A 14th Century Friar in Celestia's Court

Chapters

Dreams and Visions
Failure to Communicate
Fancy Words
Old Warriors
The Fire
So What You're Saying Is...You're NOT Evil?
My Dear Readers... (A Non-Canon Interlude)
Intro to Equestria 101
Ghosts and Shadows
Somepony to Lean On
While You Were Sleeping
The First Day of the Rest of Your Life
Welcome to Ponyville (Part 1)
Welcome to Ponyville (Part 2)
Voices in the Morning
...And You Should Accept It...
First Lessons (Part 1)
First Lessons (Part 3)
On the Theory and Application of Violence
Limitations
Unconventional Measures
Stand Firm
Q&A
History Lessons
Mortal Hearts
Training Day
Two Steps Forward, One Step Back
Movement in the Shadows
Strength Training
Misdirection
Character
Ominous Horizons
Thinning the Herd
Agôn
Exit Stage Right
Agôn, With Chorus (Pt 1)
Agôn, With Chorus (Pt 2) - or - Deus Ex Machina
After the Rain
Comes the Warden
Prologue
A Chance Meeting of Crusaders
First Lessons (Part 2)
Secrets, Subtlety, and Secondhand Friars
Enter Stage Left

Dreams and Visions

The dream came again; the same dream he’d had the last three nights. But though he knew it was a dream, he was powerless to alter it.

The blazing Mediterranean sun beat down upon his head, sweltering under the best of circumstances, but an inferno under his chainmail hauberk and iron helm. Saracen soldiers surged through the streets, sweeping away what little resistance they met, scimitars flashing in the light. Brother Jacques de Charette of the Knights Templar knew the place well. It was Acre, gateway to the Mediterranean, the last great bastion of the Crusaders in the Holy Land, 1291 A.D.

Today was the day it fell.

Littering the street around him were the bodies of fighting men, both Christian and Muslim. When he’d first made his stand on the wide thoroughfare, he’d been backed by eleven other Templars and sixty men-at-arms. Now, fewer than a quarter of the common soldiers remained, and only four of the knights. It was a hopeless fight, and they all knew it. But they had been ordered to hold that street, and until that changed they would stand or die.

“Close ranks!” shouted Jacques over the melee, bashing the nearest Saracen with his kite shield and finishing him off with a strike of his longsword. “Don’t let them separate you!” An enemy thrust at him with a spear and he almost failed to deflect it as he stumbled over the corpse of a fallen comrade. The Templar spat a curse under his breath. “Withdraw ten yards!”

The remaining soldiers pulled together in a clump, shields to the front and polearms to the back. They beat an orderly withdrawal to a narrower part of the street, in part to make themselves more difficult to surround, and in part to stand on solid ground rather than bodies. Striking from a firmer footing, they forced the invading army to brave the uneven terrain just to reach the wall of iron and spears. The enemy advance slowed as they met the entrenched force.

Slowed, but did not stop.

“I don’t think they intend to leave, Jacques,” commented Brother Andrew dryly. The brawny English Templar spit his opponent on the point of his sword as he chatted. “Still, it’s been a good show, all things considered. I imagine we’ve made this quite a hassle for them.”

“You give up too easily,” retorted Jacques, hacking down a spearman who got too close. “We might still be reinforced.”

“Yes, well, they’ll be reinforcing a cemetery before long,” sighed Andrew, who paused his melancholy observations to shove a Saracen back from the line, where he was easy prey for the spear of a man-at-arms. “But I suppose this is our lot in life: to be abandoned by Europe, Rome, and now our own army.”

Jacques snorted. “Have a little faith, Brother.”

Andrew spared a moment to cock an eyebrow, a near pointless gesture given the full-faced helm he wore. “My, aren’t we cheery today. Anything to account for your unwarranted optimism?”

The French knight didn’t answer immediately, and the distraction of the battle had little to do with it. In truth, he knew the outlook was bleak; there were no reinforcements to be had, and the battle was a loss. Yet, somehow, he knew this would not be the end for them. “As I said, Brother. Have faith.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the Saracens pulled back, summoned by an urgent horn blow. Brother Andrew raised the visor on his helm to gape as the unprecedented occurred, then turned to stare at his old friend. Brother Jacques, for his part, kept his eyes forward and his helmet on. After all, since he’d made such a bold proclamation about having faith, it simply wouldn’t have done to let Andrew see his look of foolish shock on his face. “Deus Vult,” he said, as calmly as he could manage.

Andrew blinked. “Deus Vult indeed.”

There was movement in the Saracen lines, and a moment later a man emerged, walking alone towards the Crusaders. He was dressed like an Arab, and carried a scimitar and round shield. Reaching the mid-point between the two forces, he called out in French, “I seek to parley with your leader.”

Jacques glanced at Andrew, who shrugged, before stepping forward to meet the Arab. The man was tall for his people, with expressive features and a black beard. His arms and armor were of fine make, but there was no gaudiness about them, suggesting a man too busy with the business of soldiering to bother putting on airs. His deep brown eyes were those of a man used to hardship, but the wrinkles around them suggested that he laughed a lot.

With another half a foot of height and a lighter tone of skin, mused Jacques, he wouldn’t look all that different from me.

With an approving nod Jacques removed his helmet so as to better look the other man in the eye. As he felt his sweat drenched scalp breath in the fresh air, he reflected on the irony that it was an enemy who had given him the first chance to remove his helmet since the previous day.

The man gave a polite bow and introduced himself. “I am Commander Karim ad-Din,” he announced in flawless French. “I have been charged with securing this passage.”

The Templar smiled, impressed by the other’s command of his language. “I am Brother Jacques de Charette of the Knights Templar,” he replied in Arabic that was admittedly worse than Karim’s French. “And I am charged with preventing you from doing just that.”

Karim gave a toothy grin. “Then it would appear that we are at an impasse, my friend.”

“It would appear so,” chuckled Jacques.

“We are both fighting men, Sir Jacques. We both know the inevitable outcome of this fight. I wish to press forward without losing more men or having to find another path, and you doubtless would prefer not to lose what remains of your company.” He paused, waiting for Jacques to interject. When the knight did not, he continued. “If you agree to withdraw now, I will order my men not to pursue you. It would serve no purpose to kill you for a battle that has already been decided. If you leave, you will live to rejoin the battle at a later point, or to return to your ships and evacuate with the rest of your army. What say you?”

Jacques dipped his head and, with genuine regret, replied, “It is a tempting offer, Sir Karim, but no. I am bound by my duty to hold this street until I am ordered otherwise. I cannot disobey without risking my soul. I trust that you understand?”

Karim nodded, also sorrowful. “Indeed I do. Our beliefs are not so different that I cannot comprehend the strength of your oaths.” He shrugged. “Still, there is no need for all your men to die. I have a proposition for you.” Cocking an eyebrow, Jacques motioned for him to continue. “You and I shall fight for this street. The loser shall withdraw his men, and the victor shall agree not to pursue them.”

The Templar considered the offer. While duels of this nature were seldom found in pitched battle, it was not unheard of. And, realistically, his men would be overrun eventually. The duel gave him the best chance of keeping them alive while still following orders.

Still, it did hinge on a rather vital detail. “And your men would withdraw were you to die?”

“You have my word on that. And yours?”

Nodding, he replied, “You have it.”

For a moment they stared in silence, reading each other. Karim was the first to speak, smirking as he did so. “And you’d trust the word of an ‘infidel?’”

Jacques smiled. “I trust the word of any true warrior, infidel or not, and I trust God to settle accounts if I am wrong. Do you trust my word?”

Karim shrugged. “The Caliph trusts you Templars with his money, and he is a wealthy man. Besides, as you said, true warriors must trust each other, and God will settle the accounts of the duplicitous.”

They stood in silence a moment longer. To Jacques, it felt as though even the roar of warfare around them faded into the background as the two men measured each other’s characters. At length he nodded. “I accept your terms.”

The Arab gave another toothy grin. “Then we are in agreement, my friend. I shall inform my men.”

“As shall I.” They exchanged a quick bow before returning to their lines. Not surprisingly, there were concerns.

“I don’t like it,” grimaced Andrew. “What makes you think this infidel can be trusted?”

Jacques shook his head. “I saw no deception in him. And, even if I did, what is there to lose?”

Andrew chewed his lip for a moment, then nodded. “Well, God has always blessed you with insight. If He wills it, you will have victory.”

“Indeed. And if not,” he reached out an arm to clasp with his comrade. “It has been an honor, Brother.”

Bidding farewell to his men, Jacques strode back to the open space between the two forces. Karim bowed again at his approach. “May God decide the victor, my friend,” pronounced the Arab.

“And may He grant salvation to the loser,” replied the Templar, returning the bow.

The two combatants took ready stances, swords and shields raised, and began circling. Jacques stepped gingerly to avoid trapping his foot in the littering of corpses. For a time the fighters simply moved, sizing the other up. Then, without verbal agreement, they charged. Karim’s warcry was beyond Jacques’ limited Arabic, but he suspected that his own bellow needed no translation. “Deus Vult!”

They met with the clash of iron on steel. Jacques was swift, but Karim was swifter still, and his scimitar swung three times for every one strike of the Templar. Jacques was forced on the defensive, using his broad kite shield to absorb blow after blow. It was like a tropical storm beating against a rock: Karim’s hail of blows showed no signs of slowing, and Jacques’ defenses showed no signs of slackening. But the Templar knew that such contests ultimately favored him; if he could but weather the flurry of blows, eventually Karim would make a mistake or lose his strength.

Seeming to realize this, Karim shifted tactics, darting back and forth to strike around the shield and forcing the more heavily armored man to spend more energy maintaining his guard. Jacques countered with a feinting jab to break the Arab’s rhythm, followed by a heavy swing intended to remove the sword arm, but Karim dodged to the side without apparent effort. Jacques followed the dodge, shield up, attempting to use his superior bulk to overrun his enemy, trusting in his chainmail to protect him from anything that might break his guard. Karim narrowly sidestepped the charge, but could not escape the sweep of the knight’s blade which shattered his round shield.

Jacques gave a grunt of satisfaction, followed by a grunt of shock as he felt a sharp pain in his side. He pulled back from his foe, glancing down to see blood spurt from just below his ribs. The Templar’s eyes snapped to Karim, who had stepped back against a shop wall. The Arab discarded his now useless shield and took a two-handed grip on his sword.

On his Damascus steel sword! realized Jacques, knowing that any lesser metal would have been turned aside by his heavy armor. He gripped his own blade more tightly. But it won’t stop me. Even with that sword, the wound wasn’t deep. Knowing that he couldn’t give his foe a moment to rest, he charged again, his blade held up for a downward swipe. Karim started to shift to the side to deflect the downward blow…

Just as Jacques had known he would. Switching his grip mid-charge he thrust rather than hacked, spearing for the man’s heart. Karim swung his sword desperately to block the blow. He failed to stop the thrust, but did succeed in deflecting it. Straight into the wall.

By some ill-fated chance Jacques’ sword managed to lodge itself directly between two of the stones. Biting back a curse, the knight tried to yank the blade free, but Karim, once again, was faster. The Arab threw his shoulder into the blade just as Jacques pulled back. The result was a metallic snap as the blade was split in two. Jacques stumbled back, releasing the hilt and nearly losing his footing on the bodies as he swung his shield to protect his flank. It was well that he did, for Karim recovered more quickly and advanced with a flurry of blows, wielding his scimitar in one hand and Jacques’ shattered hilt in the other as a dagger. The Templar was managing to hold him back, but he knew that he wouldn’t last for long. Karim had the edge in speed, and was strong enough that Jacques could not simply beat him down with his shield without leaving himself open to attack. It’s just a chance I’ll have to take. He sent a quick prayer heavenward, tensed for the charge—

And then Karim tripped.

It was just a moment; an unfortunate slip of the foot that caught him fast between two bodies and temporarily unbalanced him, but it was all Jacques needed. He bull-rushed his vulnerable opponent, bludgeoning him to the ground with his shield and knocking the scimitar from the man’s grasp. Karim scrambled to stab at his leg with the sword hilt, but Jacques saw the strike coming and planted his boot firmly on the man’s wrist. He cocked his shield back, the edge aimed for a strike at the throat. Karim looked up, saw death poised above him, and closed his eyes.

“Yield.”

Karim’s eyes flitted open. “What?”

“I said yield,” Jacques repeated.

The beaten man blinked slowly. “I…” A slow grin spread over his face. “I yield, of course.”

His victory secure, Jacques stepped back and pulled the Arab to his feet, giving him a hearty slap on the shoulder. “Well fought,” he remarked. “If you hadn’t tripped I imagine you might have won that.”

Karim shrugged giving a toothy grin. “It would seem that God wanted you to win, my friend.” Jacques chuckled. Then Karim’s face fell, becoming deathly serious. “Of course, that is because you still have work to do for Him.” Alarm bells rang in Jacques’ head. Karim, what are you— Karim put a hand on his shoulder, his eyes sorrowful. “You were right to trust me at Acre, old friend. Those with integrity are to be prized, even amongst enemies. It is a shame that the same could not be for your allies.”

Before Jacques could ask what the man meant, he felt a sharp impact in his back. Looking down, he saw the tip of a sword protruding from his chest. The tip of a European longsword. With a cough he sprayed blood over the regretful Karim as the blade was ripped out. Jacques sagged to the ground, twisting as he fell to see the carnage behind him. Agonized screams echoed across the battlefield as faceless men garbed as executioners and wielding instruments of torture fell upon his comrades from behind and slaughtered them. The beleaguered Crusaders had no chance to fight as the torturous implements ripped them apart with inhuman swiftness. The last to fall was Andrew, whose broken cries echoed to the heavens as blood poured from his mouth, nose, and eyeless sockets.

“No!” roared Jacques. He tried to rise to his feet, hand grasping for a sword, a dagger, anything, but a heavy boot kicked him in the hole in his chest. He bellowed in pain as the boot forced him to the ground.

“Templars,” spat a contemptuous voice in Jacques’ own French. “Never know when to lie down and die, do you.” Tears of pain and grief sprang to Jacques’ eyes as he looked up to see the face of his tormenter. King Philip IV, ruler of France, stared back, with the air of a man regarding an insect. “Troublesome little thing,” remarked the king. “A pity I didn’t exterminate your kind when I had the chance.” He punctuated the word by digging his heel into the wound. Jacques screamed as his body was wracked with torment that went beyond the physical wound. But, in the midst of his pain, he forced himself to look into the eyes of this traitor, this monster, and he saw—

Smoke. Purple-black smoke, pouring from serpentine eyes of red and sickly green. “You cannot stop what is coming, mortal,” continued king, his voice growing deep and echoing as though hundreds of voices had joined together in a perverse chant. “You never could.” He raised a bloodied longsword for the final blow.

Jacques forced his eyes to stay open in spite of the pain. I won’t give him the satisfaction of cowering, he vowed, resolving to take a martyr’s death. The blade swung down, and he prepared for the end.

But the end did not come. As the executioner’s blade sped for his skull, there was a flash of light, and a gleaming blade stopped the strike dead. The metal had the shimmer of Damascus steel, but though Karim held the blade it wasn’t his scimitar. It was Jacques’ longsword, reborn in a new form.

The king glared at the interloper. “You dare interfere?”

“His life has never belonged to you, demon,” came the reply. As with the king, Karim’s voice had become one of many chanting, but where the king’s voice was an unholy cacophony, the Arab’s had taken on an angelic tone, one which bespoke harmony at its deepest level. “He was claimed long ago, and shall not depart before his work is done.” The voice hardened. “In God’s Name, begone!”

The monster in the king’s form gave an inhuman shriek before vanishing in an acrid cloud of brimstone and ash. Jacques shuddered in horror, terrified to move. Above him, the being that wore Karim’s form sighed. “Your battles are not all behind you, Jacques de Charette.” The entity sheathed the sword with a flourish, and as the blade twisted in the air it flashed with a rainbow of vibrant colors, blues and purples, oranges and pinks, yellows and whites, and many more besides. “You will face challenges beyond your imaginings, and find worlds beyond your dreams.” Stepping to stand over Jacques, the being held out a hand for him to grasp. “It is an arduous journey that lies before you, but a rewarding one.” The Templar took the grip that was offered him, and the pain in his chest vanished at the touch. Karim’s face leaned in close. “But remember this, Jacques de Charette. God is the source of all harmony.” Jacques looked into Karim’s eyes, and there flashed a brilliant image of a female figure with lavender eyes and the countenance of the sun. “And where you find harmony, there you shall find God.”

Jacques sat bolt upright in a cold sweat, gasping for air like a drowning man. A hand snapped to his chest where he’d been stabbed.

It found only scar tissue. Looking down at his bare chest he saw dozens of scars, some of which were three decades old while most were more recent. His gnarled hands trembled as he reached for the crucifix that hung around his neck, fumbling for it in his nervousness. The injuries he’d sustained had been years ago, now, but in the dream they’d felt so real, so visceral. And then there’d been the monstrous hellspawn with the face of that animal Philip and—

Shuddering, Jacques clenched his hand around the cross and forced himself to look around the room. His cell at the monastery was small, and its furnishings spartan. The cot he lay on was little more than a plank; the crucifix that looked over his bed was plain and hand-carved; the small table by his cot was simple wood, as was the stool where he sometimes sat to pray. On it was folded a pair of black monastic robes, each emblazoned with an eight-pointed white Hospitaller cross.

All exactly as he’d left it the night before.

Jacques ran a hand through his greying hair and took a deep breath to calm his thoughts. What he’d just endured was no ordinary nightmare. It had started as simply a dream of that battle in Acre all those years ago, but what had come next…

He rose to his feet, ignoring the cold of the early spring air. He might not be able to make sense of the dream, but, providentially, he knew someone who could. Even in the darkness he clad himself without difficulty, moving with regimented purpose as he donned sandals, robe, rosary, and corded belt. Unconsciously, he mumbled passages from the sixth chapter of Ephesians under his breath. Reaching for his sword he—

Wait. Jacques looked down at his weapon. The longsword was leaned in the corner, where it had sat unused since he’d first arrived at this monastery. He hadn’t needed it, after all. His battles were all behind him. Better to leave it here as a memory of the gift it was and, besides, he had no business carrying a bladed weapon anymore. Yes, it’s better to leave it here.

So why did I reach for it?

The man stood for a moment, hand clenching and unclenching reflexively as he considered the best course of action. Well, he reasoned at length, perhaps old Methuselah will know what to do with it. He seized the sword by its scabbard. He thought about hitching it to his belt, but elected to carry it instead.

Taking a final deep breath, he left his cell to seek counsel for his dreams.

Little did he know that he would never set foot in it again.

Great Priory St. Gilles, Provencal, Commandry of the Knights of St. John, Anno Domini 1321

The halls of the Hospitaller Priory were empty with the lateness of the night, and so Friar Jacques met no one as he made his way down the stone corridors. His sandaled feet made little noise even in the stillness of the night. He was glad of the silence; it would have been difficult for him to explain why a priest was bearing a warsword in the middle of the night, after all. But, of even greater importance, it gave him time to think without being distracted by his Hospitaller brethren. He had great love for the men of his adoptive Order, but at that moment he needed the comfort of his own thoughts.

I thought it was the same dream. The same dream as the first two nights. It began the same. We held the street; I battled Karim; I spared him. And then, when we were to part ways—

He shuddered. Not since I was left to Philip’s tender mercies have I seen such malice. This was no mere dream; that much he knew. Angels and demons had contested in his mind, though for what purpose he could only guess and pray. Guess, pray, and seek the counsel of one who knew better than he.

And so he found himself outside the door to the Prior’s chambers. Raising a gnarled hand to knock, he hesitated a moment, not wishing to wake the old man at such a late hour. But this is not the sort of matter that may be delayed until morning, he resolved, and with that he rapped on the oak.

Much to his surprise, there was no delay before a voice creaked from the other side. “Enter.”

Jacques opened the door to see Prior Methuselah propped up in a chair by his cell window. The elderly priest no longer slept in a bed, as his back troubled him too badly. Jacques hadn’t been a young man for many years, but Methuselah looked positively ancient. His twisting white beard reached to his waist, almost obscuring the cross on his habit. The top of his head was bald, revealing a wrinkled scalp of dark brown that spoke to his Moorish ancestry. Methuselah appeared to be staring out the window, but Jacques knew his Prior was simply enjoying the cool night air on his face. Methuselah was blind.

“Come in, my son,” bade the Prior, gesturing with a wizened hand to the room’s other chair. “Have a seat and tell me what troubles you.”

The friar knew better than to ask how Methuselah knew that something was troubling him. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Father.”

Methuselah gave a wheezing chuckle and turned to face his monk. “Nonsense, my friend. I wasn’t sleeping. It’s strange to say, but as a man of ninety I seem unable to drift to the land of slumber for more than a few minutes at a time. You’ll understand when it comes your time to be old.”

Jacques cocked an eyebrow. “I am no longer a young man myself, Father.”

“You are thirty years my junior, are you not?”

“Twenty-five.”

The elderly prior waved him off. “Then you are still a young man.” Jacques smiled in spite of himself. “Now then,” continued Methuselah, his voice turning grave. “What ails you, my son?”

Jacques related the nature of his troubles, beginning with the dreams of Acre before telling how this night the dream had changed, and finally ending with his decision to bring his sword when he came to see his mentor. At the conclusion he found himself staring at the sheathed blade. “Honestly, I’m not entirely sure why I felt compelled to collect it. It just felt…right I suppose.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine my reasoning. My enemies these days are of the spirit, not of the flesh.”

Methuselah stroked his beard. “That is the blade Karim gifted to you, is it not?”

“It is, Father,” confirmed Jacques. Karim had kept the hilt of the Templar’s weapon in 1291, a parting gift from the victor. Years later, he had returned it, the blade re-forged into something grander. Putting a thumb under the crossguard, Jacques pushed up, revealing an inch of Damascus steel. “The same as it appeared in the dream.”

“I see,” nodded Methuselah. “And what do you think it means, Jacques?”

Jacques shrugged reflexively, though the old man could not see. “In truth, I do not know. That is why I came. It is you who has the gift for interpreting dreams; not I.”

Methuselah tilted his head. “It is true that God has granted me the insight to read the dreams of others. But you would do well to remember that the Holy Ghost may guide any who allow Him entry.”

The younger man felt his shoulders slump. “Does that mean you will not tell me?”

“I never said that,” creaked Methuselah. “I only meant that you should be mindful that I am merely a man, the same as you. What wisdom I bring is not mine, but God’s. You must be able to seek Him out yourself when I am not there. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

“That is well,” said Methuselah with a sigh. “Because soon you shall be leaving us.”

Jacques felt like he’d been struck by lightning. “What?!”

“Do not shout, my son,” Methuselah chided him gently. “You risk waking our brethren.”

The former Templar felt his heartbeat quicken as his grip on the arms of his chair became vicelike. “Forgive me, Prior,” he said, pouring all his self-control into his voice. “I just…this is rather unexpected.” Unexpected? Unprecedented! “An aging priest like myself is seldom sent away to another priory.”

“You misunderstand, my son. You are not being sent to another priory.” Jacques’ heart sank. Am I to be cast out of the Order, then? What have I done to deserve this? I cannot bear to lose my brethren a second time! Sensing his distress, Methuselah rose and crept along the wall to his side, laying a quivering hand on his brow. “Do not be troubled, Jacques. You are not being cast out. Rather, you are being charged with a great mission. One for which you have been prepared.”

Jacques blinked. “Prepared, Father?”

“Indeed,” replied Methuselah. “Your dream is the final sign for which I have been waiting these many years. But before I can relate to you the meaning of this dream, I must tell you of one which I had many winters ago.” Jacques nodded dumbly. The blind man pointed to his cot. “Beneath my bed you will find a case. Please open it.”

Jacques did as he was bade, rising to pull the wooden box from beneath the cot while Methuselah sank into the chair he’d vacated. Setting the case on the unused cot, the friar opened it, and could not prevent an oath from escaping his mouth. “Adam’s bones!” he shouted.

Methuselah chuckled. “Language,” rebuked the old man. “Surprised by what you see?”

“It’s a Bible!” exclaimed Jacques. His astonishment was understandable. The Bible was an illuminated manuscript half the size of a man’s chest, bound in gold and wood. Crafted from thousands of pages of velum, taking decades to transcribe and requiring the patronage of a wealthy nobleman, an Illuminated Bible of this sort was worth a fortune. It was far cheaper to build a church than it was to furnish it with the Holy Book, especially one as well-crafted as this one.

