The Equestrian Godfathers

The silence around the fire went on until Vital looked over at Old Timer and said, “You know, it's very common to etch sayings on weapons. Most swords are recaptured Royal Guard equipment and have what they used to call 'aftermarket' additions put on when captured. That's the kind of distribution for infiltrators and sleepers and partisan groups. Direct main rebels are equipped with the hammer and sickle, purpose-built for each one, with a personal motto.”

“What do you have on yours?” Old Timer asked.

Vital pulled his weapons from his pack, showing them as best as he could in the flickering firelight. “Here on the face of the hammer I put a line that directly comes from the Black-Verreaux Maquis song of war and international cooperation. Soufflons nous-même notre forge, battons le fer quand il est chaud. Let us fan our forge ourselves, strike while the iron is hot. Over on the sickle, I decided to have the motto of the Maquis themselves, the one they adopted when they became the guards of the passes to Tara. On ne passe pas. They shall not pass. It also evokes the battle of The Skein, when Trout slaughtered every last fascist that came to claim it and won freedom through blood.”

“And misery, Niño. I know that heroes are important. Pero los muertos bought that freedom as much or more than the living did,” Pedro noted.

Vital crossed the weapons over his chest, in the standard symbol of the rebellion. “I remember. We all remember. There's a lot of pain and misery involved in this cause. But we go forward no matter what. We have to.”

“Tell us your tale, Niño. Rebels usually die before capture,” Pedro said, dragging a finger across his throat. “Suicidio. They have magic rocks and other such things.”

“Those with high value, or those with particular information about the locations of caches or facilities are required to hold a suicide stone. All others take their chances. Some will cut their own throats with their sickle or make sure they die by attacking so fiercely that deadly force is the only way to make them stop. With their cheap medical capabilities there's no way to pull it back. We don't fear death, we have a healthy fear of a fate worse than death, being in the thrall of these monsters.”

“Do you embrace death, Niño? Is La Muerte your secret partner waiting to give you your warm abrazo while you run to her to get it?”

“I didn't...” Vital confessed. “I lived to live, to bring back life to this shattered land and make happiness and light return to their proper place. Everything I did, it was for the cause of revitalization. But after what happened... if that La Muerte means La Mort then I don't know anymore. When I was with the squad they assigned me to, I was filled with hope and light. With them gone... les chaises sont vide et les tables sont vide. I... I guess I should explain where I came from so you can see how I came here.”

”I was born of a Percheron mother and a Central Equestrian father, but raised largely in Central Equestria. We were very much working class, and we had the funds to travel to see mother's family in Percheron. One thing you don't really know unless you live there or know someone from there, Percheron ponies are very close to Black-Verreaux griffins. They visit the area often, because of the shared language, like how Balds visit Capal often. And we went into the Griffin Kingdom to see Black-Verreaux areas.

“I wasn't even a soldier. No Guard trainee, no Constable or would-be Officer or Nightwatch member. I didn't even fight as a child. I was something else, something you might not expect or predict. I wasn't a fighter. I was an artist.”

Vital looked over the unruly mass of mane with a practiced eye that belied his teen years. Apprenticeship was never promised to be easy but it beat waiting to join a proper full-time trade school after graduation. Doing the scut work was to be expected.

He moved with a swiftness typical of pegasi, squirting on the enriched relaxer, using the coarse brush to get the very tips untangled and working a comb through the lower part of the mane to separate the strands properly. He laid in with the scissors when needed to even out any problem areas and bring the whole tangled, tumbleweed-like mass into a proper shape, a very proper page cut.

A very fey and prim chestnut earth stallion trotted up and nodded his head. “Very good, Mr. Monsoon, and the eyes never lit up even once.” He inspected the plastic head's mane, turning it all around slowly.

“So, when do I get my first customer?” Vital asked, practically beaming with pride.

