war itself, apparently a numbers game. So, he gathered his little gems to himself and filled them with foals. The foals themselves were all well taken care of, of course--the best education, the cushiest military jobs--after all, even quarter-alicorns were immensely powerful. But few of them knew the name of their father--and even fewer their mothers. This was by design, of course--for, if a tool refused to serve its master adequately, it had to be replaced, didn’t it? One of these days, Sombra thought to himself, he would find a mare who shared the spark of godhood. And when he found her, he would make her his queen--and then wring her dry. Chain her up if necessary; after all, the fiasco with Mother could not be allowed to repeat itself. The war was too important for any one mare to matter. (Sombra was, suddenly and unaccountably, reminded of the whispers he had heard. There were rumors—faint, but persistent ones—that, when Auntie had left the Crystal Empire, she, too, had been with child. Of course, the child never materialized, but the rumors accounted for that, too: some claimed the filly had been born an alicorn, like her mother, but had been secreted away as a sort of contingency plan; some claimed that the colt had been born a unicorn, who now worked as a blacksmith somewhere in Old Equestria, the potential for alicornhood lurking, undiscovered, within his loins; some claimed the filly had been born a mere pegasus, or perhaps a unicorn, and had been married off secretly at the earliest opportunity as a favor to some lecherous count; and some claimed that Auntie herself had taken action against the foal, to ensure it would never see the light of day—though, whether she had done so before or after the child had taken its first breath, not even the boldest dared speculate. (Sombra wondered briefly what it would have been like to meet his half-cousin—and whether they would have been a boon to his cause, or a thorn in his side.) Suddenly, Sombra decided that he had finished with his bath. He got out of the tub, and, silently, his servants appeared to towel him off. They clipped on his ermine cape, the same Father had worn, and placed the crown gently on his head. He stepped outside his room—and was immediately accosted by one of his aides. “Milord,” he said, bowing quickly and jerkily, without preamble. “You asked us to keep you appraised of the movements of your family, and—” he swallowed. “There’s been a development.” Sombra raised an eyebrow. “Go on,” he said. The aide bowed again. “Philia,” he said. “She has gone, milord.” Sombra stiffened. “Where?” he snapped. The servant shook his head. “We don’t know,” he said. “She killed your archivist, rifled the library, and fled.” “I want her found,” snapped Sombra. “Send out every pegasus we have—I want her back, now.” And yet, even as the aide scurried off, Sombra found himself—well, not pleased, but... perhaps relieved would be the word. Philia was the only thing keeping the wolves off his kingdom—but, was it worth holding a tiger by the tail to keep the wolves at bay? He shook his head. He could not allow himself to think like that. A loose alicorn was a dangerous alicorn, and Philia more than most. And he would not move another figure off his board—not while he still had the power to bring her back. Sombra sighed, then slowly walked towards his throne room, inwardly dreading what further surprises might await him there. As he walked, he let his mind wander again—and he found himself, once more, indulging his deepest fantasy—the secret, blasphemous wish that he, too, had been born with a set of wings. Oh, to be certain, the power of an alicorn backed by the Crystal Heart would be fearsome indeed—but, more importantly, that would mean a solution to his Paradox. If he had been born an alicorn, and yet male, well—he could flood the earth with his offspring. He would accomplish Father’s dream—but beyond even his wildest expectations. He, a male alicorn, would have the power to rule the earth, in a very real sense. Well. If wishes were dishes… he thought. And yet, try as he might, he could not push the thought from his mind.