“Yes, it is a Bible,” laughed Methuselah. “Among other things. A set of holy oils, a chalice, an altar stone, a breviary, and anything else a priest might require to fulfill his duties far from any church. And a satchel to carry it all, of course.”

“But…how? Why?!” demanded Jacques, struggling to process the fact that Methuselah had kept this all hidden away for the better part of a decade.

“Calm yourself, and I will tell you,” answered Methuselah. Jacques took several deep breaths and sat in Methuselah’s chair, his mind reeling. “Eleven years ago, I had a dream,” began Methuselah. “I saw a distant land, far across every sea known to Man, full of laughter and beauty. In the wide plains ran herds of ponies.”

“Ponies,” repeated Jacques.

“Indeed. But not the sort you find here. Such beautiful creatures they were, of the kind you would think to find only in Heaven. Of many colors they were, like that of a rainbow. At the head of the herd ran the sun and the moon, and many other lights of near equal brilliance.” The old man smiled at the memory. “T’was such a majestic sight; such magnificent creatures, and such a peaceful land. I could have watched them prance and play for hours.”

The old Prior sighed. “But, the peace was not to last. Creatures of shadow and hate prowled about the edges of plains. And any pony that strayed too far from the unity of the herd was swept into the Darkness, whence they did not return. And each time one was taken, the Darkness grew bolder, creeping ever closer to the herd, until I felt as though it might swallow them.”

“Then, in the midst of the herd, I saw another creature. A horse, I thought it from a distance. It was a sorry looking thing, brutalized and broken, with the marks of whips and chains upon it. For a time I thought it might die, but the herd gathered around it to protect and heal it. In time, the beast was healed, running first within the herd, directing them against the shadows, and then at the edges, guarding them from the shadows, and then at its head, with the sun, the moon, and the other lights, joining with them in a charge against the shadows.”

“I did not understand the dream at first; sometimes such things are made known only in time and with patience. God’s tales unfold in their own time, after all. I simply prayed that it would become clear in time and went about my day.” Methuselah tapped the arm of his chair. “Then, that evening, you were brought to us. Bruised; battered; broken; your body rent apart by the cruelties of a wicked king. Yet there was a fire in your eyes, the light of a warrior who would die before submitting to evil. And in that moment I knew that you were the one from my dream.” His sightless eyes bored into Jacques. “I knew that you would be the one to make this journey and fight this evil.” Jacques’ mouth went dry.

“More visions came in the following days, revealing to me that I was to prepare these items for you. The last piece, though, you were to bring to me when the time was right.”

Jacques blinked. “My sword…” he realized.

“Your sword,” confirmed Methuselah. “I must admit, as the years went by, taking my sight, my health, even my sleep, it seemed as though I would be a hundred before you came. But, like Simeon at the Temple, I knew that I would not die until the revelation had been fulfilled.”

His story ended, Methuselah sat in silence. And, for that, Jacques was grateful. I don’t know if I could manage anything else. Were it to have come from anyone but Methuselah, I would call him mad. But the Prior speaks with authority from God. Who am I to question? But even so…

“Jacques?” asked Methuselah. The friar did not respond. “Speak freely, my son. I may have the gift of reading dreams, but even I cannot guess the state of your mind.”

“It is…a great deal to swallow, Father.” He rested his head on his hands. “I hardly know what to say.”

“That is understandable. If it’s any comfort, I don’t rightly know either.”

“Can you tell me more about this land to which I am to go?”

Methuselah shook his head, regret tinging his voice. “It has not been given me to say, old friend. Such things are given to unfold in their own time. Providence is not something easily read.”

“Of course,” answered Jacques, hoping that he did not sound bitter. He held tightly to the chair, as though the action would somehow prevent the separation he sensed approaching. “Will I ever return?” He knew the answer even as he asked it.

“No,” replied Methuselah gravely. “If you choose to take this journey, you shall never set foot inside this Priory again.”

Jacques was saddened by that. The Priory had become his home. It had welcomed him after his world had been brought crashing down around him; nursed his wounds; mended his loss. Leaving would grieve him. But to leave with a mission is better than to have it ripped away by a madman. A thought occurred to the old priest: a single word Methuselah had chosen to use. “If I choose, Father?”

“Of course. Our God is not one of slavery, Jacques, as you well know. The choice is yours.”

For the briefest of instants, Jacques was sorely tempted. He dismissed it with the conviction of a soldier and the wisdom of an old man who knew that his final reckoning could not be far off. “I made my choice long ago when I made my vows, Father. I chose to face the Darkness. If I am needed, I will go.”

Methuselah nodded in approval. “Yes, you will.”

Jacques rose and packed the satchel. His shoulders took the weight easily, and he offered a quick prayer of thanksgiving that he had kept up his strength over the years. He reached last for his sword, but hesitated before buckling it to his side. Methuselah seemed to sense this. “Why do you linger over your weapon, Friar Jacques?”

“A priest ought not to draw blood,” he answered.

“And yet the rule has been dispensed with for righteous causes before. Bishop Adhemar Le Puy bore a blade to the Holy Land in 1087. And many a chaplain has been given to bearing swords in defense of the Faith. You shall be in a foreign land, my son, and necessity will make claim to your actions. As David and his followers ate the bread that was reserved for the priests when they starved, so too must you adapt to the customs and needs of this new land. Thus, I give you a broad dispensation from the precise rigors of the Rule when courtesy or duty demand it. Let the Scriptures and the Holy Ghost be your guide and do not waste your time with worry. In the moment, you will be given what to do and what to say.”

The former Templar regarded his sword for a moment, then buckled it on. “As you say, Father.” This accomplished, he asked, “How shall I begin my journey? Where am I to go?”

Methuselah held out a hand. “Help me to my feet, and I will show you.”

The two walked through the corridors with companionable ease, moving at a snail’s pace to accommodate Methuselah’s frailty. “I shall miss having you around, Jacques. It has been good to have another old priest to talk to. So many of the young monks have no memory of the old days.”

Jacques smiled. “You mean the old days when the Templars and Hospitallers were fierce rivals and even the Pope’s urgings could not encourage us to merge our Orders into one?”

“Exactly,” smiled Methuselah. “Things were more lively in those days.” Jacques chuckled.

Their walk took them outside the building proper to the Priory grounds. To the younger man’s confusion, Methuselah was leading him not to the front gate, but through a line of shrubs towards the back wall. He was further mystified as to how Methuselah planned to show him the way to a land across every known sea by physically taking him somewhere. But he trusted the old man to lead him aright, and kept his questions to himself.

After a few minutes walking, they found themselves in a part of the Priory grounds that Jacques did not recognize. He found this odd, because he thought that he knew every part of the area. But then, Methuselah seems to be able to find his way around without even his sight. I suppose it’s no surprise that he’s explored it more thoroughly than I. The spot was a secluded patch of land where the hedges grew together to form a tunnel, at the end of which was a door set in the wall of the Priory. As they approached the modest opening, Jacques could sense an air of finality descending upon him. His confusion grew. Is Methuselah simply to take me to the door and send me on my way? Shall I find a map in my satchel?

They reached the door, and Methuselah grasped both of his hands. “Jacques, my old friend, this is goodbye for now. Though I am grieved to see you go, I rejoice that you go to do God’s will. And I rejoice that you shall perhaps find solace at last.”

“At last?”

“You’ve never truly healed from the torments inflicted upon you by that craven fool,” explained Methuselah. “I helped mend what I could, but there is still an ache within you.” He reached up a hand to rest against his friend’s craggy face. “You shall serve this new land well, of that I have no doubt. And, in return, they shall help you at last find peace.”

Jacques quirked a smile. “An odd thing to say, since I go bringing a sword.”

“A sword is but a sword, my son. True peace exists in spite of conflict.” He smiled gently. “I bid you well, old friend. We shall not see each other again in this life. But I look forward to welcoming you to the final stage of your journey when the time comes.”

Embracing the old man, Jacques felt tears stinging his eyes. “Thank you, old one, for all the kindness you’ve shown me. I shall miss you dearly.”

“And I you, my friend.” The two parted grasps, and Methuselah opened the door. Strangely, though the moonlight allowed Jacques to see Methuselah clearly, the outside was shrouded as though by a fog. “Go with God, Jacques de Charette. May Heaven guide your steps.”

Jacques wanted to ask where exactly he was going, but something stopped him. He felt compelled to simply pass through the door, and sensed that all would be made clear. With a final benediction to his mentor, he stepped forward.

As he crossed the threshold, there was a roar like a hurricane, and a mighty wind that seemed to grip his every sense and perception. He opened his mouth to cry out in shock, but the storm plucked the words from his throat as he was pulled in. There was a mighty thunderclap, and Friar Jacques de Charette vanished from the Earth, never to return.

Once he had gone, Methuselah retraced his steps, passing back through the tunnel into the grounds beyond. Finding a bench, he sat down and stared sightlessly up at the heavens. “I have sent him as you instructed, Lord God,” he prayed. “His journey is begun. Thank you for letting me help him this one last time.” His head dipped forward. “It has been my honor to serve the will of God.” Closing his eyes, he fell asleep.

Author's Note

Okay, so a little housekeeping right at the start of this story. The Crusades are mentioned here as an important part of Jacques' backstory, but I don't intend to spend a lot of time with them. What I am using is pulled from a couple decades of research, including a stack of primary sources from Christian, Muslim, and Jewish sources. And, yes, I am well aware that I am taking creative liberties. If you want to read about the real deal, I recommend Jonathan Riley-Smith (the undisputed king of the Crusades within the historical community) or Thomas Madden (his heir-apparent). Madden is the more readable of the two. For the Templars specifically, I would add Regine Pernoud. Her work loses something in the translation, I feel, but she's worth reading all the same.

A few liberties that I've taken include the use of the eight-pointed cross, which didn't appear officially on the Hospitaller robes until the 1500s, and the use of the term 'Friar,' which may not have applied to their monks and priests until about the same time (sources differ).

If anyone's interested in the names, here are their origins:

Jacques is a reference to one of my favorite authors, Brian Jacques (though he was English, not French, so the pronunciation is different).

De Charette was a French officer who fought for the United States in the Revolution, and then died fighting against the genocide of the Vendee in his homeland years later.

Karim is a name that one of my Arab co-workers always liked.

Ad-Din is the surname of Baha ad-Din, a noted Qadi historian from the Crusades employed by Saladin. He was a zealous supporter of Saladin, but had a great deal of respect for the vigor and honor that was to be found in many of his enemies. He was one of many figures from that era (on both sides) who held firm to their own beliefs and allegiances, yet respected the enemies who conducted themselves well.

The original Methuselah of note was a Biblical figure, though I have a personal appreciation for the name from Brian Jacques. Both the historical and the fictional Methuselahs were described as being ancient and wise, and Jacques' version was, like mine, a monk.

EDIT: A number of things have been pointed out about weapons and fighting style in this scene (and, should note, most were very polite and informative, so I'm not inserting this out of annoyance... for most of you). I'd like to respond to a couple of them so that I don't have to keep responding in the future. 1) I'm aware that I took some liberties with armor penetration, the sword breaking, etc. for the sake of the narrative. Bad Antiquarian! Bad! 2) LONGSWORD IS THE CORRECT NOMENCLATURE BECAUSE LONGSWORD MEANT MANY KINDS OF WEAPONS. *ahem* So perhaps I was a little more annoyed about that one, but a lot of that is from getting 'corrected' in contexts outside this story. Hard classifications of swords are largely modern; medieval sources are much more vague because there wasn't the same obsession with terminology. Broadly speaking swords called 'longsword,' 'bastard sword' or 'two-handed sword' could be, and often were, wielded with shields. It depended on the specific sword and the strength and skill of the individual. Jacques is a big man and would have no trouble with this. His sword is a long-bladed weapon that could be wielded with one hand or two depending on his preference. Matt Easton from Scholagladiatoria (a renowned HEMA expert) explains in this video. Thanks, Matt! You're the best.

Failure to Communicate

Twilight’s heart leapt into her throat as the strange creature toppled forward.

“Somepony catch him!” cried Fluttershy, her voice unusually loud.

The unicorn charged her horn and grabbed the creature in her magical grasp. Telekinesis is a singularly useful ability for woah—!

Her knees buckled as a strange magical resonance bounced back at her from the creature, and she very nearly lost her grip on him. Applejack, Fluttershy, and Rainbow Dash hastened over to take up the slack and guide the creature to the ground; the former two because they were closest, and the latter because a pony with Dash’s speed was never far from anything.

“Geez, Twilight, did you skip breakfast or something? You almost dropped the guy!” accused the pegasus.

Never far from anything, except perhaps tact, amended Twilight.

“Now, Dashie,” chided Rarity, “you can hardly blame Twilight. It was a long run here and not all of us are as athletic as you.”

Twilight huffed. “I’m in fine shape, thank you very much. And that wasn’t why I almost dropped him. There’s something… odd about his magical field. When I grabbed him it was like he was slippery. My magic didn’t want to hold onto him.”

Rainbow just snorted and muttered something about ‘excuses,’ but Rarity looked intrigued. “‘Slippery?’” she echoed. “How odd. What exactly do you mean by that?”

“Can ya’ll please not discuss this here?” grunted Applejack as she kept her eyes on the shattered timber wolves. “Ah’d rather not hang around ‘til those doggies wake up.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Applejack,” giggled Pinkie, who bounced over to the piles of branches and twigs to prod at them with her hoof. “These stick figures aren’t going anywhere.” She snickered. “Get it? Stick figures?!”

Twilight ignored the joke and trotted over, using her magic to scan the timbers. To her shock, she discovered no magical resonances responding to her touch beyond what was natural to dead wood.

“Whadya mean, they ain’t goin’ nowhere?” asked Applebloom, who started to trot over to join Pinkie Pie. “Ain’t timber wolves darn near indestructible?”

But if there are no magical resonances, then that means he broke the enchantment somehow…

“Applebloom!” shouted the elder farmpony, who jumped forward to grab her sister by the scruff of the neck and haul her away from the battleground. “You get back here, missy!”

If he severed them, does that mean his sword is an artifact?

“But sis! If Pinkie Pie says there’s no danger—

It’s not! It’s just a sword! I mean, the steel looks weird, but that shouldn’t translate to being able to break enchantments like this!

“Ah don’t care what Pinkie Pie said!”

Which means that the creature itself…

“Er, no offense, Pinkie.”

Twilight’s gut did a flip as she scanned the strange being. That’s… that doesn’t make any…

“Eh. None taken.”

I must be reading it wrong…

“Um, Twilight?” came a meek voice. “Shouldn’t you… um… what I mean to say is… don’t you have healing magic?”

“I can’t heal him,” declared Twilight.

That got everypony’s attention. “What?!” exclaimed the others.

“Fluttershy, you know more about medicine than the rest of us; you’ll have to start binding his wounds while we get ready to take him back to town.”

The pegasus’ eyes widened. “Oh my… um… okay… I guess. I’ll have to find some dock leaves for bandages—

“Or you can just use my first aid kit!” exclaimed Pinkie Pie, who shoved an oversized medical kit that she could not possibly have had on her person (if she’d been anypony other than Pinkie Pie) into Fluttershy’s startled hooves.

Applejack blinked. “Why were ya carryin’ that?”

Pinkie Pie looked at the farmer as though she was insane. “Um, in case one of the fillies was hurt, Applejack! Duh!”

Sweetie Belle turned to Twilight. “I don’t get it! Why can’t you heal him! You know lots of magic.”

The lavender unicorn shook her head. “I only know basic first aid magic, and half of it’s specifically attuned to me. But that’s not the problem. My magic can’t heal him. At least, not without serious risk.” She looked down at the strange creature with a mixture of confusion and wonderment. “His magical signature is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before, even at Celestia’s school! It’s almost like it’s… not there.”

Rarity gasped and very nearly fainted. The rest looked shocked. All except for Rainbow, who hovered with an expression that suggested that she didn’t understand, but didn’t want to admit it. “So, for all of us non-eggheads here, that’s weird becaaaause…”

“All creatures have magical signatures, Rainbow,” snapped Twilight with a roll of her eyes. “Even non-sapient ones. But if he has one, it’s so remote that I can’t detect it. But whatever it is, I was barely able to grip him because of it.” She gestured to the piles of firewood. “And then there’re the timber wolves! Pinkie was, inexplicably, right!”

“Yuppers!” beamed Pinkie.

“They really are dead!” continued Twilight. “As in, for good. Usually it takes high-level magic to permanently kill a timber wolf, but somehow this… thing did it with a non-magical sword! If I try to use my magic on him, I could make it worse!”

The other ponies stared at her in silence, all except for Fluttershy, who was too busy working, and Applejack, whom the pegasus had conscripted into helping. It was Scootaloo who broke the silence. “So what are we gonna do then, Twilight? I mean, we’re not gonna… he’s not gonna…” tears welled up in the filly’s eyes.

Twilight rested her hoof on the little pegasus’ head. “Not if we can help it,” she replied with more confidence than she felt. “Pinkie Pie, get some long branches and thick leaves to make a stretcher.”

“Yes, sir, ma’am, sir!” saluted the earth pony before shooting off.

“Rarity, keep an eye on the fillies and watch the forest in case anything else shows up.”

The alabaster unicorn hugged Sweetie Belle close and nodded. “Of course, darling.”

“Rainbow Dash, I need you to listen to me very carefully, because there’s a detailed message you need to give and I didn’t think to bring quill and ink.” Rather than making a snide remark about Twilight Sparkle, of all ponies, being caught without writing implements, the pegasus nodded solemnly. “You need to go back to Ponyville and tell the hospital to prep for surgery on a Class III anomaly. Tell them they’ll need The Works. Blood replicators, Zebrican herbs, everything. And make sure they grab Zecora’s notes. With her out of town, they’re the best chance we have of identifying him.”

Dash gave a confident smile. “I’m on it! Be back in a—

“I’m not finished,” interrupted Twilight and catching the pegasus’ tail with her magic. “Once you’ve alerted the hospital, go to the library and tell Spike to send a message to Princess Celestia telling her what happened and what you told the hospital. Maybe she knows what the creature is and has specialists she can send. Okay?” Rainbow hovered like a dog with a treat balanced on its nose, waiting for its master’s permission to eat it. “Now you can go.”

The explosion of speed rocked Twilight back on her heels and almost toppled her over. A few seconds later she hear the telltale boom of the rainbow pegasus’ signature move. Well, at least we have the fastest messenger in the world, she thought as she turned back to the others. Pinkie Pie had found two reasonably long poles and was tying a sheet between them; Twilight knew better than to question where she’d gotten the sheet. Rarity was watching the forest with one eye and the fillies with the other; the children were all on the verge of crying as they stared at their savior, and were peppering an overwhelmed Rarity with questions about his condition. Fluttershy and Applejack were nearly done binding his wounds, and at this point if Twilight tried to help she would only be in the way.

Which left her with nothing to do but stare at their visitor and ponder what sort of creature he might be.

He was tall, about twice the height of the average pony, with the build of a large primate. His body was covered by a long, hooded black robe of coarse material with an eight-pointed white cross decorating the center. A corded rope served as a belt and rough sandals shod his feet. There was a satchel of some sort slung over his shoulder, which by some ill chance had done little to protect him from the wolves’ claws.

The creature had little hair to speak of, only a thick shock of grey-white hair that might have once been brown atop his head and a full beard of the same color. His skin was weathered to the point of appearing craggy, and scars could be seen on his face and on his gnarled hands. Though Twilight hated to guess, she felt confident in supposing that he was quite old. Yet for all that, despite the blood loss and unconsciousness, the hand that gripped the sword had locked around it like a vice. Even in his broken state, he gave off a sense of power and purpose, waiting to be awoken. There was a presence about him; one that struck her as familiar, though she could not put her hoof on it.

Her reverie was broken when Pinkie looked up and saluted with her odd blend of the martial and the comedic. “One stretcher, ready to go, Cap’n!

“We’ve stopped the bleeding, I think,” announced Fluttershy a moment later with much less gusto. “At least, he’s not in danger of bleeding out anymore but, well, we should still get him to the hospital immediately. I’m not a doctor.”

Twilight nodded. “Of course. Applejack and Pinkie will carry the stretcher while Rarity and I watch the woods for any other timber wolves.” Or any predators that might smell the blood. “Fluttershy, you hover above the stretcher and keep an eye on his vitals. Let’s get him on there.”

Between the five of them they managed to hoist the patient onto the stretcher without jolting him, after which they set off at as brisk a pace as they dared. They trotted largely in silence, with only the occasional direction or warning about a tree root or other tripping hazard breaking the quiet. Even Pinkie Pie was subdued. The three fillies walked in the middle of the party, near the stretcher itself, with none of their usual spirit. They kept looking up at the creature with worried frowns on their faces. Every so often, one of the three would open her mouth to say something, only to remain silent. Twilight found herself running through a mental checklist of known magical traits, hoping to come across something in her mind’s elaborate filing system that she’d missed earlier. She came up empty.

“He’s going to be fine,” stated Scootaloo confidently.

The others’ gazes jerked to the young pegasus.

“I mean, he’s so cool right?” expounded the filly. “And somepony, er, somebody who can fight off five timber wolves and win doesn’t just… well… er…”

Her confidence wavered and her lip quivered, but Applebloom came to her rescue. “Yeah! He ran in with ‘is sword and was all, Zam! Pow! Swoosh! Like one o’ Spike’s superhero comics!”

“He was like a knight from a fairy tale!” gushed Sweetie Belle. “He waved his sword and told the wolves he wasn’t going to let them hurt us! And the hero of the story can’t… he won’t...”

“Leave!” supplied Scootaloo. “He’s too awesome to leave!”

“Yeah!” piped the other two.

“Well, where are our manners, girls?” asked Sweetie Belle. “We haven’t even introduced ourselves yet!”

Applebloom facehooved. “Consarn it! Yer right! Well, Ah’m Applebloom! An’ this here’s Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo. And we’re—"

“The Cutie Mark Crusaders!” they chorused.

“And these are our sisters and their friends. That’s my big sister Rarity, she’s really good at making pretty dresses. That’s Applejack, she’s super honest…”

As the three fillies jabbered away at the unconscious being, Twilight knew that the odds that he could hear them were remote. Moreover, she knew that he was unlikely to ever hear them. Whatever kind of creature he is, he seems to be quite old. And I imagine that means his body doesn’t heal as well as it used to. He might not be bleeding now, but he lost a lot of blood, and we have no way of knowing how much he can afford to lose. The blood replicator might not even work on him, since it’s magical in nature and he seems to unconsciously repel magic. And his wounds could still get infected, and we don’t know if our medicines will even work on his kind. There are so many things that could go wrong! And they just talk to him as though everything’s going to be alright…

The unicorn cast a glance at her other friends, and it became clear that they knew as well as she did how this was likely to end. Pinkie, in the lead position on the stretcher, had experienced a rapid deflation of her mane over the last few minutes. Applejack, in the rear position, was trying to avoid looking at the three fillies; every time she failed, the farmpony swallowed hard, as though choking down whatever she wanted to say. Rarity was trying to put on a brave face, but whenever she glanced at her sister a sob would threaten to escape. Fluttershy, oddly enough, looked the most composed. But perhaps that’s because she’s become accustomed to tending mortally wounded creatures. One by one, Twilight met each of their gazes, and an unspoken exchange passed between them. She knew the creature’s odds of survival. They all did.

But none of them had the heart to say anything.

Ponyville General, Ponyville

Nurse Redheart sipped her coffee in her office on the second floor of the hospital, letting the sweet nectar of the drink soothe her spirit. It wasn’t even one o’clock, and it had already been a long day. Carrot Top had come in with a broken forehoof at six in the morning, courtesy of a gopher hole that she’d missed while tending her crops. Redheart had barely finished setting the bone when Rumble had come in with a suspected concussion because he’d been sleep flying and Thunderlane had insisted on him getting it checked. The young colt had been fine, but it was fortunate that his older brother had come in with him because Redheart had noticed the telltale signs of Glass-Eye, a common but irritating malady that frequently dogged weather ponies. After getting Thunderlane a prescription for antibiotics, she’d been accosted by the ‘Flower Triplets,’ who were convinced that they’d contracted a deadly plague from their produce and…

With a contented sigh she buried her muzzle in her cup. It had been a long morning, but that was alright. She loved her town, and she loved her job, tiring as it could be at times. But I got through the morning just fine, and the afternoon’s shaping up to be a light shift. So, barring any unforeseen complications, I should be just fin—

A cyan blue pegasus impacted her window like an oversized bird. “Mother of Celestia!” howled Redheart, tipping over backwards in her chair and sending her precious coffee everywhere. There was the sound of her window being ripped open and a cyan-and-rainbow blur swept into her office, hauling her unceremoniously into the air with two strong forelegs. The nurse instantly recognized her assailant. “Rainbow Dash, what the bu—

“StrangecreatureintheforestClassThreeAnomolygetTheWorksbloodreplicatorzebrastuffZecoranotesprep-forsurgerymassivebloodlosssixfootonetwolegsfoughttimberwolvesunconciousnomagicalsignaturethingy!”