“When you graduate school and I hire you,” the earth stallion said sternly. He softened his look and motioned to a card of janitorial tools. “I'm a licensed aesthetician, I can sign your CV personally and attest to your skill. I'll test you for your provisional license when you reach the proper age, until then you do the apprentice work and get paid a little scratch for janitorial things. Now, you did your daily practice head, get back to the hair before it piles up and drowns us all.”

Vital chuckled softly and went back to his cart. He had talent, there was no doubt. He could make an honest living out of his skills, like his mother and his father. If he did the work and followed a proper order he could count on the state to welcome him with open arms and support him in his labor.

”I paid my first direct taxes on my own when I got my provisional license. I never felt prouder to be an Equestrian than in that moment. I had become a taxpayer, which meant I was more truly a part of the nation that had been promising me peace and safety. It delivered. It delivered for many years.

“I mentioned we visited the Kingdom now and again, to tourist about in the usual places, though since mother could speak properly with the Black-Verreaux and father and I could get on fairly enough we went to their areas. As a middling clan they had a lot of middling positions. The Kingdom prioritized and considered different professions differently. Artists and creators of all types tended to be middling positions, considered laborers of a sort, much like the ancient Haast did, or like our Hipposians and Equusians did.

“There were a lot of artists in the areas, including other stylists. They obviously had a far different job, having to style feathers, which only sometimes were long enough, and tail tufts, plus fur on the hippogriffs. I got to learn a lot about creativity because they made a lot out of what little they usually had to work with. They also made a lot of wigs to give griffins more options for looks.

“We made connections in the Kingdom, strong ones. I know they were strong. Because when the nation went to Tartarus, they took us in. Before the Fear Doirche and his insurrection, when the refugees were coming in from Stalliongrad there were others coming too.”

“Viens! Viens! Vite! Tout le monde!” The Black-Verreaux soldiers motioned for the dwindling line of pony refugees to follow along a mountain path, most of them speaking in a mix of Stalliongradi and Central Equestrian.

Vital pushed his way through to one of the more imposing soldiers, all clad in mail and with an added vest of riveted squares of steel mostly covered by a narrow tabard with two black griffins on it. His helmet came to a slight point, had a strip protecting the top of his beak and a mail veil protecting the rest of his beak and neck. “Chevalier! Chevalier!”

The big griffin looked down on him and spoke to him in the Black-Verreaux tongue. “You speak my language, young pony?”

“Enough,” Vital replied. “Have you seen other pegasi? My parents, we were separated, I thought they had fallen back.”

“No pegasi in the back, they all went ahead. It's the old and infirm here. Don't worry about-” The tercel's reply was cut off by a shrieking cry of pain cutting through the air.

“Les Caribous!” A voice of the rearguard shouted, followed by the twang of longbows and cries of expiring soldiers.

“Go, young pony! Go! The bastards have less sense than I thought,” the commanding tercel insisted, drawing a sword from his side and picking up a large, triangular shield from beside him. “Pour Le Roi et Royaume!” He dashed past the last of the refugees around a bend in the path, the sounds of battle echoing through the mountains.

Vital couldn't contain his curiosity, slipping along to look around the bend. A small force of caribou soldiers along with brainwashed ponies were clashing with members of the rearguard. Though the brittle iron armor of the caribou was battered well by the steel swords or steel glaives of the griffins their brutish strength put a lot of power into their massy iron maces or brutal two-handed swords, to say nothing of their stun sticks which downed a few griffins and set them up for death.

The commander who had run back to aid them deflected a powerful blow from a mace with his shield, the attack carrying over into the face of a stallion that got too near. His sword ran through the caribou he had deflected, his momentum bulling the huge creature backward into a few of the other stallions, creating enough distraction to allow him to pull his sword back out.

The shield deflected and pushed back the stallions, keeping him safe until one of the glaive-wielding guards stabbed one pony and divided the attention of the others, allowing for them to be more easily taken down. It took some doing but they finally got the mass of them down, with only a small loss of the rearguard.