Philia: The God of MadnessFor a moment, all was still. Then, with a mighty roar, the waters surged apart, and a massive, dripping globe of murky water lifted itself from the lakebed. Slowly, it hovered over to the nearby dry land, before it suddenly fell, spraying mud and water in all directions, and leaving pale crabs and sickly fish squirming on the grass. Philia stepped forward urgently, crunching one of them underhoof. Philia was alone, by a small, swampy lake, fed by a sluggish stream. The clouds were gray and lowering, almost obscuring what was left of the towers of Canterlot, still on the mountaintop a few miles away. A chill wind blew, carrying with it the smells of age and decay. But Philia did not see the towers, or feel the cold, or smell the ruin. She was focused, totally and completely, on the object. Philia reached up and frantically started to pull the lakeweed from the thing she had dredged from the bottom of the lake. Auntie had thought to hide it from prying eyes—But Philia was smarter than her. Philia had found it. A clump of weed came free, revealing a stone carving of a fanged mouth. She paused, then stroked it gently; was it laughing? Or screaming in pain? In the end, was there really a difference? Philia pulled harder at the weeds. And, as she tore, the form began to take shape—a writhing, serpentine body, full of mismatched limbs and snarling teeth. The form she had seen in her dreams. A statue of Discord, God of Chaos, God of Madness. She sat back on her haunches, in the pile of mud and torn plant life, her chest heaving. Father’s library was not the best in the world—though it was a close race, to be sure—and every book she had found had spoken of this place. Of this thing—the last object he had been known to touch. Surely, there was a clue; surely, he had left upon this statue some spark of his being. Otherwise, the trail ran cold. Otherwise, she was lost. Otherwise, the Princess would never find her Dragon. As she searched the stone, she felt her madness, always lingering at the edge of her consciousness, threaten to consume her. She gritted her teeth and tried to stave it off—but that only made it stronger. She had mere minutes before she became a raving lunatic again. She inspected every inch of the statue—not a mark on it. As perfect as the day it was carved. And no messages from him either. She stepped back and lit her horn with a manic light, hissing and spitting as it flickered in and out of being. She gently probed the statue with her magic—and yelped as she jerked her head back. Whatever the statue was, it was practically burning with magic—a pure, white magic, in swirling bars and cages—and, within, behind the locks, behind the barriers, she thought she could feel a roiling mass of blackness. She grinned wickedly. So. There was a message after all—but Auntie had tried to lock it up. She might be smarter than her Aunt, but in a magical duel, she was drastically outclassed. She could not challenge her Aunt’s power directly. But, perhaps she didn’t need to. She lit her horn again, then closed her eyes, and, once again, she saw the pattern of the magic form in front of her—blinding-white bars, dancing in slow patterns, whirling chains spinning about, great, magical locks with no keyholes. And, in between the bars—in between the chains—in between the locks—gaps. Where a Princess could, perhaps, worm through. Make contact with what lay beyond. She didn’t need to see everything it held, after all; she just needed a taste. That would be enough to set her path by. And she was sure she could slip through the bars and steal one. She forced a little more power into her horn, and the light glowed a little stronger, a little steadier. She strained, and, in her mind’s eye—around, above, and behind the gibbering madness that threatened to consume it—she shot a tiny, crimson spark at the statue. It flew like a nervous insect—short little darts forward, anxious flits to the side, but always, always, moving forward. Past the locks—past the chains—past the bars—towards the black mass. It hovered above the surface for just a moment, an anxious dragonfly--and, then, it plunged in— A massive surgeof magical power exploded from the blackness. Philia reeled back as her crimson spark became a burning sun, then shot back out at her, breaking the bars, bursting the chains, and shattering the locks. Even as the last of her mind succumbed, she felt the blackness surge outwards, consuming all. A deep bass laugh echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once, and the statue itself began to tremble. A mighty crack, and it crumbled—and, suddenly, the God of Madness himself stood before her. Philia stared up, eyes wide. “Discord,” she gasped—and then speech left her completely. She began to babble nonsense, endless noise, and