Redheart stared at Rainbow Dash like a deer caught in the light, her mind taking the massive data transfer with some difficulty. A lesser being might have failed to comprehend at all. Fortunately, Redheart lived in a town with Pinkie Pie, so once her brain got over its initial confusion and replaced the Rainbow Dash Protocol with the Pinkie Pie Contingency it was able to sort out the relevant information and organize it into the appropriate categories. This done, the Emergency Procedures kicked in, opened the folder labelled ‘Anomalies and Treatments Thereof, Class III,’ and created a Plan of Action based on the information found therein. She communicated this fact to Rainbow Dash in a manner selected for its efficiency rather than its linguistic aesthetic.

“Ok.”

The pegasus beamed. “’KthanksgreatgottatellSpike!” Without further ceremony she dropped the astonished nurse and vanished through the window in a rainbow blur.

Redheart landed heavily on her rump, blinking away the cobwebs in her mind. Without conscious thought she rose to her feet and galloped into the hospital, following the directives of the Plan of Action while the rest of her Conscious Thought struggled to catch up. Since it had been left severely in the wake of events, she had already rounded up Dr. Stable and the rest of the prep team before Conscious Thought came panting up to join the Plan of Action in the present. This resulted in her shouting to a half-empty operating room, “You owe me a fresh bucking cup of coffee, Rainbow Dash!”

Golden Oaks Library, Ponyville

Spike eagerly turned the pages of his comic book. He’d been waiting four months for this issue to come out and finally reveal the Jester’s true origin! The Killer Joke, had been one of the most anticipated installments of the Batmare lore, and he eagerly devoured every page. With Twilight hanging out with the girls all morning, he’d be free to read it without any interrupt—

A cyan blue pegasus impacted his window like an oversized bird. In his shock he belched a belly-full of green fire and sent The Killer Joke to Celestia. “Sweet Luna’s wings!”

“Spikehelpyou’vegottasendamessagetothePrincess!”

Great Priory St. Gilles, Provencal, Commandry of the Knights of St. John

Friar Jacques entered the chapel in a daze. He did not recall coming here. In fact, the last thing he remembered was…

…how did I come to be here?

There was a faint buzzing in his ears as from distant conversation, but he couldn’t make anything out. Deeper into the chapel he caught sight of Prior Methuselah, who was seated next to a hooded figure cloaked in white. At first he was aghast that a man sit with his head covered in a church, but the anger quickly abated when he understood why. It is a woman who sits there. Thus, her head is covered. He did not know how he knew this, but it did not seem relevant.

The faint buzzing of conversation grew louder.

Not knowing what else to do, Jacques walked deeper into the chapel. As he walked, he found himself limping. He realized that he was in great pain, as though he’d been cut deeply by many swords. The pain increased with each step. By the time he reached the pew that the Prior and the strange woman occupied, he could barely stand. Still, he genuflected towards the tabernacle before taking his seat. “Greetings, old one,” the priest managed in spite of his aching chest.

“Welcome, my son,” creaked the elderly prior, who looked over with a warm smile. “It would seem that I have been granted to aid you further in your journey.” The woman said nothing, but stared forward, her face masked by a veil.

“My…journey, Father?” Jacques’ head felt muddied, as though drugged. Why am I in such pain? Who is that strange woman in white? His ear twitched. And from where does this buzz of conversation come?

Methuselah nodded patiently. “Your journey. Your mission.” He gave a sympathetic smile. “You seem to have gotten lost.”

“I- I’m sorry, Father, I just…” he ran a hand through his hair. “I just don’t remember…”

The Prior chuckled. “There is no shame in it, my old friend. It is easy to become lost in a foreign land. But when you are lost, finding your way is as simple as finding the truth.” He took Jacques’ hand in his own and, to the friar’s shock, the old man’s grip was far stronger than he remembered. “You fear the deception of the Enemy, and that is right for you to fear. But you are a priest, Jacques; to discern truth from lies is an authority given to you, that you might protect your flock and yourself.”

The buzz of conversation grew louder, as though the speakers were in the room with him. It was the voices of children, animated with passion and alight with eagerness.

“You must seek the truth my son,” Methuselah emphasized. He took Jacques’ hand and pulled it over towards the white-clad woman. “For the one who seeks, finds.” Using the friar’s hand, Methuselah removed the woman’s veil. Jacques felt his heart skip as he found himself face to face with the orange-coated pony from the forest. He heard a child’s voice announce her name, sounding as though she spoke right into his ear: “Applejack.”

Jacques twisted and groaned, his eyes feeling leaden and his body wracked with torment. But I’ve felt far worse pains than this. All around him he heard the buzzing of conversation as the three children… no, the three fillies, chattered away. He was bouncing along as though he was being carried in a stretcher, and all around him was the clatter of hooves. Wonderful, he thought. I had hoped for a moment that I’d dreamt the whole thing. But it seems I really am borne along by talking ponies, unicorns, and pegasi, through a land touched either by God or by the devil. So the question is, do they carry me as a Samaritan bore the dying man, or as the Philistines bore Samson? He did not feel as though he’d been bound, but he did feel the presence of bandages. Perhaps they seek to heal me out of gratitude for saving the little ones. Or perhaps this is intended to lull me into submission. The Enemy is crafty, after all. But my head still feels muddied, and God alone knows how long I shall remain awake. I’ve lost so much blood…tis a miracle I’m awake at all. Knowing his time was limited and resolving to wonder passively no longer, he set out to observe his surroundings. Letting his eyes open in slits, he caught sight of a blurry world of dark greens and browns interrupted by pastel splashes of color, and one orange shade in particular. ‘Applejack.’

Though he’d tried to be subtle in his movements, he was apparently not subtle enough. “Oh, oh my,” came the voice of the meek pegasus from before. “Um, girls, I think he’s awake.”

Instantly he felt eight pairs of eyes boring into him. “What?!” came the ear-shattering cry in his ear from an overly perky voice that was uncomfortably near his head. “He’s awake! And I haven’t even had time to plan a ‘Happy-You’re-Not-Dead-Thanks-For-Saving-The-Fillies-Party!’”

A ‘Happy-You’re-What-The-How-Now?’ His addled brain began to ache.

“He’s awake!” chirped the high-pitched filly.

“Awesome!” shouted the raspy one into his already assaulted eardrums.

“Yer our hero!” added the accented one in a mercifully softer tone.

The lavender unicorn stepped into view. “Girls, please. Let’s give him some space. He’s obviously very disoriented.”

She seems kind enough, thought the priest, but then, looks can be deceiving.

“Sorry, Twilight,” mumbled the three fillies as they pulled back.

It would not be outside the devil’s capability to masquerade as the pure and the innocent just to lead me astray.

“Hello? Sir?” asked the unicorn, who was apparently called ‘Twilight.’

Perhaps some witch turned innocent children into animals! If so, I must find out who is responsible and put an end to this!

“Can you hear us?”

Even if everyone here is merely a victim, I may hold them to their word and find answers! I need to find the truth! His eyes settled on the orange pony. One way or the other.

“Applejack,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse and weak.

The hat-wearing pony blinked. “Did he just say mah name?”

Jacques nodded. He beckoned her over. “Come… please,” he rasped.

Applejack looked in confusion at Twilight, who just shrugged. How does a pony shrug? What an oddly human gesture. Applejack herself also shrugged and the caravan made a quick stop. Somehowthis ‘Applejack’ managed to unhitch herself from the stretcher and transfer the weight onto Twilight’s waiting shoulders. She used her teeth and hooves as I would use my hands! he thought with mixed amazement and horror as they began moving again. Either this is some Faerie in disguise, the work of some witch, or some unexpected action of God! The pony made her way over to his side. Her emerald eyes were huge, far larger than a normal pony’s, and filled with concern and sorrow. But why? And is it real, or some trickery? “What is it, sugarcube?”

If there is a devil in this one, it may attempt to run when I begin. I must hold her close, to keep her here and to keep the others from overhearing. She approached on my right side, so I must release my sword to do it. He felt his exhaustion beckon him back to the land of slumber and forced it down with an iron will. Holy God, give me strength and safeguard me! Before the pony could react, he poured his remaining strength into his arm and grasped her by the back of neck, pulling her close so that they were eye-to-eye. In the Latin tongue, he began the prayers of command, that any demons present might have no power, and so that he might know the truth. “” he whispered.

Applejack honestly wasn’t sure what to expect when the strange creature beckoned her over. She wasn’t even sure how he knew her name, though she reasoned that perhaps more of the Crusaders’ speech had gotten through than anypony would have guessed. She tipped her hat back respectfully when she reached him. “What is it, sugercube?”

She didn’t see him move. One moment he was lying there, looking like he was on death’s door, and the next his hand was clenched around the back of her neck and yanking her head close so that her vision was filled with his piercing, icy-blue eyes. She almost yelped, though from shock rather than pain. He hadn’t hurt her at all, but his grip was like that of a vice. Before she could process what had happened and consider escaping, he began to whisper, speaking as one with authority. Like Celestia, a detached part of her supplied. “Iesus Christus Dominus…” he began.

Though he continued on for some time, those were the only words that she managed to process. An’ I didn’t even understand that! It sounds kinda like that fancy talk from Prance, but I don’t speak that neither! She glanced at Twilight for support, but the unicorn was keeping her eyes forward, either unable to hear the whisper or too focused on getting the creature to the hospital to divide her attention. For Applejack’s part, it was all she could do not to try to duck out of his grip as she was pulled along with him. Her survival instincts told her to escape but, for whatever reason, she didn’t. Perhaps she was mesmerized by the oddity of the moment, or perhaps it was because she didn’t want to hurt the creature that had saved her sister’s life. But she didn’t dare move away. Ah only wish Ah knew what he was sayin,’ she lamented. An awful thought occurred to her. O, Celestia, Ah hope it ain’t a last will an’ testament! Not in front o’ Applebloom! Not after what he did fer her!

Then, after what might have been minutes or seconds, he stopped. His hand trembled, and he released her. But his eyes did not turn away. If anything, he looked more intense. “What is your name?” he asked in accented Ponish.

Applejack blinked. Didn’t he just call me over by mah…? “Applejack,” she answered automatically.

“And have you always been a pony?”

Have Ah always been a— “O’ course I have!” What kind of silly—

“Is there a witch or demon or any sort of devilry in these parts?”

“Um, er, not any that Ah’m aware of, but—

He asked several more questions of the same nature, all concerning how she’d come to be, whether or not there were spirits or curses at play, where she had come from, and like matters. While his questions were too quiet for the others to hear, Applejack’s responses certainly weren’t, and her friends’ stares became increasingly astonished with each passing moment. For her part, the befuddled earth pony simply answered as best as she could, but towards the end she saw the creature’s head swaying back and forth as though he were about to lose consciousness again. Having answered so many questions of his, she tried to ask one of her own. “Um, beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but, what in the hay is goin’ on?”

The creature sagged back against the stretcher and his eyes rolled heavenwards. He opened his mouth to respond and she leaned in to hear, hoping for some clarity. “Je ne sais pas. Demandez à Dieu,” he breathed. At which point he passed out.

Author's Note

Antiquarian is not responsible for any Mood Whiplash you may experience from reading ‘A 14th Century Friar in Celestia’s Court.’

In case anyone was confused about Jacques worrying about heads being covered/not covered in church, here’s the explanation: in the Catholic tradition (and most other Christian denominations), men are supposed to have their heads uncovered in church as a sign of respect. Until Vatican II, women were supposed to wear coverings on their heads in church, again as a sign of respect. I could try to explain why the distinction exists, but I thought I’d let this article from Fashionista magazine do it for me, since they interviewed a number of young Catholic women who are bringing the trend back. They’ll explain it better than I could.

Edit: Also, as Time Reaper noted (thanks, Time), only prostitutes had their heads uncovered in the biblical era in places like Rome. Headcover meant you weren't a prostitute, which is an important thing to establish, really.

It has been noted by at least one reader that blood loss of this kind is nothing to sneeze at, especially since he's passed out twice now. I am aware. Explanations for how he's clinging to life and periodically waking up will be forthcoming. I have a plan.

And that’s about it for housekeeping and clarifications. Yup, nothing else to cover. No way any of you could possibly be confused about anything else. Gonna just leave and…

…

…I should explain that bit with Jacques and AJ at the end there, shouldn’t I?

Okay. Here’s the short version. In the Catholic tradition, a priest is chiefly concerned with the health of their congregation, in particular their spiritual health. A considerable part of this emphasis on spiritual wellness is about sussing out any spiritual dangers and helping that person heal. Most of the time this takes the form of helping the person with minor sins, bad habits, and addictions (both minor and severe). In extreme cases, this means determining whether an exorcist is needed. Without getting too technical, Fr. Jacques was acting in the office of the priest to determine if AJ was under the influence of any spirits/demons/etc in any form or degree. There are prayers that priests (especially exorcists) are trained to use in these sorts of scenarios to prevent demons from lying to them. Friar Jacques, as an experienced priest, is doing what he feels is necessary to fulfill his purpose and see to the spiritual health of the people of this new land; it’s essentially become his ‘parish’ to his way of thinking. Thing is, since there were no curses or hexes or anything at play with AJ, nothing showed up on his spiritual radar. Which leaves the poor man with a rather unexpected reality shift and about sixteen different flavors of questions :applejackconfused: . But, at least it wasn’t a total waste of time for him. After all, now he knows what she isn’t, which is in many ways his first step into this new world.

Once he stops passing out from blood loss, that is…

EDIT: It should be noted that The Killer Joke was inserted as a reference to the comic The Killing Joke (which is excellent) and not the movie (which sickens me). Fans were very excited to hear about the movie, but it was so offensively bad that the hype died essentially the same day that it came out. I'm not sure I've ever seen a movie die that hard, but it deserved it. The comic (though dark) is worth reading for Batman fans. The movie is worth forgetting.

Fancy Words

Even with her sensitive pony ears, Twilight was straining to pick out more than a smattering of words from the strange creature. But what she had heard had shocked her. He’s speaking in Pony Latin, she realized with shock. Quite fluently, in fact. And what he’s saying sounds almost like… like… she couldn’t quite put her hoof on it, but for some reason she thought of Celestia.

Then he began speaking in modern Ponish, and her mystification grew. She could scarcely hear anything he said now, as his voice was growing steadily weaker, but she certainly heard Applejack’s responses. Asking if she’s always been a pony… were his people overrun by changelings? Is that why he’s so paranoid? And now he’s asking after witchcraft and curses… what has this creature endured? Perhaps their whole land is overrun with such things, and that’s why he is so adept at battling evil enchantments! I wonder if—

“Um, beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but, what in the hay is goin’ on?”

“Je ne sais pas,” replied the creature weakly.“Demandez à Dieu.” And with that his head sagged to the side. Twilight’s heart skipped a beat.

Applejack’s ears fell flat. “Woah, nelly! Tell me he didn’t just—

Fluttershy zipped in and checked his pulse. “Weak and thready, but still there,” she reported.

The others breathed a sigh of relief. Applejack trotted back beside Twilight. “Well, all the same, we’d best pick up the pace. He ain’t got time for us to be gentle.”

Twilight used her magic to keep her end of the stretcher moving while she shifted the makeshift harness back over to Applejack. The party once more lapsed into silence, but it didn’t last long. Partially to keep everypony’s minds occupied and partially to satisfy her own curiousity, Twilight pressed Applejack for details about the conversation. “What all did he say to you, AJ?”

“Did he say his name?” asked Pinkie Pie.

“Or where he hails from?” added Rarity.

“Or where he got that sweet sword?” interjected Scootaloo.

Applejack shook her head. “Truth be told, ya’ll, I didn’t follow much o’ what he was sayin.’”

“Well, for the first part he was speaking only in Pony Latin,” said Twilight. Stares greeted her comment.

“Pony whatnow?” demanded Applebloom.

Twilight blinked. What do they teach in schools these days? “Pony Latin. The common language of the old Roanan ponies of modern Bitaly, as differentiated from Crystal Latin, which was exclusive to the Crystal Empire.” Heads nodded all around at her explanation, but Applejack just glared at her. “What?”

“You knew he was speakin’ Fancy and ya’ll didn’t say nothin?’” demanded the farmpony angrily.

The unicorn blushed and sputtered over her response. “Well…I…you were just listening so intently… well…I- I just assumed that…well…”

Applejack gave her a flat stare. “Twi,” she began, talking slowly, as though speaking to a child. “Why in the hay would I speak Pony… Latin?”

“Big Macintosh does,” piped in Pinkie.

“What?!” exclaimed four mares and three fillies.

“Yeah,” giggled Pinkie, glancing over her shoulder at them. “Macky knows lots and lots of languages, sillies!” She tilted her head. “Didn’t you know that?”

Twilight couldn’t help but blink as her worldview was upended. Big Mac knows Pony Latin… and apparently other languages too… and yet he never talks. A thoughtful smile spread across her lips as she wondered if she could manage to change that. It’d certainly make for an interesting letter to the princess!

A swat of Applejack’s tail brought her back to the present. “Focus, Twi. We’ll deal with mah secretive brother later. If’n ya’ll heard what he was sayin,’ what was he sayin?’”

The unicorn shook her head. “Sorry, Applejack, but I only caught snippets here and there. But from what I did hear it sounded like he was doing Curatrix magic.” Applejack just cocked her eyebrow and Twilight took the hint. “It’s the kind of magic used to locate and banish Dark Magic.” That’s a gross over-simplification, but it will do for now. “My best guess is that the people in his homeland must have to fight off a lot of evil magic-users.”

“So, um, could they have done something to him?” asked Fluttershy. “Is that why his magical field is… well… um… strange?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Well,” observed Rarity, “perhaps somepony from the foreign office will know. That was the language of Prance that he was speaking there at the end,” she declared, referring to one of the pony nations that lay outside Equestria proper.

“Ooooooh!” exclaimed Pinkie. “The home of Fancy Talking! You speak the lingo, Rarity! What’d he say?! What’d he say?!” Somehow she managed to bounce in her step without disturbing the stretcher.

“It was hard to hear for sure,” admitted Rarity, “but it sounded like he said, ‘I don’t know, ask Dieu.’”

“Dieu,” repeated Twilight. “Is that a common Prench name?”

Rarity shook her head. “Not one that I’m familiar with, darling.”

As they’d trotted, the trees around them had gradually thinned out until they broke through into the unbridled afternoon sun of the fields around Ponyville. They were greeted by a welcome sight: an ambulance cart pulled by two stallions on a nearby pathway, and the anxiously hovering figure of Rainbow Dash. The moment she saw them, the mare shouted, “Hey, slowpokes! Get a move on!”

“Thank Celestia,” laughed Twilight. “Things are looking up!”

Ponyville General, Ponyville.

Things were not looking up.

Redheart had to give it to Twilight and her friends: they’d done a good job getting the strange creature here in the best condition possible under the circumstances. But that’s the only thing that’s gone our way.

Initially, matters had progressed in a fairly standard fashion. It was true that they hadn’t found anything about this bizarre, robe-wearing primate in any of Zecora’s rather impressive notes, but using medical charts for several kinds of simian creatures the hospital staff had been able to at least make educated guesses. They’d removed the creature’s outer garments and possessions and stacked them on a nearby table for safekeeping. Cold spells had been applied to slow any residual bleeding while Nurses Needle and Thread ensured that his wounds were properly disinfected and stitched up. Doctor Stable had done a basic scan of the primate’s organ structure while Nurses Redheart and Medevac had connected the machines to monitor his vitals before preparing the blood replicator.

And that’s when the trouble started.

The primate hadn’t flinched at all when the needles had gone in, which Redheart wanted to interpret as indicative of his hardiness rather than a sign of nerve damage. He certainly has enough scars, she’d thought at the time. Likewise the creature hadn’t moved when they hooked up the sensors to monitor his vitals and magical field, nor when they put in the probes that would determine the composition of his blood and replicate a synthetic replacement.

No, it’s when we turned them on that he started twitching like he was in a nightmare. Which, had that been the whole of the problem, would only have been mildly disconcerting. But that wasn’t the whole of it.

“I don’t understand!” fumed Dr. Stable. “It’s like he’s resisting the magic in the machines! We can’t read any of his vitals, and the blood replicator won’t work without a reading!”

“Twilight told us he has a peculiar magic field,” observed Medevac. The lanky stallion’s back hoof was a metal prosthetic, and he tapped it in a steady rhythm against the floor as he pondered the situation. “Maybe it just reacts badly to pony magic.”

Stable shook his head with a grimace. “No, that’s not it. If that were the case I wouldn’t have been able to scan him to create a diagram of his organs.”

Redheart walked over to the monitors to study the feeds herself. “It’s not just a passive resistance, either. He’s reacting to it as though he’s fighting something off.”

Medevac shook his head. “Twilight did say that he managed to permanently kill five timber wolves. Maybe it’s a survival trait in the land he’s from.” He regarded the unconscious being. “It doesn’t look like this is the first time he’s been cut up like this, if the scars are anything to go by. I’d say he’s from a hardy species, if nothing else. First time since leaving the Corps that I’ve seen scars like these on any creature.”

With a sigh, Redheart stepped back over to the operating table. “Maybe the sensors just need adjusting to get through the interference. They’ve acted up before, after all. I’ll try moving them around. Hope we get lucky.” The others didn’t say anything. They all knew it was a longshot.

The creature twitched each time she removed a sensor and each time she put it back down, but other than that there seemed to be no change. Then, as she went to adjust the sensors on his chest, her hoof brushed against the strange metal cross that hung around his neck.

Redheart yelped as a gnarled hand shot out and closed around her forehoof like a clamp. The creature’s icy blue eyes snapped open and bored into her, full of outrage and defiance. “Red!” shouted Medevac, jumping to her side. But before the stallion could do anything, the creature spoke in a guttural snarl.

“Libère moi, bourreau.”

The nurse’s lip quivered and everyone else in the room froze, unsure of what to do. “W-what?”

“Libère… moi… bourreau,” repeated the creature more slowly.

“Sir, please,” she replied, her training reasserting itself and steadying her voice. “I don’t know what you’re saying. Please release my hoof. We’re trying to help you.”

“Aider?” he spat. “Vous prétendez aider…” he trailed off as his eyes focused on something. At first Redheart thought it was her eyes, but then she realized it was her hat. The creature frowned, as though confused. “Templier?” he muttered. Meeting her gaze he inquired. “Une femme Templière?”

“Sir, please, I…” Redheart took a deep breath. He’s scared of something. From what the Elements said, he’s scared of us for some reason. “Sir,” she said as gently as she could manage. “I’m Nurse Redheart. You’re in Ponyville General Hospital. You’ve been badly injured, but we’re here to heal you. Please, sir, let us help you.”

The creature’s face creased into a tired smile. “Ah. Une infirmière.” His head fell back against the pillow and he released her. “Pardonne-moi, bonne sœur. Merci ma,” he breathed as his eyes rolled back. “Merci ma.”

Seeing him pass out again, Redheart’s hoof flew to his neck to check his pulse. Still weak, but still steady. Thank Celestia!

Before she could report this, she was startled by the sound of beeping and a loud “Yes!” from Dr. Stable. Looking over she was greeted by the sight of the doctor beaming at her. “I don’t know what you did, Redheart, but it worked! He’s not fighting it anymore! The replicator just got a read and is getting to work!”

Sure enough, a few seconds later the IV flowed red with fresh blood. Redheart just stared, not sure how to take it all in. Unconsciously she took off her cap, the one that had so grabbed the creature’s attention, and studied it. There was nothing particularly eye-catching about it; just a plain white hospital cap adorned with her red cross-and-hearts Cutie Mark. It’s just my cap, she thought, twisting it in her hooves. So what changed?

