The Equestrian Godfathers

Their muscles screamed, their lungs burned, and their eyes blurred as Pedro and Vital ran on, taking advantage of Old Timer's sacrifice. A halt in the pursuers, almost a miracle as far as they were concerned. It meant they put extra distance between them and bought more time, potentially enough time to get them to Gaskinwich before the distance was erased.

“This future had better be the greatest that ever was!” Vital cried, panting heavily as he screamed.

“Nos princessa will be in it! It must be!' Pedro answered.

“I want to wonder how much time he bought us and how much relief his attack gave, but I... I don't know if I really want to know what his life ended up as.”

“He ended as un héroe, that's how his life ended up! We will always remember, like tus camaradas. Siempre. We must use all this time, every last second, every last step.”

Huffing, grunting, they pushed their bodies to the limit, pegasus stamina meeting donkey hardiness. They kept pace with some capacity, running when they could and taking long-striding walking steps when they needed to recover some measure of their energy.

“Do you... do you think we made good enough time to actually be near Gaskinwich?” Vital asked. “That we're not another day out, or that we misread the map or the angle?”

“Hold hope, Niño, necesitamos creer. We can't give in. Los carniceros... no pueden demostrar merced. No tienen almas. They spared none in the camp, they enslave without pity. We must hope, o no tenemos nada...”

Vital didn't say anything for a time but then nodded. “I just understand. Those evil bastards can't be allowed to get her. We need that hope. I believe it. We'll see Gaskinwich. We will.”

They kept running, adding more and more space between the pursuing soldiers and themselves, not sure just how much of a delay Old Timer had bought them, how many soldiers he had felled. They had to squeeze out every last stride they could, put Gaskinwich that much closer to them. If they could get it in sight, attract border guards or similar, they could ease off the pace and let them take care of the threat.

Their waning stamina lasted only a little longer, sending them from running to jogging. “Nos piernas... estan como Tartarus. I wish... quiero... I was a machine. Her papá had the right idea. Un genio...”

“Oh... oh princesses... you should know, it's just a... a carefully cultivated stereotype... that pegasi have no stamina limit... we brag but... we have one... oh and right now I feel it...”

The jogging turned into stiff-legged fast walking, the two mostly spent. Walking at all was looking to become more than their last resort. It was looking like they wouldn't have any chance at all. Every part of their legs hurt, everything was aching and stiff. Rest was the only cure, the one thing they couldn't afford.

Behind them, the plume that had been banished by their speed and Old Timer's sacrifice grew again, more furiously than before. He had angered them anew, insulted their petty egos and childish petulance. Those he had left alive would push their own muscles to the limit, to avenge themselves. They were not drilled well, nor disciplined properly. But they were motivated by base urges unleashed or imposed, and made to be afraid of their bloody king, obeying like dogs whipped into servile fawning.

They were fresher, better supplied, and had made most of the journey with slave transports and possibly a limited-range unstable airship. They had probably marched more hours, camped for fewer hours and kept a stronger pace. The regular, crushing beat translated into a pace that closed the distance they had lost, horrid step by horrid step.

They devoured the distance between the escapees, pounding the blasted landscape, sending up their plume of dust with a fury, thick and high. They were not subtle nor were they careful, they were angry, haughty and eager for revenge. They wanted their quarry captured, to face the fate worse than death that they had been condemned to, and thus erase their shame and humiliation.

“Walking can't give us the strength we need,” Vital huffed. “We can say the pace is more gentle but we're making no progress. I can see them approach, they have a better pace and can close the gap, even if we run.”

“We must... nececitamos...” Pedro hugged Flores more securely against his chest, struggling under the weight of the extra packs he had chosen to take with him. “We must...”

“There's still one thing I've got,” Vital said, flaring his wings and giving them a flap. “Some of my muscles aren't still screaming. I can fly, at least a little. I can expand the horizon, get some idea how close we are, if we're even close... if Gaskinwich even exists and isn't just just a misprint or some other town with the same name wiped off the face of this planet by the butchers behind us.”

“It must exists! They were going! With a child on the way!” Pedro looked down at Flores, who was fussing again thanks to all the jostling.