frantically walk in tight, mindless circles. Discord ignored the raving pony at his feet. He stretched, and felt his back pop pleasantly; two-and-a-half centuries, give or take a decade, was a long time to be crammed into a statue. He worked through a couple more simple stretches, scratched himself, then turned—and saw that pony, still turning in her circle, still babbling. “Thanks are in order, I suppose,” he said. Philia looked up at him, eyes wide and trembling once more. “A down-a, a down-a,” she repeated. “Spirit of chaos, spirit of strife.” “Ah,” he said casually. “You know me, then. That’s convenient, at least.” A flash of light—and suddenly he was wearing a bright, floral-pattern shirt, and holding a suitcase. “Now, if you’ll kindly point me in the direction of the nearest Sun Princess,” he snarled, “I must be off. I have business to attend to.” Philia’s eyes grew wider, and her whole body began to tremble. “Wait!” she gasped. She had waited her whole life for this—and her emotions began to boil, almost pushing back her madness. She turned in her circle once or twice more. “Wait wait wait wait,” she repeated, as she continued to tremble, as sweat began to trickle down her face. Abruptly, she stopped—still trembling, still frantic—then turned to face away from him. She hiked up her tail, revealing herself to him. “Wait,” she repeated, urgently, pleadingly. For a moment, neither of them moved. Discord let out a low whistle. “Are you really…?” he asked himself, faintly amused. “Well. At least this is more interesting than most offerings you mortals give me.” He glanced up at Philia’s face, looking back over her shoulder at him, sweat dripping for her forehead, eyes crazed, expression manic--then to her exposed backside, and back again. “You know,” he said walking around her in a circle, “I think I will take you.” She trembled a little more, a shiver of anticipation running down her spine, watching him carefully as he paced around to her front. “Only,” he added, “perhaps not in the way you had in mind.” Without warning, he reached out and grabbed her by the skull. Her eyes rolled back as she went limp, her tail falling back into place, her back legs beginning to sag. “Let’s see here,” Discord muttered to himself. “What toys do you have for me today…?” Slowly, Philia fell into a sitting position. Dim gray light began to gather at the tip of her tail and the edges of her wings. “Hm,” Discord continued to mutter, “Quite a bit of insanity—though that was to be expected, really—” The light began to creep inwards; where it had gone, Philia’s hair and feathers had turned gray. “But also anger,” Discord continued, “and sadness, and—ooh, way down at the bottom there, a little love. Dried up and crushed almost flat, of course, but it’s better than nothing.” The light was now halfway up her tail and down her wings, and her hooves had began to glow. “Let’s make this simple,” he said to himself. “Get rid of that love,” he said, and twitched one of his fingers. Philia convulsed. “That just gets in the way. And sadness, too”—another twitch, another convulsion—“You won’t be much use to me moping. And let’s bring your psychopathy and your cruelty to the fore”—twitch, convulsion—“might as well, while we’re getting out the cobwebs anyways. And let’s open up all that knowledge you have stored in that head of yours. Could be useful.” The creeping light had accelerated. Philia was half-consumed by it already. “And, of course,” he said, “let’s get rid of that madness of yours—though a little can be fun, a case such as yours is rather inconvenient, if I do say so myself…” He tensed his entire claw, and Philia drew a painful, shuddering gasp. Discord released her, and she dropped to the ground, limp. The shining light, and the grayness behind it, raced up her neck and onto her head, then slowed as it gathered around the points where Discord had touched her. It lingered here for a moment, four isolated lavender spots still visible on her skull--then swallowed them whole. Philia, her coat now a pale gray, lay still for a moment—then, her eyes fluttered open. Slowly, she stood, then looked up at Discord, her eyes clear, her gaze sharp. “Philia, is it?” Discord asked. “Well, Philia—you work for me now.” She bowed her head. “Indeed, Lord Discord,” she said, in a smooth, velvet voice. “I am happy to serve.” “You should be,” he said with a smirk. “I assume you know what to do?” She nodded. “Strike the joints,” she said. “Break their grip. Collapse their house of cards, and spread chaos in your name.” “Good girl,” Discord muttered. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.” He leaned forward a little. “Do you job well,” he said, “and we’ll see what we can do about that reward.” He hesitated. “Your carnal reward.” He hesitated again. “Y’know, the… the sex thing.” Her eyes flitted across his face, faint concern in her eyes. “I… understood, my Lord,” she said hesitantly. Discord rolled his eyes. “Of course you did,” he muttered. “You’re smart, for your age…” He turned and began to walk a circle around her again, inspecting his handiwork. He paused as his gaze flitted across her flank. “You don’t have your cutie mark,” he said in faint surprise. She shook her head. “Insanity affords few opportunities for self-discovery,” she said simply. Discord chuckled. “You’d be surprised,” he said. He looked into her eyes. “Would you like me to fix that for you?” he asked. She bowed a little. “You may do with me as you please, Lord Discord,” she said. “You’ve made that clear,” he muttered. He reached out a finger, and a spark of purple flame ignited on its tip. He touched her flank, and a searing, almost-pleasurable pain shivered through her body. Discord dragged his fingertip across her skin, drawing an intricate pattern, as Philia let out a faint moan. Finally, Discord stepped back, claw on his chin. “What do you think?” he asked. “I’m not much of an artist, but I think it’s a fair likeness.” Philia looked at her own flank—at her new cutie mark. She examined it a moment, then smiled. “I like it,” she said simply. “Good,” he said. He thought for a moment, then nodded. “While we’re on this whole self-reinvention kick,” he said, “you might as well think of changing your name. ‘Brotherly Love’ doesn’t really jive with the whole ‘agent of chaos’ shtick, after all…” She shook her head firmly. “I have one more task I must do,” she said, “before I can shed that name.” He raised an eyebrow. “You have a target already? What did you have in mind?” She bowed a little. “You have seen my mind, Lord Discord,” she said. “You know my secrets.” Discord stared at her for a moment—then let out a little gurgle of pleasure. “Ooh,” he said. “Ooh. I like it. I’m keeping you.” She bowed again. “I am glad you are pleased,” she said, “but you understand—I do this thing for myself, not for you.” He smirked. “Those aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive, you know,” he said. “At least, not in this case.” He looked up and nodded to the north. “Now,” he said, “get. You and I both have work to do.” She bowed one more time. “I shall seek you out when I have completed this task,” she said. He shook his head firmly. “Don’t call us,” he said. “We’ll call you.” And with that, he vanished. Philia stared at the spot where he had stood for just a moment before a faint smile flitted across her lips. She turned to the north and spread her wings. Author's Note FWIW, the Discording process in this chapter is based on an old headcanon of mine: that S2 Discord didn't flip the Mane 6's personalities--he dug into their subconciousnesses and found the parts of their personalities that they hated about themselves, and brought them to the fore. So, he emphasized Fluttershy's cruelty (seen in "The Best Night Ever" and "Putting Your Hoof Down"), Rarity's selfishness ("Sisterhooves Social"), Twilight's unfriendliness ("Friendship is Magic," "Amending Fences") and so on. He's just being a little more hands-on this time around. Original reddit thread, for those interested.
Sombra: Reap the WhirlwindSombra threw wide the doors to his throne room—and saw, too late, that it was filled with blackness. “What is the meaning—?” he barked. But steel-gray magic grabbed him by the throat and dragged him forward. The doors slammed and locked behind him. The magic released him, and he hunched over, gasping. “You know,” a voice called, echoing from the darkness, “It’s remarkable what a little time away can do for your mental health.” Sombra swallowed nervously. That sounded like Philia—but he had not heard her speak like that before, not in… not in years. And there was a cold, hard edge that made him tremble to his core. “Philia,” he called in return, trying to keep his voice from shaking, “I-is that you?” He lit his horn, but the inky darkness did not retreat. “After a manner of speaking,” came the reply. A sudden woosh, and the voice came again—this time, from his left. “Close enough, anyways.” “I