Medevac gently pulled her back away from the table and put an ice-pack on her hoof. She hadn’t even realized it had been throbbing painfully until he did. “Nicely done, Red. How’d you manage it?”

Redheart stared in confusion at the unconscious creature, who was now resting peacefully, a gentle smile on his face. She looked over at Medevac and gave him her most convincing grin and her best guess.

“Magic?”

Twilight had resolved not to pace. It was, at best, an unproductive use of her time, and likely to leave her a little sore after the day’s intense running and hiking. At worst, it risked upsetting the others, in particular the fillies, who were already upset enough as it was.

And so Twilight had resolved not to pace.

“Twilight, you’re pacing,” admonished Spike.

“Thank you, Spike. I am aware,” she replied crossly. Darn it! Better luck next time!

The young drake had met them at the hospital, bearing with him a message from the Princess that she would find out what she could about the strange creature and ensure that any help she could send would be sent. She had also asked for further details. Twilight had distracted herself for the first hour by dictating every iota of knowledge and speculation about the beast and his origins to Spike, enlisting the help of her friends to make certain that she didn’t overlook anything. It had done a wonderful job of taking their minds off of the mysterious savior who lay in the Operating Room at death’s door.

For the first hour.

That had been three hours ago and, aside from the occasional visit by one of the nurses to ask for clarification on a specific detail, they’d had no word from the inside. To say that the waiting ponies had become quite anxious would have been something of an understatement.

Still, some handled it better than others.

“Ugh! I can’t take this anymore!” shouted Rainbow Dash, flapping into the air. “I’m going in there!”

Before she could jet off, Applejack seized her tail in her teeth and yanked her groundward. “Nothin’ doin,’ RD! For the twentieth time, you can’t go in there!”

“Nineteenth,” corrected Fluttershy from the waiting room couch.

“Why not?!” demanded Dash, as though she hadn’t been told nineteen times previously.

“Because, darling, you’ll risk spreading infection,” interjected Rarity, who had taken to coping with her stress by fashioning the waiting room drapes into a gown, much to the receptionist’s chagrin.

Rainbow huffed in offense and folded her forelegs. “I’m not infected.”

“And I’m sure you’re not, Dashie, but that’s not how infection works in this sort of situation.”

“Well, we can’t just sit here and do nothing!” exclaimed Rainbow.

Applejack rolled her eyes. “An’ what exactly do you suggest we do, RD? We ain’t doctors! Heck, the only one of us who’s got any real medical trainin’ is Fluttershy, an’ she’s already done all she can!”

“Arrrgh! I can’t just sit here! I’m gonna crawl the walls!”

No sooner had she said this than Pinkie Pie had raced across the room and pinned Rainbow in a choking hug. “Don’t do it, Rainbow!” she pleaded. “You remember last time! The doc said the crash didn’t give you super spider wall-crawling powers! And if you tried then you’d get injured and then I’d have to plan two Get-Well-Soon-Glad-You-Didn’t-Kick-The-Bucket-Parties!”

Applejack face-hoofed.

While Rainbow attempted to extricate herself from the pink party pony’s hug and said party pony attempted to explain the nature of such parties to a befuddled Rarity, Twilight looked over at the three fillies. They were seated next to Spike. The young drake had taken it upon himself to try to lighten their mood with stories about comic book heroes fighting scary monsters, and the unicorn had been very proud to see his composure as he put on a brave face for them. But as the hours had ticked by and they’d gotten no answers from the hospital staff, even Spike’s relentless efforts had proved insufficient to lift the children’s spirits.

They were huddled together quietly now, their eyes fixed on the door that lead to the O.R. Twilight remembered a time in her own life when she’d sat like that, staring in anguish at the clock while she waited for news about her brother, Missing in Action deep in raider territory some eight years ago during his time with the REF. They had been the longest hours of her life, and she hated seeing the young fillies going through it.“Spike, it’s getting close to suppertime,” she said. “Would you please take the girls home? I’m sure they need to—

“Nothin’ doing Twilight!” snapped Applebloom.

“Yeah,” added Scootaloo. “We’re the Cutie Mark Crusaders, not the Cutie Mark Deserters! We’re not leaving him here to… we’re not leaving him!”

Sweetie Belle didn’t say anything, but there were tears in her eyes as she gave a fierce nod.

Twilight looked over at the siblings, both blood and adoptive, for confirmation. Rarity opened and closed her mouth several times, and Twilight thought she detected moisture in her eyes, but, like her sister, she said nothing, but simply nodded. Applejack took a deep breath and bowed her head so that the stetson covered her eyes. “If’n you’re sure, sugarcube,” she said in a husky voice.

Rainbow Dash managed to pry herself loose of Pinkie Pie to flap triumphantly overhead. “Good on ya, Scoots!” she declared. “Never leave a friend hanging!”

‘A friend.’ The word echoed in Twilight’s mind. He jumped right in to protect a bunch of fillies in a strange land, with no thought to himself. She felt herself blinking back tears of her own. A friend in deed is a friend indeed.

Rarity cleared her throat and addressed Rainbow Dash. “Well, darling, if you’re still looking for something to do, I suppose you could take the fillies to the dining hall and gather some refreshments for us all. And, Spike, if you would be a dear and help them?”

The dragon hopped down from his seat and gave a courtly bow. “Anything for you, my lady. Come on, fillies. Let’s go get some grub.”

Pinkie giggled. “Oh, Spike, don’t get grubs! Ponies don’t eat grubs, we eat…” her voice trailed off and her eye twitched.

When nothing happened for a moment, Twilight took a step closer. “Um, Pinkie? Are you oka—

“Hrgrbrgbhrghbhrhghrrghrrrhbbbbbrrbrbrbrbrhhrbrr!” exclaimed Pinkie, which likely would have been enough to hold Twilight’s attention under other circumstances, had it not been accompanied by the horrifying visage of all of the skin on Pinkie’s face crawling at once.

Naturally, Twilight responded with a non-linguistic vocalization of her own. “GAAAH!” she screamed as she stumbled backwards in fear, accompanied by similar cries of dismay from the others.

Pinkie’s facial skin continued to crawl in a manner most unpleasant to behold for another few seconds before, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. Silence filled the waiting room. A sound of retching came from behind the receptionist’s desk, but somehow Twilight found herself unable to turn her back on Pinkie Pie to investigate. Pinkie blinked several times, then burst out into hysterical laughter, rolling onto her back in the throes of mirth. “Oh what a doozy of a doozy that was!” she giggled. “I haven’t felt that one in a while!”

The others simply stared in mute horror. Rarity was the first to find her voice. “Pinkie Pie, darling,” she managed before emitting a hurk sound and clamping a hoof to her suddenly bulging mouth. She shuddered and swallowed. “What…” she gagged, “precisely was that?”

“Um… if you don’t mind saying, that is,” added Fluttershy, who had torn her gaze away from Pinkie long enough to check that the receptionist was alright.

Pinkie bounced to her hooves. “Oh that’s easy, silly fillies. It was my Pinkie Sense a-goin’ off! And I haven’t felt that one in a while?”

Applejack took a step back from her fellow earth pony. “And… uh… what exactly was that one?”

“Why it’s my the-doctor-has-good-news-but-won’t-say-for-sure-it’s-good-news-because-they’re-bound-by-certain-legal-restrictions-tied-to-the-Hippocloppic-Oath-sense, of course,” she explained. “My face always gets all crawly when I get that.”

Rainbow Dash rubbed her eyes, as though attempting to get the image out of her brain. “We noticed, Pink.”

Twilight forced herself to look away from the cheerfully grinning earth pony and process what had just been said. “Wait, did you just say the doctor—"

At that moment the door swung open to admit a very tired looking Dr. Stable. “Hello, everypony.”

Immediately the doctor was mobbed by the gathered friends, with the three fillies leading the charge, and bombarded with more questions than any mortal could possibly hope to answer. His feeble verbal defenses could not stem the onslaught, and he was in danger of being overwhelmed by the superior weight of the attacking force until an unexpected ally arrived at his side.

“EVERYPONY STOP!” commanded Fluttershy.

Once more the room was reduced to silence, and this time there was no retching from behind the receptionist’s desk to interrupt it.

“That’s better,” smiled the pegasus. “Now, Doctor Stable, would you please tell us how our friend is doing?”

“Uh- of course,” stammered the doctor, who himself had not escaped unscathed from Fluttershy’s devastating counterattack. “Well, it’s impossible for us to make any definitive statement about the patient, since we don’t have a baseline for average health with his species, but he’s resting comfortably now. Nurse Redheart managed to get the blood replicator working, somehow, and replaced the blood he’s lost. It shut off automatically a short while ago, meaning that it has determined that his body now has the appropriate amount of blood for a creature of its type.” He took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses. “Now, I must remind you all that this is entirely a matter of educated guesswork on our part, but it is our opinion that, for now at least, he seems to be out of danger.”

Now, Twilight had resolved not to break into an unladylike celebration on the off-chance that they received good news. After all, the doctor had made it very clear that they were dealing with a new species, and as such it would be all too easy to overlook some dire health problem without a proper working knowledge of this creature’s physiology. She would allow herself to celebrate with the others, yes, but she would not leap around in a circle crying “Yes!” over and over, would not squee like a schoolfilly with new ribbons, and would not join her friends in enveloping poor Dr. Stable in a group hug.

She had resolved not to, after all.

“Twilight? I think you and the girls better let the poor guy breath,” admonished Spike.

A short time later the group found themselves in the dining hall, chatting happily as they collectively pretended to enjoy what the hospital referred to as ‘food.’ Dr. Stable had outright forbade them from visiting the creature until he regained consciousness, but had promised to send an orderly by to collect them all when he did. Most of the others contented themselves with speculating how best to celebrate his recovery, ranging from a new ensemble to replace his ‘drab old rags’ to a lifetime supply of apples to front row tickets to the Sonic Rainboom Blitz Extravaganza (trademark pending) to a Welcome-To-Equestria-Thanks-For-Saving-The-Fillies-Your-Magic-Is-Weird-But-We-Love-You-Anyway-Party. The Crusaders exchanged ideas about how they could get Cutie Marks in being the best Patient Recovery Wellness Support Ponies (working title) ever. Fluttershy was supportive of everypony’s ideas.

Twilight, meanwhile, sequestered herself from the conversation, and plied her mystery mound of edible matter with fork and knife in silence. External silence, that is. Internally, her mind was awash with questions. Where did this creature come from? What was he? What complications had they encountered with the blood replicator, and how had they been resolved? Why had nopony heard of this species before? What would explain his bizarre magical field? And, incidentally, where did his paranoia come from? Was his land overrun with nightmarish monsters? If so, could any of them have followed him here? And how best to combat them? With so many choices, and such worries aplenty, she didn’t actually hear what Spike said to her; only that he spoke.

“Hm?” she asked.

“I said what’s wrong, Twilight? You’ve got that face again.”

“What face?”

He folded his arms. “That face you always make when you’re wargaming every possible way something could go wrong as you descend into a near manic frenzy.”

Twilight huffed. “I do not have a face that I make for that.”

Spike chuckled as he crunched his way through his soup. The unicorn tried not to wonder why it crunched. “Whatever you say, Twilight. Just don’t get yourself worked up over nothing. You haven’t even spoken with the Princess yet to see if she’s turned anything up.” He bent to take another bite, at which point his eyes crossed and he clamped his claws over his mouth, his cheeks bulging as he emitted a hurlp noise.

“Fire in the hole!” cried Pinkie Pie, pulling a green helmet from nowhere and slapping it onto Twilight’s head as she tackled the poor mare to the ground. “Incoming!” There was a belch and a burst of green fire, and a scroll appeared in midair, bouncing off of Twilight’s helmet on the way to the ground. “Oh!” exclaimed Pinkie with a laugh. “It’s just a letter from the Princess!” She jumped back to allow her friend up. “My bad! I thought that Spike’s tummy had decided to sound general quarters and repel all boarders.” She poked experimentally at her bowl of toast. “Can’t say I’d blame it.”

Rarity glanced over at the bowl of toast with a suspicious look on her face before asking, “Sweetie Belle, darling, by any chance have you and your friends been trying to get your Cutie Marks in making hospital food?”

“No. Why?”

“No reason.”

Twilight ignored them and stood, unfurling the scroll with her magic and reading the contents. It didn’t take long. There were only eight words:

My dearest student,

Meet me out front.

~Celestia

“Pack it in, girls. The Princess is out front!”

“What?!”

“She’s here? Now?”

“I haven’t a thing to wear!”

“Shift it, ladies!”

Nine ponies and one dragon hustled out the door just in time to see Celestia descending from the sky in a chariot pulled by four stallions.

But they weren’t alone. A half-dozen other chariots arrived in formation with her, each carrying a mixture of soldiers from the Solar Guard, the Lunar Guard, and the Royal Expeditionary Force. Twilight gaped at the sight. “What in Equestria…?”

The chariots landed a little distance away and disgorged their occupants, some forty-odd soldiers in number, who swiftly took up a defensive formation around Celestia. Why all the guards? And why the Lunar Guard and the REF? Two Expeditionary soldiers, a lavender unicorn mare and a brick red stallion, stepped to the Princess’s side. The stallion looked vaguely familiar to Twilight, and she put it down to her brother’s time in the REF. He was a rather large specimen, nearly Big Macintosh’s size, with russet hair, a heavy variant of the standard REF armor, and a sizeable maul. The unicorn she recognized as one of Shining Armor’s friends from his Academy days. What’s Argent Sabre doing here? she wondered as her friends whispered to one another.

Argent and the earth pony saluted Celestia. “What are your orders, Your Highness?” the unicorn asked, her voice carrying far enough that Twilight and the others had no trouble hearing her.

Celestia cocked an eyebrow at the assembled soldiers and gave a dry smile. “I think perhaps it would be best not to bring everypony inside the hospital, Captain. Perhaps have the majority secure the perimeter while you and a chosen few accompany me.”

“Very good, Your Highness. First Sergeant Brick?”

“Ma’am?” asked the stallion in a voice that suggested that he gargled gravel every night before bed.

“Take three squads and secure the perimeter. And please do ensure that the candidates perform well for Her Royal Highness.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The stallion turned and addressed the troops with a stentorian roar. “C Squad! D Squad!” Two squads of mixed Solar and Lunar Guards snapped to attention. “You weak-livered, miserable excuses for enlisted ponies will be securing the perimeter! You will not spend any time making daisy chains or playing with fru-fru dresses or doing anything else that you misbegotten mewling stacks of worthless crud do when you aren’t standing perfectly still guarding the Royal Privy! Under the watchful and oh-so-judgmental eye of B Squad, you dregs will be sealing up this perimeter so tight that a butterfly’s fart will not be able to get in without my explicit say-so! Is that understood, maggots?!”

“Yes, First Sergeant!”

“Then get moving!”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the two mixed squads, along with one squad of REF regulars, dashed off to secure the perimeter.

Reactions to the sergeant’s manner were mixed. Rainbow Dash and Pinkie Pie were laughing outright, along with the three fillies. Applejack was trying to rebuke the children for their laughter, but was too busy holding back chuckles of her own for it to have much effect. Twilight and Spike had grown up in a garrisoned city, and as such were more taken aback by Brick’s demeanor in the presence of the Princess than by the words themselves. Spike was amused, while Twilight was horrified. Fluttershy hid behind her mane and murmured ‘oh my.’ Rarity fainted outright.

Captain Sabre sighed and put a hoof to her forehead. “Princess Celestia, please accept my sincere apologies for my First Sergeant. He was dropped as a child you see.”

“Twice, Your Highness,” confirmed Brick calmly.

“Brick, apologize to Her Royal Highness for being an uncouth barbarian of a stallion.”

“Your Highness, I apologize for being an uncouth barbarian of a stallion.”

For a moment, Celestia didn’t reply, but simply stood there, her sides shaking. Twilight worried that her mentor might be having some sort of fit, but eventually the diarch found her voice and said a touch shakily, “That’s quite alright, Captain, First Sergeant. I can certainly appreciate the need to… ahem… test the personalities of soldiers before acclimating them into the REF.” She emitted a sound that might have almost been a snort of laughter, but Twilight dismissed the notion. There was nothing funny about what just happened, she thought crossly. The Princess gestured towards the hospital. “Shall we?”

Argent nodded and led the remaining squad of REF ponies forward, keeping Celestia in the middle. Brick stayed behind to command the perimeter. As soon as the diarch was close enough, Twilight and the others bowed. “No need for that, my friends,” smiled the alicorn. “Today is an informal visit, after all.”

Applejack tipped her hat to the Princess. “Beggin’ your pardon, Your Majesty, but that there’s an awful lot o’ security for an informal visit, if you don’t mind my sayin.”

“These are unusual circumstances, Miss Applejack,” said Argent, who kept glancing around as though she were afraid an attack might come from the shadows at any moment. She did spare a glance at Twilight and her dragon companion. “Miss Sparkle, Spike,” she said with a quick smile. “You’re looking well.”

“You too Argie, er, I mean, Captain Sabre,” replied Twilight. She blushed at her own breach of protocol. The captain smirked, but said nothing. Twilight turned her attention to her mentor. “I’m sorry, Princess, but why do you have so many guards?”

Celestia gave an odd smile. “Well, I come bearing important cargo, of course.” Her horn flared and a comic book appeared, dropping into Spike’s claws.

“Awesome! Thanks, Princess!” exclaimed the young drake.

“You’re quite welcome, Spike,” she chuckled. “Though you’re lucky it came to me and not Luna. She’s been waiting for that comic for months.” Celestia swept past Twilight on her way inside, but bent down to whisper in her student’s ear as she did. “You may want to keep a closer eye on the age ratings of his comics, though.”

Twilight shot a quick glance back at Spike, who was already eagerly turning the pages of The Killer Joke, but shook her head forcefully before she could think about it. Enough time for that later. “Forgive me, Princess, but we didn’t expect you to come in person, let alone with all these soldiers, and the REF at that and…well…this is all very strange, Princess.”

Celestia did not slow in her march inside, and the others were forced to catch up or be left behind. “Indeed it is, my faithful student. And it is likely to get stranger yet. Come along, all of you. We have much to discuss.”

Author's Note

Well, I just keep teasing you all with Jacques' peculiarities, don't I? Answers soon. Promise! :pinkiehappy:

Otherwise, Twilight might come for me... :twilightangry2:

Old Warriors

The Crystal Empire, one thousand and twenty-five years ago…

Smoke choked the skies above the Crystal Palace, a mingling of the fires of war and of the odious presence of the Dark Magic that permeated the very air around the place. So thick and vile was the cloud that not even the strongest of the massed pegasi legions could puncture its cloying embrace. It was impassible.

At least, to normal ponies.

Two streaks of light, one a radiant white-gold, the other a vibrant stellar blue, shot through the inky blackness like the arrows of heaven, punching through the crystal walls of the palace as though they were but glass.

Celestia reined in her power, bringing herself to a halt in a landing that cratered the floor of the throne room. Her red-gold armor shone like a living flame even in the dimly lit interior. In her forehoof she held aloft her glaive, a mighty weapon of ivory and gold that seemed to burn with a righteous fire in her grasp. “SOMBRA!” roared the solar diarch. “SHOW THYSELF!”

The Royal Canterlot voice boomed throughout the castle, sounding an echo that drowned out the distant sounds of battle, a challenge to the architect of this violence to stand and meet his fate.

It was a challenge that went unanswered.

Luna stepped forward out of her own crater, a black-hilted sword twisting in her magical aura. “It would seem the pretender has run off to cower in some dark corner,” spat the younger alicorn, brushing a piece of rubble off of her midnight-colored armor. Her eyes narrowed. “I do so look forward to dragging him out of it.”

A rumbling chuckle shook the great hall, as shadows crept into the room from every edge and alcove. “Not likely, little Light-bringer,” taunted a voice that seemed at once to be everywhere and nowhere.

Celestia scanned the room around her, seeking to spy the mad tyrant, but her search was in vain; the shadows concealed all. She powered her horn and began using her Light to create a haven in the Darkness, trusting her sister to do the same. “It’s over, Sombra!” she called out. “Your cultist armies are routed! Your slaves are freed! Surrender now and we shall spare your life!”

Luna hissed at that, shooting her sister an outraged glance. Celestia just shook her head warningly. We must bring this to as swift a resolution as possible.

“Freed, you say?” laughed Sombra. “A bold claim, Celestia. You think that you can come into my Empire, into my castle, and undo my hold as easily as that?” His mirth boomed through the castle as the shadows clogged every nook and cranny around the sisters’ twin lights. “Tell me, when you removed their armor and broke the enchantment that bound their minds to my direct control, did they look relieved? Happy? Or were they rather vacant…?”

The voice came from behind and the sisters spun, weapons ready.

“Terrified…?” asked the voice from the left.

Again the alicorns tensed.

“Enthralled?” asked the voice from the front.

Luna and Celestia aimed their weapons at the last source of the voice and the latter used her magic to dispel the illusion, revealing a silhouette in the shadows before the throne.

The silhouette spoke. “You see, my spell does not bind them merely by the armor, but by their very flesh.” Sombra’s bared fangs glinted even in the darkness. “My curse is upon them, and even alicorns will not be enough to break my hold on them.” He took a step forward and the throne room resonated at the touch of his hoof, the shadows at the edges of the light forming tentacles that swayed and danced at the sound. “They are chained.” Another step. Another tremor. “Manacled.” He stepped to the edge of the light, revealing his sadistic form in full as he leered with utmost cruelty. “Mine.” The tentacles snapped forward.

The Royal Sisters snapped into action. A combined shield spell burst outward from them, scorching and dispelling the first wave of strikes as though they were nothing more than a mist. The second wave of tentacles formed into dark crystal spikes that shot at the two alicorns with the force of stones in a hurricane, but they did not find their targets. Lofting to their wings, the pair avoided the bulk of the attacks, while precision magic beams and swift blade-work annihilated the rest.

Nor did they remain only on the defensive. Even before the last of the projectiles was destroyed, Luna shot forward, slicing through the air at Sombra. The unicorn swept backwards, the shadows carrying him away with unnatural swiftness. But his respite did not last long as Celestia’s glaive came down to split his skull. Once more, he barely evaded the attack, and the alicorn’s strike sent a searing line of fire through several floors of crystal. “Tch,” snorted Sombra as he responded with a flurry of crystal shards. “Take care not to scratch my home too badly, Celestia.”

“Viper!” she snarled, stabbing at his chest.

The battle raged across the throne room. Sombra’s ability to wield the shadows and crystals as an extension of himself let him attack from every angle, sending out tendrils of dark power that would alternatively attempt to trip or ensnare the sisters or else expand into crystals to bleed and bludgeon them. The alicorns, for their part, used their wings to evade many of his attacks, and their magic and weapons to block and shatter those which they could not dodge. More than once Sombra’s tentacles would manage to latch onto one of the princesses, only for them to burn his magic away with their own. Sometimes it flowed from their horns; other times it simply seemed to emanate from them. It was this last development which came to vex Sombra.

“What is this power you wield?” he roared as Celestia rid herself of his grasp a third time. “Why do you not become chained as the others?”

“Did the Fell Beast that promised you this magic not tell you?” asked Luna, a hint of mockery in her voice. “Did it not explain that there are old magics, far older than yours, the first of Creation, which set aright all things perverse and wicked?” She leveled her blade at him. “Your pact you made foolishly, Sombra. And, unless you wish to die for your error, you ought to take my sister’s remarkably generous offer.”

Sombra hissed, but before he could speak, Celestia strode forward, glaive held at her side. “It’s not too late, Sombra. You can still end this here and now.” She gestured around her to the shattered throne room. “Look around you. Is this really the power you were promised? A failed conquest and a shattering defeat? These shadows have bound you as readily as they have bound the Crystal Ponies.” She held out a hoof. “Release your grip on them and submit yourselves to us. Let us unshackle you.” Her voice dipped. “You needn’t become a shadow yourself.”

The false king’s eyes narrowed. “Really, Celestia? Do you think mere words will convince me to give up the greatest power in the world?” He snorted with contempt. “You make for a poor jester, Celestia, as I am unamused.” His face twisted into a grin. “Perhaps you’ll be more useful as a wall decoration.”