“Los supieron... it must be there. We must reach it, or else Viejo sacrificed himself for nothing.”

“Let me get a better perspective then. Keep moving...” Vital pumped his wings and launched himself into the air, trembling as his body burned up energy it just didn't have. Even well fed, or at least filled, with the ration bars and water, he had been making demands on his body he had no way of keeping up with. Though his wings hadn't been in use, they were still weak because they were attached to him. His takeoff was shaky and his height wasn't going to be impressive.

His shaky flight was accompanied by grunts and groans, hands clawing and arms stiff as he focused on just moving his wings, feeling what little personal wind-biased mana he could still draw from inside. The blasted waste had almost nothing to give him, the taint so complete that he couldn't draw on it like the old days.

The freedom of flight should have filled him with elation, made him remember the days of soaring the skies of Equestria or cutting around the foggy peaks of the Griffin Kingdom, racing other tourists of local griffins with a chip on their shoulders and some shillings to wager. He seldom had to spend his own money to pay for trinkets and meals.

He felt none of that, the memories at best a dull throb, pulses of images, wan and blurred photographs inside his mind. He almost resisted making them vivid, creating a connection with the happiness that came from slipping from the ground and feeling nothing around him but air. It was a freedom that the slaves would have envied, and savoring it seemed... incredibly inappropriate, especially since captive pegasi were permanently denied that delight, which had once been their natural and inalienable birthright.

It was just like Pedro had said. The memories had been tainted. Those monsters, by making the world into a hideous machine of abuse, had made it impossible to feel joy without also feeling guilt indulging in joy would make him like the libertines. It would make him like them. Instant gratification. Immediate ego-stroking. His desires over all others. That.... that couldn't have been right. But he still felt that twinge deep down, all because of their all-corruptive grasp. Their tendrils were corrosive poison, eating away everything they touched.

Focusing back on the task at hand, Vital turned as carefully as he could, while rising to what height he could muster. The landscape slowly spread out before him in all directions, the wavering eternal horizon growing as he got as high in the air as he could possibly get, given the tenuous state of his energy. The plume of dust covered some of the approaching forces but they were nearer. They had passed the horizon on the ground, and the most rough of mental calculations showed their brutal quick-march pace would not allow for mere walking or painful forced jogging to keep the buffer zone stable.

Out on the horizon's edge, in the direction they had been walking, he could see the tended fields and regular shapes that had to be civilization. Whether it was Gaskinwich or a slave processing facility or some random town with leashes and collars in the streets, it was a town. That fact alone was enough reason to go toward it. It was more than just civilization, it was hope.

He slowly wound his way back down, unsteadily touching the ground and dropping almost to one knee for a moment before rising agin. “I saw them...”

Pedro nodded, with a grim expression, immediately setting off walking faster with determination despite the obvious pain the steps brought. “We walk, Niño. Caminamos hasta que morir. We swore a promise, and we keep it until death.”

“But I also saw... something. Maybe Gaskinwich, maybe a slave facility. It wasn't just the endless waste. There was construction. There was structure. I saw something.”

“Bueno!” Pedro brayed, clutching Flores tighter to his chest and moving at a painful, slightly quicker pace. “¡Rápido, Niño! You saw it! It must be Gaskinwich!”

“It could be...” Vital hedged. “But I saw the army quick-marching. They're past the standard horizon, obscured by dust. They ate into Old Timer's delay, and they're chewing up the distance. They're going to close the gap and I don't think we'll stay ahead long enough to reach potential border guard visual range.”

“Give me your weapons,” Pedro grunted. “They will stop. Abrazome, Dulce Muerte, if you bring them with us.”

“They fit my hands. Perfectly,” Vital said. “They're weapons of war, for a soldier. You're not a soldier, you're a civilian. You need to embrace that. Forget about making war for as long as you're able.”

“Niño... no... Viejo's sacrifice...”

“He was right. Young, strong ponies died in wars long ago, because it was required. Even in our day, young and healthy ponies had to fight dangerous animals, and dangerous thinking creatures when they were in the gaze of the Cult-Finder General. I wasn't a fighter, I was an artist. I was...”