don’t have time for games, Philia,” Sombra barked. “Make this darkness spell go away—I have things I need to do.” Whoosh. “No, you really don’t,” she said. “Your schedule just cleared up—except for… hm, what’s this?” she asked, her tone suddenly mocking. “Nine o’clock—family time with sister dearest.” He spun—he had felt something standing behind him. He watched the shadows for any sign of movement, but all was still. “You know, Sombra,” Philia said, from yet a different corner of the room, “when my mind cleared, so did my memory.” For a moment, Sombra did not react—but then, slowly, his eyes went wide, and he began to tremble. “I thought as much,” she said. “I must admit, Sombrey—you did an excellent job of hiding your dark side.” Whoosh. “Even I thought your harem was the end of it.” Whoosh. “I knew you could be cruel to your enemies...” She cackled wickedly. “But, to your own family…?” Sombra whipped his head back and forth, trying to track her voice. He was openly sweating now, eyes wide and unseeing. “After all,” she said, “It was you that convinced me to murder Father. You said that, if I got all the strawberry jam out of him, that the battles would be over. That we could go home. And you tried that trick again, no less than… oh, four times, was it?... each time, with representatives of your enemies. After all—” Whoosh. “—you had the perfect fall mare at your hooves, as it were. You had nothing to do with it—it was all Philia, going off the deep end again. I took the blame—I gained the reputation—and you...” She snarled from the darkness. “You took the crown.” Sombra let out a little strangled gasp, but did not move. Philia chuckled darkly. “You have no idea how much pleasure it gives me to see you sweating so, brother,” she said. She paused—and he could practically hear her grin. “Speaking of pleasure,” she said, “Did you force me before, or after I first bled? I forget… but I still remember the taste of the cotton sheets you stuffed in my mouth.” Whoosh. “I knew you were desperate for a child,” she said. “But I didn’t know you wanted it that badly. I mean, in the name of Tartarus, I was insane—if you had simply asked, I might have even given it to you.” She was quiet for a moment. “You’re lucky I didn’t conceive,” she said, gravely. “Nothing good would have come of that union. It might have even spelled your doom.” Another pause. “Perhaps even before I got my chance.” Sombra looked around again, eyes wide and mouth dry. And suddenly, she was beside him. He jumped back and cried aloud, but she simply stood there, looming over him, staring down with a haunting smile, her eyes cold and sharp. After an agonizing moment of silence, Philia spoke. “I learned something fascinating from the griffons the other day,” she said, almost casually. “Would you like to see it?” Sombra bobbed his head. “Y-y-yes, Philia,” he said. “W-w-w-whatever you want.” He swallowed. “W-what is it?” She grinned a little wider—and, with a flash of magic, she stabbed him deep, under the jaw. Sombra let out a gurgling scream. “How to field-dress a horse,” Philia said, matter-of-factly. * * * It had been several minutes since the screaming had stopped. The crystal guards stood outside the door, blades and spears at the ready, waiting. They’d tried to breach the door to the throne room, but it electrocuted anyone who tried—two smoking corpses pushed to the side made that clear. They shuffled nervously. One or two of them glanced at the others. And one tried to subtly wipe the sweat from his brow. And then, the door unlocked. Instantly, all stood at attention, and held their weapons at the ready. The door swung wide, and out billowed thick, smoky blackness. The circle of guards cried aloud. “Stand down,” ordered a voice. They looked up—and several of them gasped and dropped their weapons. A stone-gray alicorn was striding out of the black, walking with the measured grace of born nobility. Her hooves were bloody, and flecks of gore had sprayed across her chest. She wore the steel Crystal Crown, its points, too, dripping in blood. As she walked into the center of the room, the guards shrank back: on her flank had been burned an eight-pointed figure--eight arrows, pointing in all directions. The Chaos Star. The sign of the servants of disharmony. “I am Apoleia,” she roared into the stillness. “Empress of the Crystal Empire. You will obey me, as you obeyed my father before me, or I will slay you where you stand.” No one moved. Apoleia looked