“Tia! Look out!” shouted Luna as she cannoned into her sister. The crystal spike had come from behind, flung by the shadows like a spear. Luna’s tackle prevented it from striking Celestia in the spine, but in doing so the lunar diarch took the javelin in her side. She screamed in pain as it punched through her armor and sent her crashing to the ground.

“Luna!” cried Celestia, throwing up an instinctive shield around them as more tendrils shot out. They impacted off the ward as iron upon iron, sending sparks in all directions, creating a cacophony of light and sound as Celestia cradled her sister. “Luna! Speak to me!”

The younger alicorn coughed, spraying blood on Celestia’s golden chest plate. “Miserable Fell-spawn!” she spat, sending a hate-filled glare at the leering Sombra.

“Did you really think I’d let go so easily, little foal?!” roared Sombra as his attacks intensified.

“Arrogant little puppet, isn’t he?” snarled Luna. She shot a glare at her sister. “And you wanted to reason with him.”

“Did you imagine that I would relinquish my slaves at your whim?!”

Celestia stroked her sister’s mane. “The time for reasoning is over, little sister. He has made his decision.”

“I did not merely bargain with the Masters of the Shadows!”

“And now he shall meet the consequences of it.”

“I am one!”

Celestia forced a weak smile. “Together, little sister?”

Luna gave a crooked grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The two alicorns closed their eyes, and Celestia felt the world slow around her. It always did whenever she connected to the gift that was older than she. It was a power that came from Creation itself, a blessing of the Source. It was many things. Optimism. Charity. Compassion. Integrity. Devotion. Friendship. It was all virtues; all measures and aspects of Harmony. In a word, it was Love. And of that Love was an Order, which was intended to set all things in their proper places, to mend that which was broken, to expose that which was septic, and to heal that which was wounded. The Sages referred to the application of this last aspect as the practice of Curatrix magic. Its role was to cleanse the scars upon Creation.

And that’s exactly what Luna and Celestia intended to do.

Their wings spread, and with a single flap both sisters were carried into the air. Celestia was aware of the Dark Magic in the room, its exact form and shape, though her eyes remained closed. She saw it for what it was: a foul twisting of magic, born of things fallen and shameful. It sought to crush her, grasp her, consume her. But she was unafraid, and let the shield surrounding them fall away as a fire burned deep within her and her sister. Sombra’s tentacles snatched at them, but such radiance burned from the two that the dark tendrils were incinerated on contact.

“Impossible!” he roared as Celestia’s and Luna’s horns surged with energy, coming close together. “I will not be denied my dominion! I will not be denied—"

The horns touched.

A surge of power smote the false king like the wrath of Heaven. He bellowed in unspeakable agony as the banishing magic sought to drive the wicked shadows from the mortal plane. But, even in his pain, he would not relinquish them. Celestia felt a twinge of pity, knowing that he would be dragged down to damnation with them, but she steeled her heart against any hesitation, knowing that it was beyond her ability to change his heart. She felt a tear in his flesh as the unicorn was ripped apart, but still he clung to the Fell shadows. Not only that, but he reached out with them. He sent his shadows outwards, as though grasping at the distant strands of a web, and even as his body was disintegrated she felt him tug at the web. A web that almost resembled…

Merciful heavens, no!

She tried to stop, to redirect the power to aim it at the spell that was his final act of spite. But it was too late. Her aim was sluggish, as though restrained by bonds. There was a jolt that wrenched though her as though she’d been caught by a bolt of lightning, a noise like the wailing of thousands, and an earth-shattering crack that shook the very mountains.

Then she was falling, blind, deaf, and numb…

…an impact…

…blackness.

“Princess Celestia!”

Gone….

“Princess Celestia!”

My fault…

“Your Highness!”

Celestia jolted upright at the voice in her ear. She looked up to see a trio of unicorn knights shaking her, worried expressions clear even behind their visors. At her wakefulness they all sagged with relief. “Oh, thank heavens,” laughed the foremost knight. “We thought you’d been injured in the fall. You were hundreds of feet up—"

Luna! “Luna! Where’s Luna?!”

She whipped around as her sister coughed behind her. “Right here, dear sister,” groaned the other alicorn. “They had less trouble rousing me than you.” She grunted as an earth pony monk pulled the spear out and began dressing the wound. “Probably the pain,” she quipped as her blood dripped out on the snow.

Snow… realized Celestia. She looked around and saw the combined army of the Three Tribes stumbling around in the snow, officers looking as though they were trying to do a head-count as ponies moved through the drifts of… snow… why is there snow if we’re…

“The Crystal Empire! How did we… did it… where…?” Tears formed in her eyes as she shot a helpless look at her sister. “The banishment… I felt him tug at a web… it…”

Luna stared at the ground. “A parting gift from Sombra,” she murmured. “A final curse. One that bound the Empire to him. When he was turned to shadow…” she gestured around her mutely.

Celestia trembled. “N-no, he couldn’t have. We couldn’t have…we…” The tears rolled freely down her cheeks. “We…” she clenched her eyes shut. “Noooooo!” she shrieked, pounding the earth with her hoof and sending a tremor through the land in her grief. “Noooooooooo!”

It was a long trip back to Equestria. Yet it was a quiet one. Nopony celebrated, and nopony was foolish enough to talk to Celestia and Luna beyond what was absolutely necessary. Equestria as a whole had known little of the Crystal Empire before the mad king’s coup, and knew nothing of what had transpired between the Royals and Sombra. All they knew was that the Empire had vanished, and Sombra with it. Equestria was safe.

But at what cost? Celestia asked herself as she stared up at the sky from the balcony of her castle.

The home she shared with her sister was empty save for the two of them, the servants, and a small number of guards from each of the three races assigned to the diarchs as a show of solidarity. The rest of the army had already split off, each lord and officer taking his troops back to his own lands. Celestia had not been sorry to see them go. She hadn’t known how to face them, even if they didn’t know what had truly happened.

She didn’t look up at the sound of the hoof-falls beside her. “We should have looked closer,” she said aloud. The listener did not answer. “We should have seen the curse. If we had, we could have broken it before banishing Sombra. But our rage at his transgressions blinded us, and thousands paid the price for our maddened haste.”

For a moment, Luna didn’t say anything, but simply joined her sister in looking up at the stars. “We had to act,” declared the younger alicorn at length. “Thousands more would have suffered had we not. Perhaps we could have undone the curse had we known, or perhaps not. Either way, we may not have had time. Powerful as we are, even we have limits. Terrible as it was… even with our mistake it is still better than letting Sombra roam free.” She glanced at her sister. “And they’re not gone, Tia. That is not the way of the Creator, to damn the innocent with the guilty. We shall find a way to restore them.”

Celestia mulled over her words. “I know,” she said. Flexing her wings, she added, “And it’s not as though we won’t have time to do it.” Luna chuckled wryly at that.

For a time, the two simply contemplated the stars in silence. Such a beautiful night you’ve made, sister, she thought with a smile. Then her thoughts grew morose. How many more shall I see over the centuries? “Do you know something, Lu? When Starswhirl first told us that our fates were tied to the sun and the moon, that our lives would not fade due to age, I was excited. As were you, I recall.” Luna nodded. “But, after the Empire… I’ve come to realize what a heavy burden it is. To see so many years pass, and know that what peace we win will never last forever. That we will be called upon to fight again…” she glanced down at her hooves, and in the torchlight saw her own shadow next to her sisters, “and will doubtless make mistakes again. Mistakes with long consequences.” She paused. “The young daughter of Princess Amore was sent to us by the Imperial Guard for safekeeping.”

“Y-yes. What of her?” inquired Luna, seeming to be taken off-guard by the abrupt change of topic. “Are you considering some other means of protecting her?”

“In a sense. I will watch over her myself,” declared Celestia. “I will guard her and rear her as though she were my own daughter. And, should she come of age, marry, and raise children of her own, I shall watch over those children in the same way. And their children. And the children after that. And those that follow, on and on until such a day as when, in the Creator’s good time, the Crystal Empire is restored. And that descendant, if she is worthy, shall sit upon the throne.” She turned to her sister. “Perhaps we were right to act as we did in the North; perhaps not. Either way, it is our duty to see justice done to the Crystal Ponies, and I can think of no better way than in watching over their last daughter.”

Luna considered this pronouncement for a moment, then nodded. “You are right of course, sister.” She looked down at her own shadow, her eyes distant. “In all things, let justice be done.”

“Let justice be done,” echoed Celestia, feeling the night air drift across her ageless face. “No matter how many years we see, let justice always be done.”

Ponyville General, Ponyville, present day…

“…and that’s the long and short of it, Your Highness,” confessed Redheart, who was absently massaging her bruised forehoof. “I don’t know if it was what I said, what he saw, or some combination of the two, but he relaxed and the machine started working again.”

Celestia nodded. “I see. Thank you, Nurse Redheart. This certainly gives us much to consider.” There were a series of acknowledgements from around the room. Celestia and her entourage currently occupied the strange creature’s recovery room, a suite usually reserved for up to six patients, but in this case cleared out for the one. And fortunately so, thought Celestia, or else we wouldn’t all fit. In addition to the six Element Bearers, Spike, and the Cutie Mark Crusaders, the room also held Dr. Stable, Nurses Redheart and Medevac, Argent, and two other soldiers. Thank the heavens that protocol and prudence demand setting a guard at the door and sending the rest to secure the building. With seven more soldiers, I don’t think we’d all fit!

“So, if I’m understanding this correctly,” said Rarity, “he simply saw the cross on your hat and was suddenly more amenable?” Redheart nodded.

“Well, duh,” said Rainbow, who flew over to the side table where the biped’s belongings were kept and held up the bloodied robe. “This has got a cross on it too, Rarity.”

Rarity’s lip curled at the sight of the blood. “Yes, well, that cross is of an eight-pointed and more star-like design, while Redheart’s is more of a blocky construction, and that’s to say nothing of the difference of color, both the crosses themselves and the background, and who knows what nuances…”

“Ugh!” groaned Rainbow. “Who cares? A cross is a cross! I bet it’s some secret symbol from an ancient order of epic warriors! Like in Daring Do and the Last Campaign!”

“Ooh! Ooh!” squeaked Scootaloo. “And he could be like the last protector of the Sacred Grail!”

Rainbow grinned and swept over to her adoptive sibling, foreleg held up for a hoof-bump. “You got it, squirt! Up high!” *Clonk!*

Applejack rolled her eyes. “Really, Rainbow? Daring Do? This is real life here!”

Before Rainbow could retort, Twilight interjected. “Actually, Dash might not be that far off.”

“Really?” chorused Dash, Rarity, and Applejack, albeit with wildly different expressions.

“Oooooh!” gasped Pinkie Pie. “Does that mean that Rainbow is some sort of super-secret spy that hunts down ancient artifacts and uncovers magical guardians while working for Celestia?” The party pony glanced up at the diarch and flinched. “Um, hehe. Not that I’d want to blow her cover, of course.”

Celestia struggled to keep a straight face. Now there’s a thought…

Twilight didn’t even bat an eye at Pinkie’s antics. “Not exactly.” She held a hoof out to the earth pony nurse. “Redheart? May I?” Redheart tossed her hat over to Twilight, who caught it in her aura. “See, this cross is an ancient medical symbol that actually dates back to early Equestria, to a time before Celestia and Luna came to power, in fact. It hearkens to a certain Court Mage by the name of Clover the Clever who, under the tutelage of Starswirl the Bearded, discovered the Cross-Shape Protein, which I’m sure you all know the significance of.” She made as if to go on, but glanced around at the others first. With the exception of Celestia and the medical professionals, she was greeted with blank stares. “Ah. Right. Well, the CS Protein is the building block for most cells and organs in the body. Even though medical magic was too limited at the time to fully appreciate the significance of it, the discovery of this protein still advanced medical magic ahead by decades, and as such it became a common symbol of healers. Of course, it doesn’t always look like a cross, which is why some symbols resemble the snakes crossed on a winged staff, and others—"

She was cut off from a loud snore by Rainbow, who had slumped on an unused bed and was currently drooling on the pillow. Twilight grumbled under her breath while the fillies snickered. Fluttershy flapped over and jabbed Rainbow none-too-gently. “Rainbow,” she reproved quietly, “that wasn’t very nice!”

Rainbow snuffled as though just waking up. “Wha- no- I’m just- sorry, I was put to sleep by the great big dose of boring we just got!” She flapped into the air and gestured to the unconscious creature. “Twilight, this guy ripped timber wolves apart with his sheer grit and you’re going on about proteins?”

“It’s not just proteins, Rainbow,” snapped Twilight. “And if you’d let me finish you’d know that in the early days the cross wasn’t just a symbol for healers.”

“Oh?” asked Redheart, curious about the multilayered significance of her mark. “What was it the symbol for?”

Twilight was about to answer when Celestia cut her off. “Monster Hunters,” she declared casually. Instantly, she had the room’s attention. Ignoring their gazes, she walked over to stand closer to the creature, listing off titles as she did. “Champions. Guardians. Beast Slayers. Witch Hunters. Chain Breakers. They went by many names. Some were members of Martial Orders. Others were independent operatives. Still others were agents of the Crown. But the purpose of all was the same.” She reached the foot of the creature’s bed and looked down at his still form. “To protect the innocent from the dangers of Dark Magic, whether from monsters, or cultists, or… darker threats best left to history.”

Behind her, Rainbow Dash and the fillies gave chorus to an awed, “Coooool.”

Applejack, ever practical, asked, “So why in the hay did monster hunters ‘ave the same symbol as a bunch of healers?”

“Most of the first healers were monks dedicated to specific precepts of Harmony, or else were hermits like Zecora or town Reverends like Mr. Waddle,” explained Twilight, who sounded quite happy for the opportunity to teach a little history. “And it just so happens that most ponies who practiced Curatrix magic in those days were healers as well.”

Pinkie Pie snorted and began giggling madly. “Girls, can you imagine Mr. Waddle fighting timber wolves?” She fell about laughing, and the others quickly joined in.

Celestia took advantage of their distraction to study the creature more closely. He was quite unlike anything she’d ever seen before; a tall and nearly hairless primate who required clothes to maintain his modesty. His body looked to be weathered and gnarled, like an old tree that had endured many storms.

“Girls,” Fluttershy reproved the others. “It’s not polite to laugh at Mr. Waddle. I hear he used to be quite the athlete. You should respect your elders.”

“On top of which, he is a Reverend,” added Rarity. “We oughtn’t make fun.”

Adding to the imagery of the weathered tree were the scars. Celestia had not been entirely prepared for the sheer volume of the ravages. I haven’t seen such magnitude of injuries on a single body since the old days. Cuts, burns, tears, and slashes crisscrossed the entirety of his visible frame. Some were obviously the scars of combat, but it was the other old wounds that she found truly disturbing: the ones that looked calculated. Far too calculated to be the bitter fruits of battle.

“But he’s like a million years old!” Rainbow shot back. “I’ve got nothing against the guy, I just think the idea of him karate-chopping timber wolves is funny. Tell me that isn’t funny!”

“It would be quite a sight,” Twilight admitted.

Celestia hardly heard the argument as she pondered the strange being. By rights, he should have appeared broken and fragile, lying inert in a hospital bed, old and bloodied and battered. Yet there was a regality to him, a sense that his hands were not merely lying limp but rather awaiting their next task. He had a nobility in his countenance, and his grey beard and mane made his age manifest itself as a sign of dignity and experience rather than of infirmity.

“Maybe Mr. Waddle really is a secret crime-fighting karate master!” said Pinkie Pie. “Maybe he’s not really old! Maybe he’s just a really good actor!”

“Ah wonder if we could get our Cutie Marks in crime fighting,” speculated Applebloom.

The longer Celestia gazed at the sleeping figure, the more she felt a deep kinship to him. The sensation was a familiar one, though she could not quite put her hoof on why. Perhaps it was his selfless defense of the fillies. Perhaps it was her suspicions as to what the creature was capable of. Or perhaps the timing of his arrival strikes you as meaningful, Celestia.

As the background chatter droned on, Argent joined Celestia at the bedside. Rather than examining the creature directly, she began prodding at his possessions, listing them as she did. “Two books, both written in the ancient tongues; several flasks of oil; a set of beads with a cross at the end; a bottle of wine; wafers of unleavened bread; travel rations; a whetstone; a few other odds and ends…” she pulled his sword a little ways out of its sheath and studied the blade with a professional eye, “and a truly impressive weapon. Unenchanted, but impressive all the same.” Sheathing it, she glanced over at Celestia. “Given his paranoia, how he destroyed the timber wolves, and the way he spoke to Applejack, I think Twilight’s theory that his land is overrun with witches is not unlikely.”

Celestia nodded. “And, if that is the case, then perhaps the only magic his people use is specifically intended to counteract and resist outside magics.” She glanced at the heart monitor, beeping away. “It would explain much.”

“A monster hunter as of old, perhaps, showing up on our doorstep now of all times,” remarked Argent. She cocked an eyebrow. “Oddly convenient timing, wouldn’t you say, Princess?”

Favoring her with a slight smile, Celestia agreed. “Indeed I would, Captain.”

“Whadya think, Princess?” chirped Applebloom from beside her. Years of maintaining an air of unflappability were the only thing that let Celestia avoid jumping in shock at the filly’s sudden appearance. “Could we do it?”

The diarch knew better than to agree with a child without context. “Do what, my little filly?”

Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo joined their comrade. “Why, become Cutie Mark Witch Hunters, of course,” the former explained.

“Yeah!” cried Scootaloo. “That or Chain Breakers! Whichever sounds cooler!”

Celestia felt an icy pit settle in her stomach.

“Scoots, what in the hay is a Chain Breaker anyway?”

Cutie Mark Witch Hunters…do these children even know…?

“I don’t know but it sounds awesome.”

“Maybe this guy can tell us when he wakes up.”

“Totally! Then we can go on adventures together!”

Adventures… these children… I fought and bled so they’d never have to see the darker corners of the world…

“Hey, Princess, what do you think a Cutie Mark in monster hunting would look like?”

Celestia had a sudden image of the three children covered in the same scars as the old warrior. She swallowed. “I…”

“Applebloom!” snapped the elder Apple. “That ain’t no way ta talk to the princess!”

“Indeed, Sweetie Belle! You were raised better than that!”

“Hey, squirt. I got an idea. How about you not crowd the royalty, huh?”

As the elder ponies bundled their siblings away, Twilight stepped up to her teacher’s side. “Princess, are you all right?”

Celestia blinked to clear the image of the scarred children out of her mind. “I’m fine, Twilight it’s just that…” she studied the bandaged creature, “I think there are matters that it would be best to discuss without the children present.”

Argent overheard and saluted. “Your wish is my command, Your Highness. I’ll handle this. Lieutenant Song?”

One of Argent’s soldiers trotted up. She was an earth pony, with an alabaster white coat and navy blue eyes. While her helmet covered her mane, her jet black tail was a stark contrast to her coat, though the bright gold streaks in it softened the effect somewhat. She had a pleasant, open smile of the kind that makes other ponies want to speak freely with the knowledge that they wouldn’t be judged. Even in her armor she looked distinctly non-threatening. “Yes, ma’am?” she saluted.

The captain looked up at Celestia. “I don’t suppose you remember Lieutenant Morning Song, Princess?”

Celestia had seen hundreds of thousands of soldiers over the years, but she had been blessed with a good memory for faces and names, and made an effort to remember one detail about every pony she met. “The psychologist, right?”

Morning Song gave a sunny smile. “That’s right, Your Highness.” She regarded Celestia closely, then the three fillies. “Am I correct in guessing that you’d like me to sit at the kid’s table?”

Celestia raised her eyebrows. “If that’s not too much trouble, Lieutenant.”

“Happy to be of service, Princess,” beamed the soldier. She trotted casually over to the children, removing her helmet to allow her black and gold locks to flow freely. “The Cutie Mark Crusaders, right?” she asked.

Thrilled at the recognition of their title, the trio instantly broke off their argument with their sisters and gave Song their attention. “That’s us, ma’am,” declared Applebloom proudly.

“My name is Lieutenant Morning Song, but you can call me Song. All my friends do. Say, I need help with something, and I think that you three are just the fillies for the job.”

“We are?”

Song gave a musical laugh. “Why yes indeed. You see, I need to learn everything I can about the timber wolves and about our sleeping friend’s fighting style, and since you three saw it firsthoof, I’d like you to tell me everything you can about it! And, who knows, maybe you’ll get your Cutie Marks in investigation.” She winked.

The three fillies practically glowed at the prospect and began chatting excitedly to themselves. But Song wasn’t finished just yet. Turning to Spike, she asked, “And, Spike, I’m sorry to impose, but I’m a terrible note-taker, and I’ve heard that you’re the only assistant in Equestria capable of keeping up with the personal student of Celestia…”

Spike nodded in understanding and produced quill and parchment. “Say no more, Lieutenant Song. I’d be happy to help.”

Celestia watched in mute awe as Song shepherded the young ones outside without them realizing what was happening. The door closed behind them, and the silence in the room let them hear the sound of receding hoof-steps quite distinctly.

“Ooooh,” cooed Pinkie. “She’s good.”

“Ah think Ah shoulda been takin notes,” murmured Applejack.

Celestia turned to Argent and cocked an eyebrow. The captain just gave a smug grin. “I recruited her for my personal squad for a reason, Your Highness. She’s quite good at what she does, and is thorough in her work. As you may have surmised, she brushed up on their files on the way here so as to know how best to talk with them depending on the situation when we arrived. Granted, she was more thinking that they’d be traumatized rather than overly enthusiastic, but I think she managed quite well.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” sputtered Rarity. “You have files on our sisters?”

The Princess smiled. “Well, you are all heroes of the realm. Knowing about your families is simply a matter of due diligence.”

“Hah!” laughed Rainbow. “I’m so awesome, even adopted family members get files by hanging around me!”

Argent gave a dry smile. “Well, there’s that. And the small matter of Discord’s escape.”

Rarity turned a deep red while Applejack found a sudden interest in the wall and Rainbow whistled. Celestia put a hoof to her mouth to mask a chuckle.

“Um, Princess?” asked Fluttershy. “I’m so sorry to interrupt but, well, why exactly did you want the fillies to leave the room.”

The moment of levity died. Ah. Yes. That. “Well, I’m afraid we must discuss some rather unpleasant matters.” She looked over at the three hospital staffers. “If we’re to understand this creature’s physiology and origins, it’d be best to have every possible insight into him that we can. And I’d like to know your opinion about his scars.”

Redheart and Stable glanced at Medevac, who cleared his throat and stepped forward. The pegasus stallion was brown-coated, with a silver mane cut to regulation length and a prosthetic back leg. “I believe I can answer that best, Princess. I was a Medical Officer Second Class with the Royal Marine Corps. I served three tours with the 43rd Battalion at the Red Sands Garrison and, well, I’m familiar with this kind of injury.” He looked as though he were about to elaborate, but then clamped his jaw shut.

“You may speak freely, Medical Officer,” prompted Celestia.

Medevac winced. “Respectfully, Your Highness, I would recommend that all civilians leave the room, and not just the children.” Before the Element Bearers could protest, he clarified. “I know the six of you are heroes of Equestria, and I have nothing but admiration for you but… things are different over the borders. Redheart and the doc know because I told them already; the captain and the corporal there are War Dogs, so they’ve seen stuff like this before; and the Princess is, well, the Princess. But the six of you should leave.”

Rarity huffed. “My good fellow, we can clearly see the scars. We know he’s doubtless seen a lot of warfare…”

“They aren’t combat scars,” interjected Medevac quietly, but Rarity didn’t appear to hear.

“…and while the Changeling Invasion was a resounding victory for us, it’s not as though we didn’t see fighting…”

“It wasn’t from fighting,” said the former medic, and again he went unheard.

“…so while I thank you for your concern, it’s hardly necessa—"

“He was tortured, Miss Rarity,” snapped Medevac. Silence. The medic sighed and put a hoof over his eyes. “He was tortured rather brutally,” he added more quietly. “And, trust, me, you don’t want to know the details. Please, just… please just leave.”

Celestia sighed as she looked over at the six heroes. Shock and horror were stamped indelibly upon their features. Pinkie’s mane had deflated, and the party pony’s mouth was flapping open and closed as though she were trying, and failing, to say something. If Celestia had to guess, she would have thought that Pinkie was desperately trying to think of something to say to lighten the mood. She found that fact at once moving and heartbreaking. Ultimately, Fluttershy simply took her friend by the hoof and helped her out the door. Rarity had a hoof to her muzzle and tears in her eyes and seemed rooted to the spot. Twilight looked grim, and Applejack had her head down, such that her hat covered her eyes. Rainbow was airborne, as usual, but there was a tightness in her flapping.