“They dare to come? We will stop them. Our land will not be their victim. The ponies have given us warning, and now we fight that we might help our friends who gave us this news. We fight. For King and Kingdom!”

The cry was echoed by the others, which made it ring down the mountain passes, past the attentive ears of the awestruck Vital.

”For King and Kingdom. That really meant something. It meant an attachment to their land, a love of the land that loved them. The same idea was in my head while I was there, thanks to them. Pour Les Princesses et La Principaute. It was my home, and I was a citizen of it. I owed it to them.

“I did find my parents, and we were cared for, for a time, until the Fear Doirche thought he could usurp his father's kingdom in exchange for bodies and gold and a tin-plate crown and power that would be yanked away at the slightest notice. Then they started to have a problem. We needed to go back. I was willing, even if it meant dying, as I owed it.

“That was when we learned the government had not fallen. We heard about the Cult-Finder General and Paddock 51, the rebellion and how they seized land and pushed the caribou back, thanks to their foolish overextension. Refugee locations were set up, and they were actively seeking recruits to become proper rebels, to fight the fash and get our land back. Having watched the many clans arming and organizing, especially the Black-Verreaux becoming the Maquis guarding the passes to Tara, I felt like I knew what to do.

“We went back and I said good-bye to my parents. I didn't relish it, but it was necessary. My hooves were still dusty with Griffin Kingdom dirt when I volunteered, and I was sent to train immediately, to learn how to be a rebel and get back what was ours.”

The stern-faced unicorn mare set down a small, red-covered book before each of the recruits in the class, earning a look of confusion from Vital. “Uh, Miss Care, what is this?”

Tender Care opened her own copy and pointed to the title page. “It says right here, The Tome of Harmonious Words and the Rebel Songbook. Words about the Elements of Harmony, so we never forget, and songs created to motivate and strengthen rebel resolve, composed by us or translated from other sources. Lesson one, morale is a force multiplier. If you're dragging and depressed you're all but useless.

“You might notice a lot of propaganda around the tunnels. It's not just for mocking and demoralizing the fash and their supporters. Civilians and rebel soldiers need encouragement too. They must become energized and vitalized, must keep the bright dream of tomorrow ever in their hearts. You'll hear a lot of repeated phrases, a lot of mantras of encouragement and grand announcements. Those are part of how you stay empowered.”

Vital opened the book and looked toward the back, finding a few songs in Percheron, with a translation beside. “C'est la lutte finale, groupons-nous et demain...” He nodded slowly. “I heard the Black-Verreaux soldiers singing this one. It's their call for international cooperation. It's part of what got me so eager to fight.”

“Oh yes? And what else was your inspiration, Mr. Monsoon?”

“Pour Les Princesses et La Principaute. For the Princesses and the Principality. Equestria cared for me all my life, cared for my family. We were merely ordinary ponyfolks, and we had a good life in the beautiful world that used to be. I had a potential job, I paid my taxes, I worked hard to provide for a nation that provided for me. This rebellion promised me that land again. As it is headed by the legitimate government in an unbroken line, I trust it. If it gives me truth, I will give it my blood and breath.”

“You're already rebel material. Learn how to crush caribou skulls with a hammer and hack through their bull necks with a sickle and you'll be ready to face them down, and leave them a mere bloody pile of bits on the ground, ready for burial,” Tender Care said with a smile.

“Burial? Really? We'll bury the worthless fash?” Vital asked, incredulous.

“Lesson two, you are always going to to have to be superior to the enemy, and not just militarily. We are guided by better notions and higher ideals, dedicated to a cause that opposes them at every step. Remember, as it was in the old world, though grim, the task is necessary. It is no less grim for being necessary, but no less necessary for being grim. We took responsibility for our actions and our duties. We performed what had to be done because it was necessary we do so.