Pedro didn't halt his steps, still hearing Vital scraping along behind him. “Sí, an artist. Be an artist, in Gaskinwich. Cut manes and be happy.”

“The Dogs of Trout were fishers and farmers and miners. But they took weapons and cut the fash into bloody hunks of meat. You do what you have to. I'm younger, and stronger... the ideal tool for this job...”

“¿Como? No eres una herramienta, Niño. You're a pony.”

“That sword Old Timer found, the tool that kills fascists. That could be the sword or the bearer. I get the feeling that folks denigrate the idea of comparing a pony to a tool. Tools built society. They're the only reason we have one. A hammer and a sickle is the difference between civilization and squalor. I accepted my position as a tool to beat the fash. Let me be useful,” Vital said, steps halting.

Pedro didn't turn around, he didn't stop, he just shut his eyes and brayed deeply. “No... no... digame por qué... why does this have to happen?”

“Tell them about the ambush. Tell them how it worked, tell them the whole story... tell them who died,” Vital said, dropping his pack, minus his weapons. “Tell them.”

“Shutter, Stony Creek, Aurora, Fancy Scrawl, Plowshare, Open Book, Reed Whistle, Cardstock, Horizon Line, Peanut Picker, Miles Gladius Diamond Shield... Old Timer... Vital... Monsoon...” Pedro recited, voice growing thick as he heard the hoofbeats retreating.

“If I must die for my country, I'll make sure they die for it too. I'll sit here and get my strength back. You go fast as possible. You have a lot on your shoulders.”

“Sí. Tres vidas...” Pedro whispered, dropping the packs from his back, certain nothing would be needed in the final, desperate race for safety.

Vital had lowered himself down, resting on his hands and knees, with his weapons on the ground in front of him in the standard rebel sign. He contemplated it, let the bright brass and gleaming steel fill his vision, fill his mind. They were his tools. He was a tool of civilization. It all scaled upward, orderly and proper. No insane destruction, no chaos of random election and the break between slaves and everyone else.

The tool built, the one wielding it enjoyed the building and many builders made a society that became, by their will, a thing that took care of them. The tools like spoken language and writing helped ensure that growth could be continual, added to over time by the ones who came after. The caribou sought to poison growth, destroy progress, break the tools of civilization.

Vital was one tool he could promise they would not break.

The marching soldiers were hardly subtle, and gave Vital plenty of notice. Likely they had seen him from afar, down, still, looking helpless. They would probably aim right at him, focus on him and him alone. He took up the weapons, really feeling the weight of their import for the first time, as they meant everything in that moment. He softly whispered, “C'est la lutte finale...”

The small army, reduced by Old Timer's deadly charge, watched Vital with some wariness, march slowing, weapons at the ready. The slavecatchers moved forward, in advance of the rest of them, twirling their ropes and spreading their nets. “Surrender! We want the inferior for his just and proper punishment. You can be purified to regain his pitiless majesty's favor!”

Vital looked at the cowards, holding back, their stances shrunk down and back, trying to cover themselves with the ropes and nets. “Cowards! Traitors! The Equestrian government lives and condemns you! You threw in with the fash, you share their fate! This nation condemns you, and so do I!”

“The government fell! Your leader is a liar!” One of the armored knights shouted out from behind the buffering slavecatchers. “You will die here for his majesty's glory!”

Vital let a huge, pleased smile spread across his face, hammer held up high and to the back, sickle up by his throat, the gleaming back curve settled beside his throat. “Try. Even if you succeed, see how much it costs.”

The slavecatchers all rushed forward, being more coordinated than before, thanks to the shame of being passed by Old Timer. They tossed ropes and nets, easily getting them over Vital's body. But the way he held his arms let him pull them in and drop, mostly getting clear of the constriction. That translated into a lashing out, his hammer smashing the shin of one of the unarmored stallions, the others showing their true colors by stumbling back.

Bereft of countermeasures, the slavecatchers could only hang back and watch their screaming compatriot, and watch their quarry disentangle himself from the nets and ropes. His sickle flashed and tore through the throat of the downed one, the bloody weapon held up to the rest of the pursuers. He screamed out as he charged into their ranks. “Pour Les Princesses et La Principaute! Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons! In her name...”