“Well, uh… I mean,” she stammered. “I don’t wanna leave the guy hanging, and Daring Do talks about what the ancient… stuff that Ahuizotl’s followers did… and…”

“Rainbow,” murmured Applejack, her voice husky. “This ain’t a book. Ah know you’re just tryin to be here for the guy but…” she gave a shuddering sigh and kept her eyes down. “Mah folks never talked about what they saw on them relief missions o’ theirs overseas. And when they… well, after they were gone, Ah looked into it. And, truth be told, Ah wish Ah hadn’t.” She scuffed the floor with a hoof. “Ah’m gonna stay. He saved mah sister, an’ it ain’t like Ah can unhear what Ah’ve already heard ‘bout what goes on out there, but, Dash,” she looked up, and though her eyes were wet they were as inflexible as flint. “You should go.”

Rainbow opened her mouth to object, but one look at Applejack changed her mind. Looking miserable, she dropped to the ground and walked out of the room.

Only three remained. Rarity was shaking on her hooves, but tried to be brave all the same. “Well… as you said, Applejack, he saved our sisters, and the least we can do is—"

“Rarity?” said the farmpony. “Don’t.”

The fashionista stared at her friend for a moment, then nodded and followed the others out.

Twilight stepped over to Applejack and put a hoof over her withers. Celestia looked down at her student with a sad smile. “Twilight…”

“I know what you’re going to say, Princess, but I’m staying too,” answered the unicorn. “My family is sixth generation military, remember? And besides; Applejack’s not the only one who’s studied war and massacre.” She gave Celestia a smile that held just a hint of sad humor. “Remember Uncle Lance?” Celestia nodded and mentally added, rest his soul. “Well, he told me stories about the Siege of Vienhoof when I was five.”

Argent gave a dry smile. “And your mother didn’t throw him off the castle wall for it?”

“No,” smirked Twilight. “He outran her.”

Celestia ignored the exchange, and instead stared into her pupil’s eyes. You don’t want to know this, she tried to insist with her gaze. But Twilight’s returning gaze brooked no argument. Very well, my friend. She dipped her head in defeat. “Medevac, please tell us what you know.”

Medevac grimaced, but did as he was told. “Yes, Your Highness.” He strode over to the creature and gestured to several cuts. “A number of these do look to be combat scars, but that’s only a fraction of them. In all, nearly thirty-three percent of his body is covered in scar tissue.”

Twilight gasped sharply while Applejack blanched. Argent’s face twisted in a snarl and the corporal with her clenched his jaw. Stable and Redheart just looked sad. Madness, thought Celestia. What madness that we inflict such horrors on each other. “I take it that most of his scars are from torture, Medical Officer?”

“Correct, Princess." The pegasus limped over to the table. “It’s the nature of most of these cuts, and even some of the burns, that indicate this. Specific patterns to the cuts; small burns as from hot coals made in lines on his skin; slashes layered over existing slashes. And a lot of these cuts aren’t like those you see with a sword or a spear or even a dagger. They’re from blades made for the purpose of inflicting pain before death. Some look like they were made by skinning knives, the kind used by griffon hunters.” Applejack muttered something unintelligible. “That’s not the kind of thing you see in war; it’s what you see in a torture chamber.” His eyes dipped to the floor, as though he was ashamed to even speak the words. Redheart walked over and put a hoof on his shoulder. He gave her a weak smile and started up again. “And then there’s his back.”

“His back?” asked Argent, her eyes narrow with outrage.

“It’s almost entirely scar tissue. Large burns on his shoulders, some resembling burns from molten metal rather than fire.” Medevac shut his eyes. “And, yes, I know the difference. I had to treat a lot of victims and… perform a lot of post-mortems.” Redheart edged her hoof fully over his withers and pressed her side against his. He gave a vicious shake of his head and continued. “As for the rest of the scars, a few are from blades, but most I’d say are from floggings. First with canes, the sort used to punish slaves, but the later scarring… my best guess is fish hooks, Your Highness. To rip and tear flesh away.”

Medevac opened his eyes and looked in their direction, but he wasn’t looking at them. “Most of the enemies the 43rd faced off against were slavers. It’s the whole reason the garrison existed; the Saddle Arabians needed our help fighting the trade. I got to be pretty familiar with the slavers’… methods. Branding and flogging by canes was common to keep the slaves in line. But molten silver… fish hooks… I only saw that amongst the Ligers, Your Highness. And that wasn’t used to keep slaves in line or punish slow workers. It was to torture for information or, more commonly, to make an example of a dissident, to—"

It was too much for Twilight. With a sob she sprinted out of the room. Applejack just sat on her haunches, tears streaming silently down her cheeks as she muttered over again, “He saved her. He saved her.” Redheart and Stable were shaken themselves, even having heard it before.

In a way, Celestia envied them. She was horrified, of course. But it had been a long time since brutality had shocked her.

Medevac shot the diarch an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. It gives me no pleasure to say all this.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she said gently. She glanced over at Argent, who had moved over to comfort Applejack. The captain spoke soothing words to the earth pony, but her eyes held a distant and murderous glint. “I think those of us who have seen such things sometimes forget how horrible the knowledge is to one who is innocent of barbarism.” The corporal just stood stoically, staring at the unconscious creature as though standing at attention for an officer. We become numbed to the horror so that others may freely weep. Turning, she strode outside to comfort her student, promising to return shortly.

Finding Twilight was not difficult. The unicorn was sitting a little ways away, sobbing into her hooves. Celestia walked over and sat beside her student. Seeing her, Twilight shied away. “I’m sorry, Princess,” she apologized. “I- I thought I was prepared for that. I mean, I’ve read the accounts, I’ve heard the stories… I didn’t mean to start crying, I—"

Celestia folded her wing around her and pulled her into a tight embrace. “Shh, Twilight. I’m not mad at you. I’d never be mad at you for this.” After all these years, still so afraid of my disapproval, she thought with familiar anguish. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Being horrified at such evil is how a pony should react. I acted the same way when I first saw such horrors.” And I still would, if I weren’t so used to it after all these centuries. “It still cuts me to the core to see it done to any creature.”

Twilight sniffled. “I thought… I thought because I’d read the stories, I’d…but… it’s different you know? Hearing stories versus seeing someone. Someone I’ve talked to. Someone who rescued fillies from timber wolves with no thought to his own…” She looked up at her mentor, her face stricken with grief. “How could anyone be so cruel?”

Celestia wrapped her other wing around her, but said nothing. At least, not out loud. Oh, Twilight. My faithful student. Be glad that you’ve always managed to defeat your foes before they had a chance to truly show you how.

Applejack came out a few minutes later and, with Celestia, comforted the unicorn. They left to join the rest of their friends not long after that. The diarch returned to the room and heard the rest of the grisly details that Medevac knew. She’d seen such atrocities before, of course, but she hadn’t studied the wounds in the same way as the medic. And, for that, she was glad. What brave ponies I have to willingly see and fight such evil.

Once he finished, she dismissed the medical staff and the corporal, leaving only she and Argent in the room with the creature. Neither spoke for a time, and the only sound was the steady beep of the monitors and the pained breathing of the patient. It’s incredible, thought Celestia. When a creature breathes with broken ribs, I can differentiate that pained breath from other sorts of pained breaths. She gave a bitter half chuckle. The centuries have been long indeed. She gazed at the grizzled creature and wondered in a soft murmur, “"

“Princess?” inquired Argent. “Did you just… speak in Prench?”

Celestia blinked. I suppose I did. “I still know the tongue. Your ancestors would be pleased with me, eh, Argent?”

“I imagine so, Your Highness.”

Conversation was interrupted by a pained grunt from the creature, who shifted with a jolt and grimaced. The beeping from the monitors spiked as he twisted in the bed. Argent started for the door. “I’ll summon the doctors.”

“No need,” said Celestia, who sat by the creature’s side. “This is a nightmare, not a medical emergency.”

Argent appeared uncertain. “Are you sure, Princess?”

Celestia reached up a hoof and stroked the creature’s hair as gently as she could. His thrashing lessened somewhat and the beeping stabilized. “I might not have my sister’s natural talent for it, but I’ve been around a long time, Argent.” She gave a maternal smile. “He’s just an old warrior, facing his past.” She glanced at her soldier. “I’m sure you can relate.” Argent thought a moment, then nodded. Celestia returned her attention back to the patient. “I’ll stay with him a while, I think. Just to make sure. You may leave, Captain. I’ll be fine on my own.”

The captain bowed. “Of course, Your Highness.” As she turned to leave, she picked up the creature’s sword in her aura.

“What are you doing?” asked the princess.

Argent blinked. “I’m… taking the sword with me, Princess—"

“No,” ordered Celestia. “Leave it.” Even his skull has scars beneath the hair. “This warrior has lost enough.”

For a moment, it appeared that Argent might argue the point. But the captain gave an unhappy nod and returned the blade to the table before departing.

The creature continued to twitch and moan, his lips moving as though he was speaking, but no sound emerged. Celestia’s presence seemed to soothe him, but without her sister’s power she could do little else. What manner of being are you, to have suffered so much and still be a fighter? she wondered. And did Providence send you to me for your sake or for mine? His hand clenched as though gripping for a weapon, and his face frowned in defiance. Or perhaps for both?

Inspiration came to her, an old memory from an old war, where an old comrade had once prayed for the safety of the itinerant army, marching off on its sojourn to fight the evil that lurked in the wastes. His prayer had been a song, written in the tongue of his people, the same Prench that this mysterious warrior also spoke. Hoping that some measure of the song would reach him in his nightmares, she gave voice to the melody:

“<In the night may the moon shine bright to lead you.

May the strong winds brace you at your back.

May the kind sun shine upon your face,

And the rains gently nurture all your fields.

May peace follow ever in your footsteps,

And heav'n keep you safe from every foe.

And until we meet again, my friend,

May Love hold you,

Ever safe from death and ill and harm.>”

His thrashing slowed and the beeping returned to its previous sedate pace. She continued to stroke his hair. Rest well, warrior. There will be time enough for strife another day.

Author's Note

You know, I was actually going to be more graphic than I was...but that just seemed excessive. I don't have a problem with putting gore into MLP fics in principle, but I think there should be some limits.

The song at the bottom is no longer the one that I originally had here. Looking back at it, I realized that Jacques would take issue with certain elements of it, as would Celestia and Luna (it sort of deified the moon, which wouldn't fly with any of them). This new version is loosely based on the Irish Blessing (sung here), though obviously heavily modified and with addition of a couple lines. I actually like the new one better, so it works out.

The Cross-Shape Protein to which Twilight alludes is an actual thing. In our world it is called Laminin, and is essentially exactly what Twilight describes it as. It has often been said to resemble a cross, or occasionally a caduceus staff. You can interpret as much or as little meaning to this as you like, but I intend it as a face-value plot point. This was literally the only way that I could think of to explain why ponies have medical symbols similar to our own that wasn't completely contrived. It occurred to me while I was half asleep. Take from that what you will.

This chapter went through many different versions before I settled on this one, and the intro came as something of a surprise to me. It was probably inspired by the excellent fan short "The Fall of the Crystal Empire" by SFS Animation, in particular the design of Celestia and Luna's combat rig.

This chapter was also something of an experiment for me: having a room filled with sixteen ponies and doing an exposition chapter without it seeming forced. Let me know if I pulled it off; I want to improve my craft.

As a final shoutout, I've been listening to a lot of Ponyphonic's "Autumn" on repeat to help get the melancholic feel of the chapter. Check out Ponyphonic; by far one of the best musicians in the MLP community. Please support Ponyphonic and other such artists by voting with your dollars and helping them produce more content for us. (This isn't sponsored, by the way, I just really believe in voting with my dollar and supporting quality art).

Next chapter: Jacques wakes up! :pinkiehappy:

The Fire

The dungeons beneath Paris, Anno Domini 1309 …

Two men dangled from chains in the torture chamber, their skin hanging from them in shreds. The light of the brazier danced over them, casting their bloodied forms in a grim, flickering relief; a vision of the barbarism to which humanity was capable of sinking. In the dim light, the two men looked to be corpses, with only the slight rise and fall of their chests showing otherwise. Barely audible over the crackle of fire were two voices, mumbling prayers through bruised and purpled lips.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesus,” they prayed. Only the fire and the occasional drip of water accompanied their petition.

“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,” continued the darker haired of the two, “ora pro nobis peccatoribus…” he trailed off as he realized that he was praying alone. “Andrew,” he croaked through parched lips. There was no response from the other man. “Andrew.”

“Hm?” grunted the other, stirring. He tried to look over at his companion, but with one eye swelled shut and his blood-soaked blonde hair hanging over the other, he had some difficulty accomplishing this. “Wha?” He coughed on the acrid air of the dungeon. “Jacques?”

“You fell asleep,” replied the other knight.

“I did?” asked Andrew. Jacques tried to nod, but it was hard enough just holding his head up. Andrew snorted. “Well, we can’t have that, can we? Otherwise we’ll never finish this decade before our gracious host returns.” Jacques smiled. Andrew gave a wheezing laugh at his own joke, which swiftly turned into a cough. “Anyway, where were we?”

“Sancta Maria.”

There was a distant creak as the door down to the dungeons opened.

“Oops,” smiled Andrew. “Best hurry then.”

“Sancta Maria,” they chorused, keeping the fire of defiance alive as the sound of footsteps reached them. “Mater Dei, ora pro nobis,” three figures entered the room, “…peccatoribus…” one of them was the king, “nunc et in hora mortis nostrae, amen.”

King Philip IV of France stepped forward into the light of the brazier to glare upon the Templars. Called ‘the Fair,’ Philip was a handsome, dark-haired man, dressed in the finest robes and bearing himself like a man with the right to rule the earth, and perhaps the heavens as well. Jacques kept his face impassive as the monarch regarded them as beings beneath his contempt. “Praying for salvation?” he asked, his voice silky and refined.

Andrew somehow managed to contort his battered face into a defiant smile. “Perhaps you’d like to join us, Majesty. Avoid the rush when you face God for your crimes someday.”

One of the masked torturers cocked back a fist to punch the Englishman, but the king stopped him with an upraised hand. “Come now,” chided the king. “Be reasonable, Sir Andrew. After all, it is you Templars who are practicing devilry, heresy, and oh so many other damnable offenses.” His smile was that of a cat with a canary. “Indeed, most of your compatriots have already admitted to their crimes.”

“False confessions under torture,” rumbled Jacques. “And they recanted after.”

Philip brushed non-existent dust from his arm. “If that is true, then their heresy knows no bounds and their souls are surely lost.”

“Drop the act, Philip,” chuckled Andrew. “Not a soul down here but us. No clergymen or men of law to convict you for your crimes. Anything you say is just between us and God,” he gave a bloody smile, “and He already knows what you’ve done, you lying, thieving, greedy, murderous piece of tra—"

Philip gestured, and the torturer delivered a savage punch to Andrew’s gut. “Ghagh!” croaked Andrew, spraying blood over his tormenter. “Bastard!” he spat. “Have you so little fear for God that you’d beat a monk? You’d best find a priest for yourself and your master if you want to cheat Hell!” he warned.

The torturer answered him with another punch.

Seeing that he was getting nowhere with Andrew, Philip sighed and turned to Jacques. “And I suppose you also refuse to admit to your heresy?” he asked, sounding bored.

Jacques stared back in silence, refusing to speak. Andrew did for him. “Oh, sorry, Your Majesty. Is our refusal to perjure ourselves making it hard for you to get your money? Your power? Well, I’m sorry to be such a bloody hindrance to your—"

Another blow cut him off. Jacques winced. Philip rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t know how to shut up, does he?” Jacques said nothing. Philip indicated Andrew with a tilt of his head. “Will you be smarter than your friend here and tell me what I want to hear?”

Andrew looked to be about to shoot another retort and earn another blow, but Jacques cut him off with a glance. “Andrew,” he grunted. Philip’s eyes gleamed for a moment, and Jacques guessed that the king thought that he was about to perjure himself as demanded. He managed a small grin at the thought. “Cast not your pearls before swine.”

Philip’s eye twitched. Andrew blinked, then burst out into a throaty, choking laugh. Jacques, in spite of the pain in his chest, could not help but laugh with him. They continued to laugh until the torturers beat them into silence.

When they were done, Philip heaved an exhausted sigh, though as of yet he’d done nothing but deliver orders. “What a troublesome lot you Templars are,” he murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I am simply at my wit's end with the two of you.” He gestured and one of the torturers brought up a steaming cauldron. Philip dipped a ladle into it and held the contents out for the two knights to see. Within its bowl sloshed liquid metal. In spite of himself, Jacques blanched. “Molten silver,” explained the king. “A technique borrowed from the infidels.” He gave a cold smile. “I imagine you’d both rather be facing them than me.” He handed the ladle to the other torturer. “Last chance, Templars. Admit to your heresy, or face the silver.”

Jacques stared at the waiting torment for a moment, then exchanged a glance with Andrew. His brother knight gave a weak smile and a nod, saying what words could not. Though parted by chains, Jacques was comforted by the fact that they could always lean on each other. Turning his eyes back to Philip and the torturers, he spoke for both Templars, even as he prayed for strength. “Ash to ash. When your time comes, may God forgive you all.”

Philip the Fair’s face turned ugly with hate. “Power is my right, you miserable monk,” he hissed, “and the strong take what is their due.” He took the ladle from the waiting torturer. “You’re a relic of a dead era, Templar.” The ladle and its vile contents were held poised over Jacques' shoulders. The knight could feel the heat. “It’s time to bow to the new age.” Philip let loose the silver.

Jacques screamed until he could not scream anymore.

Jacques landed face-down on the cold stone of his cell, so shocked by the agony of the molten silver that even the impact of the diseased floor upon his violated flesh could not elicit a further cry of pain from him. The cell door clanged shut behind him and the two torturers departed, laughing to each other. Jacques had a vague notion that they were placing bets on his surviving the night, but he lacked the mental wherewithal to care. At this point, he would not actively resist death. A martyr’s fate would release him from this torment with his soul and his honor intact. His warrior blood kept him from rushing into the embrace of the Angel of Death, but even his fighting spirit could not make him do more than breathe shallowly as he lay broken on the floor.

His thoughts, when he had them, were for his brethren. Of the men who had been taken with him from the priory, he did not know for certain that any were still alive. Andrew was, or, at least, he had been the last time he’d seen him. But the Englishman had been unconscious as the butchers dragged him away. He’s nearly spent, thought Jacques to himself. He can’t go on like this. I need to… he didn’t know what, but he knew he could not allow his brother to suffer alone. He tried to crawl to the nearest wall to call out to his brother, hoping that, if nothing else, he would stay alive long enough to give Andrew some comfort in his final moments.

The Templar tried to brace an arm under himself to pull his ravaged body along, but he’d only pulled himself three agonizing feet before it gave out and sent him crashing helplessly to the ground. A sob escaped his lips as blood dripped from his mouth to pool on the floor. Unable to raise his head out of it, he simply let it coat his face. His body shook with the sobs, but no tears came. He’d spent too much water on blood to be able to cry. Have we truly been abandoned to this fate? Innocent men condemned for the sins of another?

“Eloi,” he croaked. “Eloi! Lama sabachthanei!”

The warrior’s instincts bade him find a weapon, and rescue his brother. But, even if the cell had been unlocked, such a thing would have been impossible; he lacked the strength to move. His fingers clawed at the ground, gripping whatever straw and filth clung to the floor. My God, I beg you, take my agony as an offering. Let it soothe the wounds of others broken under the lash. Let my dying here at the whims of a wicked man not be for nothing! Let it mean something! “I have nothing left to give,” he sobbed aloud. “Nothing but my wretched life. I wish I could offer more. I wish…” his hands clawed feebly. “I wish…”

He lay in his own blood, wracked in torment, waiting for the end. He tried to pray, but he lacked the strength to do more than to mouth, “Jesus,” over and over with an ever weakening breath as his consciousness slipped away.

Then, just as the darkness closed in to take him, he heard a soft, feminine voice singing in French. At first he dismissed it as a hallucination, the last madness of a dying man, but as the song went on, his pain eased, and he saw a rising light though his closed eyelids. His heartbeat quickened, and he wondered if an angel or the Blessed Mother had come to conduct him to his final resting place.

Behind him the door to the cell was unlocked and swung open with a creak, and at the sound the agony of his wounds subsided to a dull ache. Rolling over and sitting up, he opened his eyes, expecting to see some heavenly vision.

He was not entirely disappointed, though the manner of the apparition was not entirely expected.

Standing framed in the doorway was a great winged unicorn, gleaming with such radiance that she ought to have been as blinding to look upon as the sun itself. And yet, he found that he could look at the creature without pain. He could not make out her features through the aura of light, but her mane and tail flowed with a rainbow of color, and her eyes were as twin violet flames. She sang to him in his native tongue, and at every word he felt his body mend. There was a palpable Goodness to her so profound that he almost wept anew. He thought that surely this creature must be sent from heaven, and listened with mute awe to her song of the sun and moon.

When she finished, she simply watched him, as though waiting for something.“Wha-,” he gasped, curiosity finally overriding his reverence. “What are you?”

The unicorn did not respond, but rather turned and strode down the passage. Jacques felt compelled to follow. She led him up a twisting stair out of the dungeons. Along the way they did not encounter a single living soul. It was as though the castle was deserted. At the top they entered a small room, with a bench along one wall and a door to the other. On the bench sat Methuselah, his eyes closed as he prayed the decades of the rosary, mumbling the “Ave Marias” through his flowing beard. Though still ancient, he looked younger than he had the last time Jacques had seen him. In fact, he looked as he did the day that he and Jacques had met.

Upon their entrance, Methuselah looked up, opening his eyes to reveal chocolate brown irises that lighted upon the two of them with no difficulty. The old man’s face brightened into a toothy smile. “Welcome, my son. It is good that you have come. Too long have you tarried in that dungeon.” He patted a folded Hospitaller robe that sat on the bench beside him. “Put on your travelling cloak, for you have a great journey ahead of you.” Silently, Jacques did as he was bidden, his mind left so thoroughly in the wake of events that he was not capable of questioning what was happening. He donned his habit, finding a sword girt at his waist and sandals on his feet with no memory of having them before.

Methuselah rose and walked to the door. He opened it, and beyond was darkness. The winged unicorn preceded them out the door, lighting the path with her radiance. Methuselah gestured for Jacques to follow. The warrior took a step after them, but paused. Andrew, he thought. He looked back down into the dungeons and made as if to go back, but Methuselah’s voice arrested him. “You cannot go back,” declared the old man. “That door is closed to you now.” True enough, bars of iron now covered the way down. “What is past is past, and a chaplain must attend to the living, Father de Charrette.”

With one last reluctant look back, Jacques followed.

The world outside was utterly black, save where the winged unicorn lit the path. The ground beneath their feet was dark and barren; rock, cracked and pitted. For time beyond measure they walked through the formless land. But, as they journeyed, Jacques became aware of a Voice. It was not the winged unicorn’s voice, nor was it Methuselah’s. Rather, it belonged to a Being far older than reckoning. The Voice sang as they walked, in words that Jacques did not understand, but that filled him with such passion and emotion that he felt that if he were to understand even one word of it he would die in ecstasy. At the sound of the singing, the world around them sprung to life.

First were the lights in the sky. A brilliant golden orb drifted across the heavens, illuminating an empty world of fog and rock. It was followed shortly after by a white orb of softer light. At their passing, plants sprang up. Flower, tree, and shrub brought color to the land, and streams of water burbled through the once dry land. From the woods came the chirps of birds and the cries of animals. The music increased in volume, and the fog lifted, revealing a mountain in the distance. Though the lands around it looked different and there were no buildings, Jacques still knew that it was the same mountain where he’d seen the towers of ivory and gold.

After what may have been an instant or a millennium, they reached the summit of the mountain, where the winged unicorn and Methuselah stopped and inclined their gazes heavenward. Not knowing what else to do, Jacques did the same.