between them, and nodded, satisfied. “Good,” she said. “First things first—” she nodded to three guards, standing in the front row. “You, you, and you,” she said, with a nod back over her shoulder. “Clean up the throne room. Sombra left a little mess in there.” Nervously, the three guards sheathed their weapons, then, heads bowed, filed into the throne room. As they entered, one of them gasped, and another started retching. Apoleia turned to the rest of the soldiers, her eyes glittering. “As for the rest of you--” Suddenly, they heard the sound of hooves in the hall. “Your Brilliance!” came the frantic cry. “Your Brill--!” A great, black gelding skidded to a halt in the entryway, and saw all the soldiers--and, towering above them, a giant gray alicorn--staring back at him. He swallowed, then stepped back, his ears drooping. “His Brilliance is indisposed,” Apoleia said imperiously. “Her Majesty will answer for him. What is it?” He bowed his head. “There’s been a breakout in the harem,” he said to the floor. “Two of His Brilliance’s mares have disappeared.” “Ah, yes,” Apoleia purred. “I’d almost forgotten about Sombra’s toys.” She thought for a moment, then looked up. “For those mares that are already with foal, continue to take care of them as you have. Perhaps Sombra’s seed will finally bear fruit. As for the others...” Her eyes glittered. “Put them to the axe.” A gasp rippled through the room. “Silence!” she roared--and suddenly, all was still. She glared at the soldiers, daring any of them to speak. When no one ventured, she straightened up. “The Crystal Throne will be mine forever,” she hissed. “I will tolerate no claimants, false or otherwise. Is that understood?” A murmur of reluctant agreement. Apoleia nodded. “Then, I will say it again: kill the whores that are not with child. Kill any mare that Sombra so much as touched--them, and all their foals with them. Is that clear?” Another murmur. “As for the escapees,” she added, “Find them, and butcher them. Leave their bodies to rot in the streets, like the animals they are. I will not tolerate traitors, whether they carry an alicorn child or no.” She turned to the gelding. "You may take the fourth battalion to aid you." The black gelding bowed and murmured something, then backed out of the room. Apoleia watched him go, then turned to the soldiers. “Officers,” Apoleia commanded, “Gather my generals and meet back here in a half-hour. We march South the day after tomorrow.” She smiled. “After all, this peace has gotten entirely too boring, hasn’t it?” Heads bobbed, and a smattering of Yes, Your Majesty’s murmured through the room. “The rest of you,” she said, “Say your goodbyes and prepare for the march. I will not wait a moment longer than I must.” She lifted her head a little. “Dismissed.” For a moment, no one moved. Empress Apoleia glanced around at the staring soldiers, then snarled. “When I give an order,” she growled, “I expect it to be followed. GO,” she bellowed. An electric shock rippled through the crowd; several turned and ran, though most managed the dignity of a faintly militaristic march. No one spoke; none of them were entirely certain just what had happened. As they filed out, Apoleia watched them with a critical eye. “You, there,” she called suddenly. “Captain.” A tall, blue stallion paused, then turned and bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty?” She tossed her head a little. “After my meeting with my generals,” she said, “You will report to my chambers. I require your services.” Every soldier in the room froze. The very crystal itself seemed to suck in a breath. The captain stared back at her, then bowed his head. “I-I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” he said, bewildered, “B-but, what are you asking?” “I’m ordering you to report to my chambers,” she repeated. “I understood,” he said. “But…” he glanced up nervously. “W-what sort of services do you require…?” She sighed heavily. “Do I really need to spell it out for you? Fine.” She leaned closer. “Tonight, you will mate with me. Is that clear?” He stiffened. “But, Your Majesty—” he choked out. “I’m—I’m already married—” “Then your wife will surely be pleased that you are sacrificing your own comfort for the sake of the Empire,” she growled. He stared back at her, eyes wide, and began to tremble. As Apoleia watched him, her gaze--well… softened wouldn’t be the right word. That sort of talk implied compassion. Perhaps cooled might fit; a little of the fury drained from her look, but none of the malice. “I would have you know,” she said, “there is no love in this. I am no nymphomaniac like my brother. This coupling is purely practical in nature: you are tall, strong, and intelligent, all traits that will pass on to your offspring.” She smiled—a chilling smile that froze the hearts of all who saw it. “After all,” she said, “it’s high time that I started contributing to the war effort.”