“You may think little of burying the bastards but it must be done. Now mostly that's a task for the Gravediggers, which some of you may become if you choose. But out in the waste, you still should bury them. Markless, of course, unlike the innocent dead who get at least a marker and your fellow fallen who should be honored well with their name, no matter how far they are from civilization. Keep such things in mind, and you will truly be a rebel.”

Vital looked through the front of the book at the Harmonious words. He focused on the segment on loyalty. To be Loyal is to be constant. Steadfast. Steady and sure, solid like the mountain stones. The ranges will last the ages, standing tall as testament to the power of remaining still. Their constancy is without pride and arrogance, without interference or harm. Loyalty to a good cause is like fire in a stone ring, useful and mild.

Mild was not what he intended, not for the ones who destroyed the land he loved. But he would be useful. Very useful. Before, that had meant being a proficient stylist, a taxpayer, an upright and law-abiding citizen of a nation that gave him peace and freedom. As a rebel, it would mean bashing in caribou skulls and cutting their throats. The more of them that expired, the fewer there would be to spread their poison to the world. To bring back the old world.

A look through more of the songs showed words that made him even more resolved. We will bring to birth the old world from the ashes of the new.

”I made it through the mental part of the training and the physical part as well. It was an accelerated curriculum to be sure. They had to churn out soldiers at a rate that had never been seen before, at least not in living memory, or even historical memory. We trained with reasonable facsimile weapons of the proper weight and size, until they could trust us with the real thing. Then we were sent to Dog smiths to get our proper weapons.”

The rebels maintained a kind of cubicle system for their forges, keeping them deep below habitation tunnels near magma flow lines. The center held the magma that cycled in and out, opening in multiple places like a glassblower's beehive. Air channels to blast up the temperature as needed were located in each cube, where a Dog smith worked tirelessly to make weapons and armor.

The smith slammed his hammer down on the lump of brass on his forge, shaping the mass into a proper hammer shape, but with a slope-back peen that was turned into an impaling point. “Rebel design is good, make easy break bad armor. Caribou armor shame on craft of smithing. Hope you break many, punish for bad skills,” the smith said, giving a standard rasping Dog laugh.

“I saw their terrible armor when the Black-Verreaux guards stabbed through them with swords and glaives. They were big and terrible but the iron was cheap and cracked when stabbed just right,” Vital said, fanning his wings and wiping at his forehead. “Whew. This heat... are you sure you're fine with this kind of treatment?"

The smith laughed again as his swift and expert strikes rapidly shaped the weapon. “Dogs strong! Strong in fire mana, live beneath earth. All know is hot deep in earth. And forge Dogs raised at paws of mother or father. Forge is home, is place where feel comfort. Is natural. Is like sky for pegasus.”

“I never knew that. I honestly knew more about griffins,” Vital confessed. “I hope I'm not interrupting. I don't want to be a bother. I'm not even sure why I was sent here.”

“Weapon wielder should forge weapon. If can not, must watch being made. Must know all, see all parts, see take shape. Must know weapon, make part of self. And also, need here for words. All rebels want words on weapons. Have letter set, stamp on first, etch deeper later.”

“Oh yes. I know perfectly well what I want on the hammer's face. It's something in Percheron that you might appreciate. Soufflons nous-même notre forge, battons le fer quand il est chaud. It means, let us fan our forge ourselves, strike while the iron is hot.”

The Dog laughed long and loud, pulling on the cord to blow in air and raise the heat of the forge. “Yes! You strike while hot! Will crush caribou with hammer, and words will make mean more!”

”The fellow's name was Citrine. Still is, I guess. A good smith, as you can tell. And he did a good job on the etching once he did the preliminary stamping. I really did pay attention as he made my weapons, made sure I knew every last thing about them. I'm immensely proud of them, and at that time I was eager to initiate them with the death of caribou.

“I got my first assignment not long after. I was the only rookie in a crew of of those who had handled a few assignments before. We were being sent to liberate an ad hoc processing facility, a pop-up location that was used for short-term concentration and breaking. They tended to be small and poorly guarded, a good early assignment. It was supposed to be simple. It was supposed to be an easy first action...”