At first, he saw nothing, though with each passing moment the music rose in majesty. Then, at first in ones and twos and then in great companies, beings of light and spirit drifted down from the clouds. Some resembled the winged unicorn that had been his guide, though they were brighter than her and lacked bodies of flesh and bone. Others resembled griffons, and still others minotaurs, rams, hippogriffs, zebras, and more. As they descended, they sang in chorus. But they were not the origin of the Voice.

Jacques gasped when that figure arrived. It stepped down from the heavens as though on stairs, clad in both flesh and spirit, with white body, red hair, and eyes of fire. Power emanated from it to such a degree that it would have been kinder to compare a grain of dust to a sandstorm than to compare the winged unicorn beside him to the Voice’s origin. And yet, no matter how long he gazed upon it, Jacques could not discern its exact form. At one moment it appeared to be a winged unicorn; at others a horse; at others a lion or a minotaur. In fact, with each passing moment it appeared to be each of the passing spirits, and yet to Jacques it was as though all its many forms were simultaneously visible to him without contradicting each other. Had he been asked, Jacques would not have been able to describe truly what it looked like. But, somehow, he knew what it was.

The Source.

The Source of Goodness. The Source of Love. The Source of Harmony.

As soon as the Source reached the ground, the singing stopped. For a time, the land was silent. Then, the Source began a new song, one deeper than the last. And from the greenery around them emerged figures of flesh and blood. Ponies of three kinds, multicolored and full of glee, were among the first to emerge, followed shortly by other equines, by griffons and hippogriffs, by dogs, by minotaurs, and soon the Source was surrounded by so many creatures that Jacques could not name more than a handful.

Each race was beckoned forward by the Source and presented with a gift, which came as a multicolored light that flowed from the kiss of the Source and infused the recipient. Jacques perceived that each race saw the Source as looking like they did, while he was able to see all the Source’s forms.

In time, each of the races had received a gift from the Source. The ponies which resembled unicorns moved the celestial bodies and touched the world around them with their minds. The winged ponies controlled the weather. Even the ordinary looking ponies wielded power, as they moved the earth and that which grew upon it. The griffons carried with them prosperity, the zebras an innate wisdom, and the minotaurs boldness. For an instant, Jacques thought he caught sight of a creature of mismatched limbs and body that flitted about as though dancing to the whims of chance, but it was gone too quickly for him to be sure. Satisfied, the Source departed for distant lands, continuing to sing.

At first, there was harmony amongst the creatures after the Source left. The gifts of the many races were used in concert, and there was peace and love in the innocent new world. The lights that flew above watched over the creatures with benevolent eyes, and there was no suffering.

But the peaceful vision did not last.

It began with the lights that flew above. All had been singing in harmony with each other and the world below, carrying on the melody of the Source. But then one sang a note that was not a part of the harmony, not even a part of the unpredictability of chance and change. It was a note born not of the love of creation or its maker, but rather of a selfish desire to increase the singer’s own station, even at the expense of the other musicians. Soon, another joined it. Then another.

In time, a multitude of the shimmering host began to sing on their own, a song without harmony or love, but only selfishness and hate. And the longer they sang, the less they gleamed, until in time they fell into shadow and darkness. There were grave consequences for the disharmony; earthquakes and volcanoes and hurricanes which crushed and burned and drowned the innocent inhabitants of the earth. With each passing corruption of the melody, the world grew crueler.

The other lights attempted to stop them, to restore the joyous harmony, but the fallen lights would not be dissuaded. As their works grew yet more twisted, they lost their unique forms, becoming shapeless, nameless shadows of their former selves.

These shadows, in time, fell to the earth. There they saw the creatures who bore forms like those they had lost, and the shadows grew hateful and jealous. So when the creatures that lived upon the earth encountered them, the shadows called out to them, tempting them with promises that they could have the gifts of the other races for themselves, without needing to share their own gifts. Thus were the seeds of disharmony sown, and the fruit they bore was bitter indeed.

To the griffons came violent greed, and to the minotaurs brutishness. The zebras devised every concoction they could conceive, with no regard for the consequences. Even the pony races, once the most joyous of the creatures, fell into fear, mistrust, and hate. And the black tendrils of the shadows curled around them and twisted them, chaining them in their misery and dividing them from their sibling races. The disparate peoples swiftly fell to war and bloodshed, and the evils they committed fueled the Fell monstrosities.

With their new power, these Fell ones invented new forms for themselves, twisted imitations of the shapes they had lost. Ponies of shadow; hulking giants of rage; skittering, spider-like horrors; even horses of cloud and storm that rode upon the very winds, sowing hatred and mistrust. And Jacques could not help but weep for what was lost.

The beings of spirit which had not fallen fought the shadows, wielding their light and harmony as weapons. And they burned away much of the darkness and prevented a great many calamities. But the shadows drew strength from the creatures they had misled, and clung to them with their chains and snares. With every passing evil, the minds of these slaves sustained the shadows. And so the lights, though stronger than the shadows, could not destroy them. It looked to Jacques as though the creation before him might be unmade.

Then the Source returned. Coming to the top of the mountain the Source spoke to the shadows, adjuring them to release their chains on the creatures of the world. In return, they would be allowed to chain the Source. With cackling glee, the shadows set upon the Source, binding their hateful chains until not even the fire and the light could be seen beneath. Thinking to take the Source’s power for their own, they made a great pyre and burned their captive. As the flames rose higher, the light of the world dimmed. A great cry went up from the Source as the flames reached their peak. The cry ended, and the world was blanketed in total darkness.

Cackling filled the air as the shadows celebrated, thinking their enemy slain. But their celebration was short-lived. There was a roaring as of the thunder of a thousand storms, and a light far brighter than any Jacques had seen before burst forth, shattering the chains as the Source rose, phoenix-like, from the sundered constructs of shadow. The Source was clad in flames as a cloak, a rainbow-hued inferno that burned away the shadows and cast light into every dark corner of the world. The Fell ones fled in terror before the cleansing light. All across the land, chains fell away and creatures blinked as though awakening from a dream. One by one, beginning with the ponies, creatures began making their way back towards the Source.

Individual hearts of flame shot forth from the Source; to each creature that returned one of the hearts went, granting insight and council. And, where two or three gathered together in harmony, their joined flames were enough to drive back even the Fell which still lurked in and about the creatures.

Appearing satisfied, the Source strode up into the heavens, and to Jacques it seemed as though the form of the winged unicorn had come to stand out above the others. At each hoofstep, sparks shot forth, and new fires drifted downwards. Where they were taken up, they brought virtue and blessings. Strength and bravery; hope and beauty; healing and knowledge; and many more besides. The seeds sown by these first fruits of the Fire proved a fertile ground for even more harmonious elements to follow. And, with this Fire, the land and its inhabitants began to mend what had been broken.

Watching in awe as the Source ascended into the heavens, Jacques was startled when the Source stopped and turned. For an instant, Jacques gazed into the fiery eyes of the Source, and in that moment he saw a human man. At the sight he felt a flame within him, one that had long burned there and been tended carefully through many years. The Fire that was sent by the Source came to Jacques, and reached out to touch the flame within him. Jacques gasped as the little flame expanded and grew, licking outwards to touch all that surrounded him as it blazed into a towering white inferno. The pain ought to have been indescribable, but instead he felt alive. He cast his gaze to Methuselah, seeking explanation. But the old man simply chuckled and indicated the winged unicorn beside him. Jacques reached out to her. It was instinct rather than rational thought, a half-formed idea that if he but touched her his questions would be answered. His flesh met the soft fur of the creature’s muzzle and—

Jacques found himself lying half-naked on a bed, his hand resting on the nose of a winged unicorn with a white coat, a shimmering rainbow mane, a golden crown, lavender eyes, and a frankly startled expression on her face. “Um,” she blinked, “hello.”

Author's Note

Antiquarian opened the door of his study to find that an angry mob had somehow contrived to pack itself into the building without him hearing the clatter of hooves on tile or smelling the smoke of the torches. He knew why they’d come, of course. Indeed, he’d brought it upon himself. But he still felt the need to justify himself, if for no other reason than to give himself time to plan an exit strategy.

“So,” he began, adjusting his tie with a twist of his magic. “How’d you all like the new chapter?”

The mob stared unblinkingly back.

He smiled ingratiatingly, sweating beneath his tweed jacket. “Are you…ahm… here to congratulate me for posting a new one so quickly rather than making you wait another week?”

Silence.

He ran a hoof through his disheveled mane. “Listen, I can understand your frustration, but if you’ll recall, my specific promise was that this chapter Jacques would wake up.” He reached a hoof beneath his jacket for his get-out-of-comeuppance-free-card. “I never promised that he’d say anything—

A mare in the front row leveled a pitchfork at his chest. “BURN THE HERETIC!”

Antiquarian dashed the smoke-bomb against the floor just as the mob surged forward. In the ensuing confusion he sprinted back into his office past his startled secretary.

“MissAurapleasecancelmyafternoonappointmentsthankyou!” he shouted, diving through the window without a backward glance.

***

In all seriousness, though, I actually do have something important to address. A number of people have commented that they appreciate 14th Century Friar because it discusses religion without being preachy. And I’m happy for that, as that is precisely what I was trying to accomplish. However, that is a very narrow rope to walk, and now I’ve gone and made a chapter exploring the metaphysics of this world. So I’m going to lay out quickly what I want this chapter to accomplish, and then, perhaps more importantly, what I don’t want it to accomplish.

To provide clarity:

This chapter is the first stepping stone to ensuring that this fic doesn’t turn into a 60 chapter exploration of theology. In order to feel at home in this world, it is necessary for Jacques to know that his faith isn't threatened and that his soul isn't in danger. I have to balance that with writing a story that (hopefully) people can enjoy regardless of their own religious convictions (or lack thereof). Writing a Narnia-style creation is my way of trying to take care of both factors; it story lets the story progress without needing to devote an inordinate amount of time to his acceptance of the new world. This means that he can be openly Christian without getting side-tracked by a full scale theological debate - which I'm betting most of you don't want. Whether or not you agree with Jacques' theology, it is my hope that you can still enjoy the narrative. Thus, Jacques wins, the ponies win, I win, and you, the audience win. The only people who don’t win are the villains; they would prefer that Jacques be side-tracked debating theology with the Mane 6 instead of uniting with them to kick flank.

And, rest assured, next time we’ll actually get some fraggin' dialogue from poor Jacques while he’s awake and coherent. Please don’t kill me. :fluttershyouch:

Edit: Since no one has drawn attention to it yet, I'll note that there is something significant about the timing of Philip's arrival and the part of the prayer that Jacques and Andrew were on, if you know the Latin.

So What You're Saying Is...You're NOT Evil?

Recovery Room 316, Ponyville General, Ponyville

The creature’s eyes widened, and he now looked at her rather than through her. Over the length of his arm their eyes met, as the nameless warrior of an unknown species grasped the nose of the sovereign ruler of Equestria. While she knew precious little of the creature, Celestia had well over a thousand years of experience as a ruler and statespony; long had she danced the diplomatic dance, and it was vanishing rare that she was at a loss for appropriate words.

“Um,” she blinked, “hello.”

Smooth, Tia.

At her words, the creature recoiled, his hand grasping at the strange cross that he wore around his neck. He stared at her with eyes that shifted between intense suspicion and a sharp inquisitiveness. His gaze drifted down to see the wires connected to his chest, and he frowned. Perhaps he is unfamiliar with our medical magic, and thinks it dangerous. Celestia searched for the right words to assure the creature, but her initial faux paus had distracted her and thrown off her usual poise.

It didn’t help that he’d accidentally tickled her nose when he touched her. She tried to hold back a sneeze, but to no avail. “Achoo!” she snorted, her sneeze an embarrassing high pitch between a whinny and a chuff. The creature’s lips quirked towards a smile. The alicorn flushed briefly, but forced a regal smile to her face and held herself upright to address him in Prench. “”

The creature’s eyes flickered, but he said nothing.

Changing tack, Celestia regarded him with a companionable grin. “”

At that, the creature’s eyes widened.

Celestia smirked. Now we’re talking. “”

Still he remained silent, but his searching eyes bored into her. Celestia found that there was a deep intelligence to his gaze, and a kind of scrutiny of the sort she had seen little of since the old days.

Searching for duplicity, no doubt, she thought, as any wise Guardian would. “” she assured him. With a wan smile, she added, “”

The creature regarded her thoughtfully, showing little emotion. Celestia found that she had a difficult time reading his face. His features are not as expressive as a pony’s or even a griffon’s. In some respects, I’ve had an easier time reading dragons. At length, however, he gave a broad grin that was at least an improvement over his brown study. “Princess Celestia, you say?” he said in accented Ponish. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I do not bow in my condition. It grieves me to be impolite, but…” he shrugged with what she felt was genuine apology.

Smiling she assured him, “.”

The creature quirked a half-smile. “I must admit, I find you to be rather forthright for a ruler,” he chuckled. “I respect that. I really do. And, for what it’s worth, I sincerely hope that there is no evil to be found in you. I would so dearly love to have someone I could trust to explain the madness I’ve been seeing.”

Celestia gave a warm smile. “”

“Good,” he replied, reaching for the side-table. At first she thought he might be seeking his sword, and wondered how best to deal with it if he was, but he instead grasped a vial of oil. “You may call me Friar, Princess. It is my title, not my name, but it should suffice for now.” Opening the vial, he traced a cross of oil on his forehead, murmuring something to himself under his breath. Celestia’s sharp ears caught enough of the words to guess that it was perhaps a protection spell of some sort, the formula to which he was reciting aloud. Perhaps it is the custom of his people to do so. When he’d concluded, he beckoned her closer with an apologetic smile. “I hope you’ll permit the touch of a common knight, Your Highness,” he said, evidently preparing to anoint her as he had himself. “But, if you truly wish me to be convinced of your trustworthiness, there is no other way to accomplish it.”

The diarch considered this, then trotted over to his bedside with a nod. “”

“We shall see.” He began tracing the cross. “In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…”

To say that Jacques had had a strange day would have been something of an understatement. To express that his concept of the world was undergoing a re-ordering would have come closer to the mark, but still fallen short. To conclude that he’d reached a state somewhat akin to the adrenalin rush of combat, where he had no time to be afraid or confused and was thinking and acting at a level of consciousness that was at once heightened and narrowed, would likely have been the best descriptor of his state of mind that could be readily conjured. As in a fierce melee, he was trusting in his instincts, his training, and, above all, in God to get him through unscathed. The implausibility of what he was experiencing almost ceased to register as he focused on moving forward with each new revelation.

Firstly, he determined that Celestia was, herself, not a demon of any sort. There was no doubt; he was a trained exorcist, and had made no error. She was no demon, and neither was she possessed by one.

Very well.

Secondly, he could find no evidence that any evil power had any sort of hold over her. No curses, hexes, or diabolical influence of any kind. If anything, she struck him as being a creature of holiness and grace, touched by God.

Very well.

Thirdly, he found her to be an exceedingly polite conversationalist, who seemed to embody both the regality of a monarch and the personal compassion of a mother. In one sense, she reminded him of the Blessed Mother herself. She had a deeply endearing quality about her that made him instinctively want to bury his head against her, seeking comfort for his ills. It did not help that her sneeze had struck him as rather cute, an oddly earthy moment for an otherwise heavenly creature, and his concentration wavered as he tried to keep focused on the matter at hand.

Very well.

The priest sat back and contemplated the winged unicorn through narrowed eyes. She waited patiently, a pleasant smile gracing her lips as he pondered the significance of what he had learned.

In conclusion, she is no demon, nor is she possessed by one, nor under the dominion of one. She appears to be of a heavenly race, or at least one touched by God, suggesting that the myths regarding such creatures have more than a little truth to them. He glanced around the room. Albeit with an unexpected twist. And, if the last vision is to be taken at face value, then it appears that I have found myself in their realm. One created by God, but separate from my own, except now I have bridged that gap perhaps and—

Jacques felt a headache coming on. He shut his eyes and rubbed his temples, considering the implications. Let’s assume the worst possible option, here. While I know that she is no demon or demon-controlled monster, that does not guarantee that she is not duplicitous or wicked in her own right. He absently tapped a finger against the scar Karim had given him. However, I do not believe this to be the case. God has always granted me a gift to reading the hearts of others. That Applejack mare had no discernable duplicity, and neither does the princess. Moreover, in my vision of Karim, the angel who spoke showed me the visage of a lavender-eyed woman with the aura of the sun. Then, just before I awoke, I saw the winged unicorn in question more clearly. He grimaced as his reasoning brought him to an uncomfortably unfamiliar conclusion. The urgings of the Holy Ghost have brought me this far. Thus, I must trust that they are correct, however strange they are, or else abandon any pretext of faith in my God.

“Frère?”asked Celestia gently. “Est-ce que tu vas bien?”

Jacques opened his eyes and smiled wanly. “Pay no heed to my discomfort, Princess. It is simply a lot for an old man to take in. And, my name…” he hesitated, knowing how dangerous it could be to hand his name over. But I have armored myself with the Armor of God, and, if nothing else, I know what she is not. “My full name is Friar Jacques de Charette, Knight of St. John and Priest of God’s Holy Church.” He managed a half-smirk. “I suspect we serve the same Master, albeit by a different Name. And, now that we have established this, I propose that we defer to your native tongue. This would be more seemly, as I am a guest in your land.”

She dipped her head in polite acknowledgment. “Very well, Friar Jacques de Charette. I am pleased that you have trusted me with your name. I take it, then, that you have become convinced that I am not of the Fell?”

Fell. Demons. “Correct, Princess. And, I must say, I do apologize for my apparent rudeness, but—"

She waved him off. “There is no need for concern. I would have done the same in your shoes, though likely with … somewhat different terminology.”

Jacques chuckled. “Yes, well, I imagine that, as we appear to be worlds apart, not all our words would be the same.” Though, in truth, I find it maddening that we hold the same languages.

Celestia tilted her head. “Different worlds?”

The priest scratched his head. “That is my guess. You see, I did not come to your land by… conventional means.” He related in brief his experience stepping through the gate and arriving in the field.

Celestia’s eyes widened. “So he was right then,” she murmured to herself.

“Who?”

The winged unicorn blinked. “Starswirl the Bearded. A mentor of mine many ages ago.” Jacques wondered at her use of the word ‘ages,’ but didn’t have time to ponder as she continued. “He once theorized that there were many other worlds born of the Creator other than our own, and postulated that they might be wildly different from our own.”

Jacques found himself thinking of the Book of Job, wherein God had taken Job on a tour of the cosmos and its infinite wonders, all of which were beyond human imaginings. Behemoth and leviathan… and winged unicorn princesses, it would seem. “T’would appear that your mentor was right,” he agreed. “It seems to be the most logical solution, though given a thousand lifetimes I don’t think I could even begin to comprehend it.” Celestia nodded sagely. “It would certainly explain what I just saw in my vision.”

“Vision?”

“One of several that I have been graced with of late,” he nodded, proceeding to relate to her the most recent dream.

Celestia nodded in ready understanding at his explanation, her face taking on a hint of awe. “You are blessed, Friar Jacques. What you saw was the Creation of our world, the coming of the Source in the flesh, the birth of the races, even the sacrifice of the Source and the coming of the Fire. Few besides my sister and I have been graced with such a vision.”

Jacques stroked his beard, his mind racing. “Creator…Source…Fire…” He found himself sitting forward. “The Creator is the great progenitor, yes?” Celestia nodded. “This ‘Source’ you speak of… a willing sacrifice for your salvation, yes?”

“Indeed. To bring us all back into harmony with the Creator,” answered Celestia. “This is why the Fire was sent.”

“Bringing the hearts of flame to rest within the mortals who accepted them,” nodded Jacques. Akin to the tongues of fire from Pentecost, perhaps? And the Source is the Source of Love and Harmony… just as God was described in my first vision… and ‘where you find harmony, there you shall find God.’ His mind raced. Father, Son, Holy Ghost … Creator, Source, Fire? He ran a hand through his hair. I suppose that would only be logical, as this is a different world, so the same God would show Himself differently, but…

He groaned and massaged his temples once more. I suppose God has His reasons, but how I wish that the visions could have been a little more explicit! Idly he wondered at how a non-Christian like Karim, or Isaac for that matter, might have interpreted the vision. He began to speculate that Karim may have called the Creator ‘Allah,’ and Isaac ‘Yahweh,’ but was unsure whether they would see the Source as a prophet, or as an element of the Creator, or as an angel—

No! He chopped off the line of thought savagely. This is hard enough pondering my own belief without speculating on how a Muslim or a Jew might see it!

“Friar Jacques?” asked Celestia gently. “Forgive me, but you do not look well.”

Jacques gave a wan smile. “It is I who should beg your forgiveness, Princess. I am allowing my befuddlement to get the better of me.” He shook his head and opened his eyes. “I am convinced now, however, that we serve the same Master. Among my people, we call this Divine Being ‘God,’ in the Persons of the Father, the Son (Jesus), and the Holy Ghost, whereas you refer to the Persons of God as Creator, Source, and Fire.” Jacques opted not to mention how other religions might speculate on the matter at this time. Ironically, the pagans would have an easier time with all this than I. Wrong, but easier.

Celestia’s eyes were alight with interest. “Truly fascinating! And to think; before today, I never would have imagined such a thing could be!”

“That makes two of us,” he replied dryly.

She chuckled. “Yes, I’m sure. I must confess, it’s rare for one like me to encounter something so new and exciting.” And why is that? he wondered. Just how old are you? “I imagine that a certain student of mine will be even more thrilled. She drinks in knowledge as most ponies drink water. I must warn you that she may be quite… insistent in interviewing you.”

Jacques smiled, recalling his encounters with such scholars over the years during his studies of philosophy. “I am sure it will be a good learning experience for me as well, as I know precious little about your world, save for how it differs from my own.” He fiddled with the strange white strands that were attached to his chest. “Like your medicine, for instance.” He gestured to the beeping box-like construct next to him. “And this odd instrument that seems to make tune to the beating of my heart.”

“Yes, it is an impressive little machine, isn’t it?” smiled Celestia. “I take it that you do not have the like of it in your own world?” He shook his head. “Well, you are correct in guessing that it detects your heartbeat, as well as your other vital functions. It then tells the doctors in the other room that you are healthy, or warns them if you are not.”

The priest blinked, once more unable to truly process what had just been said. Long before the Knights of Saint John had borne swords, they had borne bandages. After becoming a martial order, their practice of medicine had remained an integral part of their identity. Even their name ‘Hospitaller’ was a reference to their origins. But this… this is beyond imagining! “Magnificent,” he said aloud. “Tell me, Princess, how does it work?”

“Why, magic, of course.”

The instant he heard ‘magic,’ he felt something change. A bizarre sensation passed through the whole of his body, akin to the rush that came from battle, but somehow more ordered and mechanical. He felt that his body had become encased in armor in an instant, as though the ‘Armor of God’ had become a very physical thing.

But that was not all that happened. The instant the ‘armor’ went on, the beeping of the machine went ‘off,’ replaced by a single, long note.

Celestia frowned. “Oh dear.”

On-Call Break Room, Ponyville General, Ponyville, several minutes prior…

Redheart flattened her ears against her head and shut her eyes, holding the coffee cup in both hooves. The precious dark nectar within had her full attention. With reverence bordering on worship, she brought the cup to her lips and took a long, glorious drink. “Mmmmm,” she sighed, utterly content with the world.

Medevac snickered.

Almost utterly content, she amended.

“Cripes, Red, are you gonna marry that swill?”

Redheart considered ignoring him, but the ‘swill’ comment had gotten her blood up. She opened her eyes to give him an arch look. “This ‘swill,’ as you call it, is imported from the southern tip of Zebrica, from trees tended to by a tribe whose name is unpronounceable to non-zebras because our speech patterns have developed without the requisite capacity to form the syllables, and which is only obtainable by me because Zecora is my friend.”

The former medic’s eyebrows shot up. “Eesh. That good?”

With a smirk she replied, “Divine.”

Medevac blinked. “You’ve been holding out on me, Red. Don’t suppose you’d like to share?”

She smiled sweetly. “Maybe I would have before the ‘swill’ remark.”

Medevac opened his mouth to protest, then shrugged ruefully. “Yeah, I suppose I deserved that.”

The two of them sat in the on-call break room, taking a much needed break after the long day. It was a tranquil place in the sometimes hectic hospital, with all trappings of the medical facility stripped away. Well, amended Redheart with a glance at the light panel, almost all. The panel showed an array of room numbers and corresponding lights, most of which were off. A small hoofful of green lights indicated rooms where patients were hooked up to machines to monitor their vital signs. If for any reason the patient’s vitals left normal ranges or the machines failed, the light would flash red and whoever was in the on-call room would scramble. As such, Redheart couldn’t completely relax.