Celestia: One Flap of a Seagull's WingsOne meteorologist remarked that if the theory were correct, one flap of a sea gull's wings would be enough to alter the course of the weather forever. The controversy has not yet been settled, but the most recent evidence seems to favor the sea gulls. -Edward Lorenz It was night in the Crystal Empire. The magical dome, powered by spells stronger than Celestia could understand, kept the howling blizzard at bay, letting the city bask in stifling summer warmth. Celestia stood in Luna’s chambers. She had barely managed to break out of her own house arrest not a quarter-hour before, and had, by a stroke of luck, managed to find Luna’s chambers. And now, she was about to have the most important conversation of her life. “Luna,” Celestia said, putting a hoof under Luna’s chin and raising her gaze, “Do you trust me?” A pause—and Luna nodded. “Then I need you to trust me, one more time.” Slowly, Luna nodded again. Celestia closed her eyes in relief. “What should we do?” Luna asked, in a tiny voice. “We need to go,” Celestia responded. “King Sombra is planning something, and we need to get away.” Luna opened her mouth to respond, but Celestia pressed her advantage. “You know it’s true,” she said. “You know how strange he’s been with your negotiations--how hard he fought, and how quickly he caved. No sane stallion would do such a thing…” she swallowed. “...not unless he had been playing you all along.” To her own astonishment, Luna bowed her head—then nodded. She looked back up at Celestia, tears in her eyes. “I know,” she said. “I know. I… I didn’t want to believe you… but…” She swallowed. “Where can we go? There’s nowhere we can hide here in the city…” Celestia looked over her shoulder, at the false night sky, and thought she could see the storm beyond. “We go the only place we can,” she said. “We go out.” Luna’s eyes went wide. “Are you crazy?” she said. “That’s impossible. We wouldn’t last the night!” Celestia noticed the fear in Luna’s eyes, and felt her gut twist. “No, it’s not,” she said. “I did it.” Luna shook her head. “B-but you, you’re—” she sighed. “You’re stronger than I am, Celestia. A-and you know how the weather works. You could do it, but I don’t think I could. Not in a million years.” Celestia swallowed. She could feel her moment slipping. “Luna, trust me—” “I do,” she said. “But what you’re asking is madness.” She stepped forward, and put her hooves on Celestia’s shoulders. “Now,” she said, “I need you to trust me.” Celestia’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean?” Luna nodded over Celestia’s shoulder—out the window, at the storm beyond the city. “Out there, we wouldn’t be of use to anyone—especially not as two alicornsicles.” She chuckled a little. “But here—here, we can do something. We can work against whatever it is that Sombra is planning.” She smiled crookedly. “Maybe save a few more lives that way.” Celestia say back on her haunches, a faint panic bubbling up into her mind. She slowly shook her head. “Luna,” she said carefully, “I don’t think this is a good idea…” Luna smiled, then laughed. “Oh, come on, Celestia,” she said. “We’re big girls, we can take care of ourselves.” She giggled a little. “I mean, really—what’s the worst that could happen?”
Barleycorn: A Candle in the DarkBarleycorn bit his lip as he walked down the main road of Two Mills, looking this way and that. Well, even calling it a road was generous. More of a cart track. Two Mills wasn’t big enough for roads—just a little farming community, a dot on the map between the Empire and the former Alliance, home to fifty or so ponies just trying to keep their heads down and eke a living from the dirt. Or, it hadn’t been, at least. Two months ago, they had seen the first of them—war refugees from the North, pretty crystal ponies, lean and haggard—many of them ill, many of them injured. Two Mills had tried to help, and then sent them on their way. But they never stopped—more, and more, and more of them came, fleeing the smoke and fire. They told stories of