The small facility was a converted, up-armored farm complex, mostly consisting of berms at the perimeter, wooden defensive walls and internal walls making it an enclosed version of its former self. A bit elaborate for a pop-up facility but nothing too special. It stood out as an aberration even in the soft moonlight. It was clearly a thrown-together pile of junk that failed to meld with the look of the land. A festering wound, like all caribou construction.

Though it had defenses that had been constructed by warriors, they were only basic and very easy to bypass. The berms had been made in such a way that they interrupted line-of-sight from the most probable sentry positions. It was an open question if the brainwashed or caribou actually consistently set sentries and if they retained dedication to the assignment.

The entrance was a simple opening, not even blocked with a gate or door. Inside were only two guards, earth ponies, in ill-fitting caribou-made armor. One was sitting on a battered dining room chair lightly spotted with dried blood, most likely taken from the main house. The other was standing and looking sternly down on the other.

“You'd better not screw this up or you're going to get processed yourself,” the standing stallion threatened.

“I mean... I'm very sleepy... but that's to be expected. Plenty of free cunts, plenty of them, right?” The seated stallion elbowed the other and laughed.

The other chuckled and slowly nodded. “Sure, sure. Just do your assignment and make sure nothing happens.”

It took relatively little time for the stallion to fall asleep once the other had left, leaving the open area silent and still, save for the light snores of the guard. He opened his eyes when the lead rebel grabbed the end of his snout, the unicorn mare holding it in an iron grip, lifting his chin and exposing his throat. The diamond point of her sickle pierced into the side of his neck and she followed through with the motion smoothly. The steel edge cut through his throat and left him spasming and struggling for a brief moment, before she released his lifeless form to slump into his chair.

The other rebels gathered around, a mix of earth ponies and unicorns, with Vital being the only pegasus. “Looks like it was just one. Don't get comfy, though. They might have more. We can't assume anything if we expect to make it out,” the leader said.

Vital drew his weapons and clutched the handles extra tightly, breath starting to quicken. “Let them come. I watched these things come into being and they're ready to get to work.”

“I admire your enthusiasm, but learn to temper your response,” the mare chuckled. “Be mild and useful. This is a grim necessity, treat it as such.”

Vital nodded, loosening his grip on the weapons. “The ways of the old world must be upheld.”

The lead mare motioned to the rest. “Protect the rear, Mr. Monsoon. We'll clear out the main group if it becomes necessary, but the best outcome would be to release everyone silently. We should be in and out quickly.”

They all moved toward the building that had been the main barn, the most likely place to find the captives waiting for processing, which likely would have been done on the grounds or in the silo or main house. As before, the barn was open, at least slightly, and the inside was blocked by an interior wall, which made it even harder to get a good idea about the interior. Another few motions had everyone move their way in, leaving Vital outside, to guard their egress.

The still silence of the night was broken by a sudden, deafening siren, magic lights popping on and the quiet farm buildings lighting up, numerous brainwashed soldiers piling out. In the long run, it wasn't terribly many, but it was severely unbalanced. They were all decked out in iron armor, with a few pieces of steel, along with a similar mixture of weapons.

As a rookie, Vital was in a modest sort of armor. It was largely imported layered gazelle leather, like griffin light armor, with steel squares riveted over the front, very much like the armor the rearguard leader had worn in the evacuation column. He could boast some steel greaves and gauntlets, with a mail girded skirt for relative ease of movement, but that would not help against powerful blows or too many hacks and stabs.

The first attack was almost the only one needed, a stun-stick thrust nearly into his belly by a brainwashed stallion who had come in from the side. He dodged almost as a reflex and threw his left arm out with a cry of surprise. His heavy hammer collided with the unicorn's head, caving in the front of his skull and partially cracking his horn. He stared, amazed, at what he had done. He had always intended it, but the accident made it more of a shock.

He had little time to be lost in the reverie, being quickly swarmed by the collection of unicorns and earth ponies. He knew pegasi were a rare sight in outlying areas, their flight giving them plum positions in moving patrols or in cloud areas and on the griffin border to cut down on their advantage. A small favor that he had only to examine the ground but little comfort with the needlessly large mass starting to hem him in.

The sounds of screams and combat from within the barn came to and end and several, but not all, of the others emerged, bloodied, wounded, but still up. The leader was even still there, and she ran right to the circling mass, cracking her hammer into the face of the first stallion that turned to look and sinking her diamond-tipped sickle through the brittle armor of another's back, hooking upward to wreak havoc on his body.

“Never underthink the bastards!” She shouted, deflecting blows as the main force turned on the smaller company of survivors. “It was an ambush! They finally got around to developing decoys!”

The arrival took some pressure off of Vital, but he still faced more than one soldier. He could only deflect and make attempts at heavy strikes that put him in danger. He was not fully trained with hard fighting using the hammer and sickle. “We can do this! We can cut them down!”

“WE can do this! You need to take those wings and fly! Someone needs to get out of this mess! Go!”

“What? No! I'm a rebel too! I'm here to fight for the nation!”

“Then live and fight! You're no good to the nation dead! You're the only one that can make it out!”

Vital looked at the exit, which was stopped up with troops from outside. They must have been hiding somewhere in earshot of the sirens. The only way out was up. “Ma'am..!”

“GO!” The mare pushed her way into the crowd attempting to get at Vital, hammering them hard and slashing her sickle at anything that looked soft. The others took up the idea and did the same, creating an escape window in danger of collapsing quickly.

Vital needed no more encouragement, leaping into the air and flapping his wings as hard as possible. He chanced a look back, and saw the commander on her knees, cutting her own throat with her sickle as the overpowering number of cowards overwhelmed them. He barely noticed that those from the outside pursued him, but just enough of his mind recognized the need to fly away from any shelters or hideouts. He went for the waste, to protect the others.

It was a mission he could complete, no matter what it cost.

“Shutter, Stony Creek, Aurora, Fancy Scrawl, Plowshare, Open Book, Reed Whistle, Cardstock, Horizon Line, Peanut Picker the old fellow and the leader, Miles Gladius Diamond Shield, who cut her own throat rather than be captured. I'll have to carry their names with me forever, and it's good that I do but...” Vital looked into the fire, past the weapons he held in his hands. “I don't... I don't understand.”

“Understand what, Niño?”

“I don't understand why they told me to go, sent me away when I was just as much a rebel as them. Maybe not as experienced but I could have kept fighting. It would have cost me my life, as it did theirs, I hope, but I would have gladly given my blood for the nation, for the hope of a tomorrow better than the nightmare of today. Why did they make me go?”

“Do you really not know? Can you honestly ask that? It's so obvious why they made you do that, why they stayed to fight and sent you off to live and fight another day,” Old Timer said with some force.

“Why? Why would they do that? One more dead body wouldn't hurt anything, one more pair of arms with weapons would have helped. It was my duty, a duty I took on, to which I intended to be loyal, to the end. Why did they send me away?”

“Your Diamond Shield said it herself. You had to live and fight. You, more than anyone else in that group. You said you were the youngest and least experienced. They were fighting for you, for everyone like you. The young, the strong, the hopeful. You are what the future is built on. A young symbol of a hopeful future, full of passion and drive. They wanted you free, to keep fighting elsewhere, in better circumstances, because the future must belong to the young.”

Vital looked at his weapons again, gripping them tight, trembling with the strength of his hold. “The future will be brought in by those who dare, sculpted by those who can. And belong to everyone. They gave me my future, and I owe an endless debt to them. I'll shape the future they died for. I'll live long enough to make a difference to it.”

The group again fell to silence, as Vital contemplated his weapons in the flickering firelight.