the Army—of the horde of screaming fanatics, slaughtering stallions, mares and foals without hesitation. Of the burning fields, forests, and villages they left in their wake. Of the roads torn up, and temples pulled down, and the blood--so much blood. And, at their head, the great, gray alicorn, one that no one had seen before, who led the destruction with the meticulous precision of an true artist. And so, the trickle of ponies had become a river—and the river had burst its banks. Two Mills had once been a quiet, farming community (in fact, its two mills was about the only interesting thing about it)—but now it had turned into a sort of migrant camp. Barleycorn and his wife had managed to fence their garden, but otherwise, nearly every square inch of the town was filled with ponies—hungry, injured ponies, wanting rest, wanting safety, fleeing south, towards the demons they knew, and away from the devil they didn’t. And those devils, he suspected, were rising to meet the challenge; he waited, any day, for armies of steel and gold to come marching up from the south, armies that would crush little Two Mills under their weight. Barleycorn walked down the main road, looking to his left and right, at the huddled sleepers, shivering from cold, or hunger, or a dozen other things. Mothers trying to hush their frightened children. Fathers glaring warily at other fathers, each waiting for the other to make a move. Fear and exhaustion and worry on every face. He stepped around the abandoned luggage in the middle of the path, around the broken wagon that lay, shattered, where it had fallen, around the sleeping ponies that would never rise again, and shivered. Barleycorn was an old stallion, he knew that. He and his wife had spent almost their entire sixty years here, save for a trip or two to Canterlot to see the Princesses, back when it still stood. He wanted to flee—but he knew, just as surely, that he couldn’t. He had roots here. He and his wife had birthed and buried children here. He couldn’t just leave. Not when it was all that he had ever known. And he wanted to help the ponies, too, but that was an equal impossibility. He and his wife had given out their only blankets to the first group of refugees, thinking that they would be the only ones. And they had fed the first few groups, with hot stew and warm bread—but, as more and more and more came, both the stews and the slices of bread became thinner and thinner, as more and more ponies fought, sometimes to literal blows, for less and less. And now, there was nothing. He and his wife had to survive on a few small sacks of grain, and all they could scrape from their tiny, fenced-in garden, at least until harvest. Or, what was left of it, anyways; much of their fields had been trampled by the fleeing ponies, and much more of it eaten, still green, by the desperate. Barleycorn had sworn to himself that he would not leave Two Mills until he died—and, every day, that mysterious time seemed to creep a little closer. Barleycorn sighed and hung his head—and then he heard it. Somewhere, close by, a foal was crying. No, not a foal—an infant, screaming in that desperate way that only the newborn can. He frowned, then turned to follow the sound. Who in their right mind, he found himself thinking, would want to bring a foal into this world of misery? He rounded the corner of one of the barns--and froze. In the middle of the mass of huddled ponies sat two mares, both very pretty. They both looked up at him. The first, a young, green-and-pink mare had a hollowness to her stare, despite the dusky rose on her flank. She looked ill--but, whether from the journey, from some illness picked up on the road, or from the swelling bump in her belly, he couldn’t tell. But the other—the other looked at him with an expression full of exhaustion, fatigue, and a sort of quiet triumph. Her blue mane and pink coat were matted with sweat, and tear tracks were beginning to dry on her cheeks. And, in her arms, she held a little colt, still wet and bloody from the birthing. He screamed, stopping only to hiccup, frightened, as he nuzzled against his mother. Even though he had yet to be cleaned, Barleycorn could see he had a brilliant white coat, and the barest nub of a horn poking through his rainbow-striped mane. And, as Barleycorn watched— —his eyes went wide, and he began to tremble— —the little colt spread his wings. Barleycorn stood, unmoving, for a long moment—and then, slowly, fell to his knees.