Still, it was a nice break after the unexpected patient and the frantic surgery. And a chance to catch up with my closest friend. “Mmmmmmm,” she hummed to herself as she took another sip of it.

“Seriously, Red, I’m getting creeped out by how you feel about your coffee.”

She gave a coy smirk. “Why? Jealous?”

Medevac flushed red and went back to his newspaper, muttering something under his breath.

Redheart blanched. Oh, sweet Celestia, is he…?

“I just think it’s odd that you love coffee more than I do,” replied the medic. “ After all, I once spent nine months in a country where coffee was forbidden under pain of death. Gives you a certain appreciation, you know?” He flipped through the paper, not looking up. “Just sayin.’”

The mare returned her attention to her coffee, not daring to look at the stallion. Right. Of course. Just his usual joking around. Nothing to worry about. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, and, at that moment didn’t especially want to think about it.

Perhaps fortunately for her, she didn’t get the chance. With an abrupt *beep*, the light to Recovery Room 316 flashed red. Both nurses dropped what they were doing and bolted for the door. “Never a dull moment,” sighed Medevac.

Waiting Room 301, Ponyville General, Ponyville, several minutes ago…

Argent stood quietly in the corner of the waiting room, watching one door out of habit while Corporal Thresher watched the other. Scattered through the room were the various Element Bearers. In Argent’s experience, a room containing seven mares tended to generate a considerable volume of conversation, even if one of those mares was the purportedly timorous Fluttershy.

Yet the room was eerily quiet. Applejack and Twilight hadn’t said a word to the others since they’d entered, and they didn’t look like they were about to. Rainbow had looked to be on the verge of asking them something several times, but on each occasion her mouth had flapped open and then shut without anything being said. Each of the mares just looked miserable.

Now, Argent was not the sort to be bothered by long silences. Her upbringing, while by no means stifling, had been regimented, and she had learned at an early age to be comfortable with remaining silent when conversation would have been little more than filler. Her time in the military had further drummed home the value of quiet. Especially on the Echoing Trail, she mused. Thus, while she was quite an outgoing and verbose mare, she was accustomed to enduring long quiets with dignity and poise.

So why does this just feel stifling? “I must say,” she said, breaking the uncomfortable silence, “you lot have done a rather fine job of managing national catastrophes of late.” The mares’ ears perked up to listen. Smiling, the captain continued. “I was in Canterlot recently, you know, and I had the privilege of appreciating the stained glass representations of your many triumphs.” I was also attacked by a crazed pony using witchcraft, but that’s hardly relevant at the moment. “You’ve garnered quite a reputation.” She shot a wink at Fluttershy. “Some of my comrades are speculating that you’ll put us out of a job soon.”

Fluttershy blushed. “Oh, we will? I’m sorry.” She hid behind her mane. “I don’t want to put anypony out of a job.”

Argent blinked. Well, that didn’t go as planned. “I’m only jesting, dearie. Though I must say that in a way I’d be delighted for my services to go unneeded.”

Pushing her hat back, Applejack gave her a quizzical look. “Don’t ya’ll wanna be needed?”

Well, that’s not quite what I meant… “Well of course, my dear lady. I simply wish that ponies with my…” she tried to think of a more pleasant way of saying ‘skill at killing people’ and settled on, “particular set of skills were not needed as often as we are.”

She tensed and almost drew her sword by reflex as she was abruptly accosted by Pinkie Pie, who had somehow sprung from beneath the seat cushions of a nearby couch to seize her flank and lift her armor plating to see the cutie mark beneath. The pink mare made a thoughtful face. “Mm, I dunno. What else would you be with a special talent for swords? A sword swallower maybe? Or, ooh! Ooh! A professional stunt double for action comedies!”

Argent pushed Pinkie away and readjusted her armor with as much dignity as she could muster. She made a mental note to encourage Twilight to teach her friends not to grab a soldier recently back from the borders without warning. Sweet Celestia, if I hadn’t been briefed on her… “That’s certainly one suggestion—"

Rainbow gave a dismissive snort. “Nah! Being a monster hunter would be way cooler than that!” She swooped in to hover mere inches from Argent’s face. “Hey, Argent! Have you ever faced down a horrifying hydra before?”

This conversation is not going how I thought it would, she lamented, wishing that Morning Song hadn’t left with the fillies. She’d at least know how to handle these madmares. Reaching up with a hoof, she gently pushed Rainbow out of her personal space. The pegasus didn’t seem to notice. “I have,” she answered. “Though it wasn’t exactly an experience I’d seek to repeat. Not so much because of the hydra itself, but more because of the swamp where we battled it.”

“It was quite an ordeal,” said Corporal Thresher, speaking up for the first time. “Purportedly, it took the esteemed captain three days, two quartermasters, and ten gallons of cleaner to get the smell out of her armor.” Thresher kept his face a studied non-reaction as he said this, but Argent wasn’t fooled. He was enjoying himself. She shot him an arch look. You’re playing a dangerous game, Thresher. Four years of loyal service won’t save you from me.

Rarity nodded in sympathy. “Oh I completely understand, darling. I can only imagine what a nightmare it must have been to restore your armor. And, I must say, I find your regalia to be quite impressive.”

Argent smiled in spite of herself. Her battle harness had undergone many personal modifications over the years to give it more panache, to the point that it only fell within the bounds of regulations by the loosest and most creative of margins. Still, a lady must uphold the family tradition somehow.

“Gotta say, I prefer this REF rig o’ yers,” said Applejack. “No disrespect to the Solars, but gold ain’t exactly a tough metal.”

“Their armor isn’t made out of gold,” chirped Pinkie. “It’s a high density steel alloy forged with a combination of smithing techniques from all three races to help it absorb and divert damage from the user up to a certain thaumatic and kinetic degree. The gold appearance of the Solar Guard is achieved with glamor enchantments that bond to the alloy to create a uniform appearance amongst the guards, though this enchantment is not, strictly-speaking, woven into the metal, and as such is more readily broken than the armor itself.”

Blank stares greeted the bubblegum-colored mare.

“What?” she asked. “I grew up on a rock farm. I know about metal.”

Rainbow covered her eyes with a hoof. “Pinkie Pie, you are so… random.”

Applejack shook off her stupor and returned to the conversation. “Well, I’m glad to know ya’ll ain’t usin’ gold armor, though I still think the gold look’s a bit much.”

Rarity scoffed. “Oh pu-leeze, Applejack. Have you no sense of aesthetics? The gold is meant to be a reflection of Celestia, and a royal palace must have a certain degree of je ne sais quoi, no?”

“But it ain’t practical!”

“It doesn’t need to be practical, darling. It’s a matter of presentation.”

“Yeah, I’m with Rarity,” agreed Rainbow Dash. “You gotta have sick uniforms when you’re guarding the palace.”

The unicorn nodded. “Yes indeed thank you so much Ra—,” she blinked as Applejack just stared at Rainbow. “…thank you for agreeing with me… on fashion… Rainbow Dash.”

“I’m with AJ on this one,” said Twilight. “A plainer color-palette would make more practical sense in combat. I was personally always partial to the steel and blue of the General Army.”

“Um… I prefer the more muted colors. They’re… well… less startling to animals.”

“I think the gold looks super-dooper pretty!”

Soon the six were buzzing with debate as they considered the fashionability, presentability, and general practicality of standardized military regalia. Thresher just rolled his eyes, but Argent smiled. They seem a rather resilient lot, she reflected, bouncing back to a happier frame of mind without too much bother. She was especially happy to see Twilight enjoying herself with her friends. The poor filly always was so shy. Good to see for myself just how thoroughly she’s broken from her old habits. It brought her joy to see the six ponies just enjoying each other’s company, their minds diverted from worrying about the strange creature’s condition. Speaking of which, I wonder how he’s getting on?

At that precise moment, Redheart and Medevac hastened past the open door of the waiting room, pushing a ‘crash cart’ along with them as they all but sprinted in the direction of the old warrior’s room. Argent sighed. Never ask a question you don’t want the answer to.

The conversation ground to an abrupt halt as the six mares stared out the open door. Argent cleared her throat. “Don’t worry, girls, I’m sure it’s—"

She found herself addressing empty space, as even Thresher had left.

“…Starswirl’s Beard they’re fast,” she grumbled as she dashed after them.

Recovery Room 316, Ponyville General, Ponyville, present time…

“Oh dear,” frowned Celestia as Jacques flat-lined. She rose to tend the patient, but the fact that he was sitting normally suggested that this was his magic at work rather than a heart attack. But what would have caused him to use his magic again? Is he reacting to some threat that I haven’t seen, or… then she saw the look of shock and betrayal in his eyes, and she understood.

With a flick of her wing she switched the monitor off. “I’m afraid that I became complacent with our similar languages, Friar, and forgot that the same terms may not apply in both camps. I suspect that when I said ‘magic,’ you immediately assumed that I referred to the Dark Arts, yes?”

For a moment, Jacques neither said nor did anything other than glare, and Celestia feared that she had broken his fragile trust of her, but after what felt like an eternity he gave a single nod. The princess sagged a little with relief. “I thought as much. You may rest assured that I would never allow such evil to be done to you, and if you require convincing then, by all means, use your own judgment upon the machine and again on me if you wish, but first I must assure the doctors that you are, in fact, not dying.”

Without waiting for a response, she rose and made for the door. Sure enough, she soon heard the rapid clatter of hooves approaching. Tugging the door open with her magic, she found herself face-to-face with Redheart and Medevac, followed closely by Twilight, her friends, and the guards. Before any of them could speak, she declared, “The patient is in good health, but he reacted defensively to the monitor, so I shut it off. Please remain out here while we continue our discussion of the matter.” She shut the door before they could respond.

Returning to the bedside, she sat beside Jacques, awaiting his scrutiny. He was in the midst of examining the monitor, though one eye was always on her, and one hand always gripped his cross. She pondered the latter fact, wondering if perhaps it were some artifact for resisting dark magic. He always grasps it before he grasps his sword. I respect a warrior who understands the most important weapons are not physical ones. Finishing with the monitor, he turned his attention to her and ran through an abbreviated version of his earlier tests. Upon conclusion, he sat back in his bed, his eyes narrow as he regarded her.

“Are you satisfied that I bear you no ill-will?” she asked.

“Satisfied, yes,” he admitted, “though in no small degree confused. Perhaps it would be best if you clarified your terms.”

“Certainly,” she nodded, launching into the impromptu lesson with an ease perfected over many years of teaching. “What I call the Dark Arts, and you, it seems, call simply ‘magic,’ is the bitter fruit of the Fell. Since they were once beings of Light, or ‘Angels’ in the old tongues, they have an innate power. They offer this power to mortals for a price, though the price they ask is invariably that of enslavement to Darkness, however they phrase it. The mortals gain power, it is true, for the Fell are bound to the Laws of Creation even now and must honor their word, but because this power comes from a perverted source, everything it touches is corrupted.”

Jacques grimaced. “That certainly sounds familiar. But this is not the only thing you use the term ‘magic’ for?”

Celestia thought she heard a scratch at the door, but put it down to one of the guards shifting his weight. “Yes. The opposite of the Dark Arts is, not surprisingly, called Light Magic, though it is more commonly called Harmonic Magic. This is the power of the Creator, the Source, the Fire; it is born of light and love, and bestowed upon those with worthy hearts and virtuous souls. While conventional magic requires skill and training, the Arts of Harmony respond to the content of a being’s character rather than his or her technical skill. Whether it is a power granted to a specific wielder, or a solitary event granted for the sake of a righteous heart, the results are nothing short of miraculous.”

The Friar’s brow, once knit with worry, was becoming smoothed as his tension waned. “Miraculous,” he repeated. “With this I am familiar. It sounds to me like the wondrous works granted to saints, or the divine authority given to clerics and prophets.” He tilted his head. “Though what is this conventional magic of which you speak?”

Again, Celestia thought she heard a sound at the door, but was so intent on the conversation that she dismissed it. “Common or Innate Magic is the broad term used to refer to the everyday magic that naturally flows around us.” With a tug of her magic she opened the curtains wider to let more of the evening sun’s light drift into the room. “While the specifics of this innate magic differs from creature to creature, all stem from the basic piece of stewardship over creation granted to each race at the beginning of the world.”

Jacques gave her a long stare. “To each race?” he asked, as though not certain he’d heard her correctly.

Celestia tilted her head. “Ye-es,” she answered, unconsciously drawing the word into two syllables. “Of course. No creature is without magic, after all.” She smiled at the obviousness of such a statement.

Her smile wavered as Jacques continued his unblinking stare. “Stewardship,” he muttered to himself.

“Friar Jacques? Are you all right?”

He stared at a point past her shoulder, lips mumbling as he seemed to ponder some great mystery. “The first lights… given to each of the races… their ‘magics,’ to govern the world…” His eyebrows rose. “To govern the world… to till and keep it…” he said this last part as though quoting something, “…stewardship…” A slow grin spread across his face, and a glint bordering on crazed entered his eye. “Which means…”

For a long moment, he did not speak. Concerned, Celestia leaned closer. “Jacques?”

Without warning, he burst into raucous laughter, shaking the bed with his mirth. “Oh, my God, my God,” he laughed, staring up at the ceiling. “As You did with Man in my world, so too did You give unto them the right to govern their earth, but oh how literal you were with them!” Soon he was laughing so hard that tears streamed down his face, and Celestia simply stared, eyes wide. “And that’s what’s different about me too, isn’t it? Why I did not tire? How I felt those beasts die? That was the flame you woke in me, wasn’t it?! In this realm, that is simply a part of what I am!”

And he descended fully into the gales of laughter, pounding the side of the bed with a clenched fist. Even the periodic winces of pain from his cracked ribs could not halt his cackling, and Celestia became concerned that the poor creature’s mind had snapped from the confusion of it all.

“Friar de Charette?” she asked. “Jacques?”

With great effort he brought his laughter under control, and the gleam left his eyes. A hand reached up to nurse his side, as with the end of his mirth the pain of his injuries seemed to return. “Forgive me, Princess Celestia,” he managed with a final chuckle. “I’ve just come to a rather startling realization.” Wiping a tear from his eye, he continued, “This may seem an odd question, but please be patient with me.” He cleared his throat, “Do I have magic?”

Celestia’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the possibly crazy Friar. “Why…yes. Of course you do.”

Jacques smirked. “I thought as much, and I can see that you speak truly. You must understand though, Your Highness, that this is something of a shock for me. You see, where I come from,” he leaned closer as if about to share the punchline to some great joke. “There is no innate magic.”

Now, the princess was centuries old; one of the oldest living beings in existence, in fact. Even amongst the dragons there were few who could claim to remember a time before her. As such, there were few matters that could truly be said to be unfamiliar to her.

This was one of those times, and she likely would have spent a considerable amount of time staring dumbly at the Friar had it not been for sound of a scuffle at the door.

“No, Twilight, you can’t go in there!”

“But what he just said… it’s impossible! It undermines the most fundamental laws of magic as we know them!”

“Ah don’t care! Ain’t no call to go interruptin’ the princess!”

“Yeah! If Pinkie can’t go in when he starts laughing, it isn’t fair for you to go in for egghead stuff.”

“Mmmhmmhmhm!”

“I don’t suppose, I mean, now that he’s stopped laughing, maybe we should untie Pinkie now?”

“You can’t keep me from this! It’s too important! I have to know!”

Oddly enough, the humor of the situation proved to be exactly what Celestia needed to regain her poise. With a sly grin at Jacques, she magicked the door open, causing the six Bearers to tumble into a heap inside. “Twilight Sparkle!” she called out, a hint of mischievous rebuke in her voice. “Have you been eavesdropping?”

Twilight turned a bright shade of red and put on her lying face. It was about as convincing as Applejack’s. “Eavesdropping?” she squeaked. “Whatever do you mean, Princess? There are no eaves at Ponyville General. Heh heh heh.”

Argent stood over the pile of mares, shaking her head slowly and smiling. Celestia addressed the officer. “And you, Captain? Allowing them to eavesdrop?”

The captain snapped a salute and put on a diligent face. “No, Your Highness. I was merely monitoring them while they conducted reconnaissance on a powerful magic-user of an unknown species for the sake of ensuring your security.”

Celestia smirked. “You wouldn’t lie to my face, would you, Argent?”

“Never, Your Highness! I’d merely bend the truth.”

Celestia chuckled. “Well, that’s all right then.” During their conversation, the six mares had managed to untangle themselves and were in the process of bowing. “Rise, my little ponies.” She looked back to Jacques, who was still sitting with an odd grin on his face. “I believe that introductions are in order.”

Author's Note

Before I get into the minutia of the chapter update, I would like to take a moment with you to honor the heroism of one of Jacques' countrymen. Arnaud Beltrame was a French policeman who willingly traded places with a woman during a hostage crisis in Trebes, saving her life. When he took her place, he surreptitiously placed his phone on the table when he entered the supermarket so that his men outside could hear what was happening. When the terrorist, who had pledged allegiance to ISIS, opened fire, Beltrame was mortally wounded and died a short time later. Beltrame's heroism is in accordance with the highest values of courage and self-sacrifice, and reflects great credit upon him and his country. Speaking of her son's courage, his mother was not surprised, stating, “I knew it had to be him. He has always been like that. It’s someone, since he was born, who gives everything for his homeland." For those who are believers, please keep the Beltrame family and all those involved in the siege in your prayers. For those who are not, please take heart from the knowledge that there are good men in the world who will make the ultimate sacrifice for the good of their others.

Now, down to brass tacks.

Firstly, thank you all for your patience in waiting for this chapter. Life has been… something of a mess for me lately. Health problems were exacerbated by scammers trying to take advantage of my health problems, and while I dodged the latter, I’m still dealing with the former (friendly tip, if you can’t get your prescription medicine direct from your doctor, the drug company, or the pharmacy, don’t trust it). The unfortunate result was a delay of more than a week for this chapter.

Secondly, I’d like to briefly reiterate a bit of what I talked about in the last chapter’s note: I'm trying to balance the fact that Jacques is a devout Christian with the fact that many of our readers don't share his beliefs. I'm shooting for "accessible to all." The fact that I’m trying to write a story where two unique cultures are encountering each other for the first time, and one of those cultures has zappy powers only complicates matters. Let me know how I did.

Thirdly, I didn’t expect this story to get the following it has. I’m going to pay that forward by giving shoutouts to excellent stories that I feel deserve more views. Today’s story: Under Layers of Dirt and Worry, by Tangerine Blast. A wonderful little one-shot about how Maud feels about Pinkie being a savior of Equestria. It’s not only a great exploration of their sisterly bond (with all the joys and struggles that come with it), but also of what it means to be the person who makes the decision to be the hero, even if it costs everything. It’s a very touching story, particularly to someone like me who has friends and family in the Armed Forces and Law Enforcement. I felt this fitting, given the Beltrame tribute.

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My Dear Readers... (A Non-Canon Interlude)

Author's Note

This chapter is non-canonical and is here purely to clarify a number of metaphysical matters and answer some frequently asked questions about them. Reading it is not essential to understanding the story or enjoying the narrative. It is not intended to keep people from speculating or asking questions, but only to give a little background to the world Jacques came from and why he thinks the way he does. It can be skipped without missing plot-critical elements if you’d rather just stick to the narrative. Thanks in particular to Icarus_Con_Queso for prompting me to write this and to Frustration in Excelsis for reminding me about medicine, which in turn reminded me of some other sources that I have on hand for this sort of thing. Stay learned, my readers!

My Dear Readers... (A Non-Canon Interlude)

Antiquarian sat at his dark oaken desk in the midst of his expansive study, quill scratching away as he tried not to fall asleep mid-sentence. A critic had once observed that the study and its owner suited each other well: a stuffy old room filled with dust, antiques, and archaic books, all battered and worn, and a dusty brown unicorn in faded tweed jacket, his disheveled brown mane and mustache turning to grey and his forest green aura and eyes darkening with bitterness. Antiquarian had not disputed the critic other than to note that he had plenty of modern books as well, and that his aura and eyes had always been dark.

His secretary, the ever-patient Miss Aura, bustled into the room, her pale coat and red-gold mane a bright mote of youth and energy in the archaic room. “You should really open the window and let some fresh air in, sir,” she chided him, setting a cup of coffee down on the desk. “It’s not healthy for you to brood.”

“I am not brooding, Miss Aura,” he grated, pulling out a hip flask and emptying half the contents into the coffee. “I am merely grimacing. Brooding is what I do when I contemplate the state of the modern education system. Grimacing is what I do when I’m being defeated by my own creation.”

“I stand corrected,” she said with a role of her eyes. “Can I take your grimacing to mean that you are facing a problem with your latest project?”

“You could say that,” he sighed, taking a sip from his enhanced coffee. “You see, it’s essential for my readers to understand Jacques’ psyche, but most people haven’t spent decades studying human history in general, much less specializing in Medieval Europe and Christianity. And why should they? It’s a hearty undertaking with few tangible rewards for most. The result, however, is that things that I take for granted as evident are obscure to most, and people are asking a lot of very important and insightful questions. The more studied ones are even bringing up some very valid points and references from the period. Which is wonderful!” he hastened to add before she could point out that he should be happy that readers were taking an interest in learning or else were already learned. “And I want to engage with all of them to clear up any confusion they have and elaborate on some of the facts that people have mentioned, but addressing them piecemeal isn’t working.” He took a longer drink. “Every time I answer one, another crops up. And, because not everyone has the time to read through all the comments, not that I’m suggesting they should, I sometimes see more or less the same question multiple times.” He ran a hoof through his hair and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t want to let any of them down, but I’m afraid that, despite my best efforts, plenty of readers are still confused through no fault of their own.”

“Mm,” she nodded absently as she vainly attempted to make headway against the dust. “Well, that is quite the conundrum. Jacques is very much a man out of time, and if you insist on being as true to that as possible, there will always be things that he takes for granted that seem odd to the readers without context. But, if you think about it, there’s a certain inevitability to it. After all,” she added with a smirk, “you’re too stubborn to break the rules of your own system.”

Antiquarian frowned and prepared to shoot back a retort about his stubbornness, but before he could his eyes widened and he beamed. “Break the rules! Break the rules! Aura, you’re a genius!”

Aura looked up, startled. “I… am?”

“Yes, yes of course,” he cackled. “It’s so obvious now! I’ll just have to break the rules.”

Aura blinked. “Sir, you’re scaring me.”

Antiquarian pulled his typewriter out and plopped it on the desk, typing away in a maddened frenzy. “Prepare two chapter slots, Aura! When the next one goes out, it’ll have a little non-canon companion volume to go with it!”

“I’m… not sure I follow.”

“Aura,” he said with a mad grin, “I’m going to address the audience… directly!”

My Dear Readers,

In case that introduction didn’t make it clear, this chapter is to be considered non-canon. It is intended to give you all a rough overview of the common medieval view on certain spiritual matters, specifically with regards to supernatural powers. There are three things that I want to make abundantly clear.

Firstly, this is by no means a fully inclusive look at medieval spirituality. That would literally take hundreds of books to fully explain. This is, at most, a very watered-down summary of certain key elements that directly pertain to the story.

Secondly, for the sake of convenience I will not be saying “The Catholic Church believes X” at each point; I will just be saying “This is X” most of the time. This is not intended hammer you over the head with theology; it is shorthand to make it easier and shorter for me to write, because putting qualifiers throughout is a pain. I am presenting to you the view that Jacques would have had at his point in history on supernatural matters in the context of broader Catholic theology so that you may better understand his concerns and motivations. No more, and no less. My hope to help you understand why Jacques is coming to the conclusions that he is along this journey. Thus, I invite you to an impromptu learning experience.

Thirdly, this chapter is not to discourage you from asking more questions in the future. As I said, this list is not an exhaustive look at the whole picture; it’s a snapshot that serves as my attempt to clarify some of the more commonly asked questions.

With Respect,

Antiquarian

Origins

These principles of God, spirits, and spiritual matters actually predate Christianity in their origins, as we see them from Genesis on. Thus, in answer to multiple readers’ questions of where Christian notions of miracles vs. magic (and related topics) came from, the answer is that they’ve always been around; they’ve simply become more nuanced over the centuries as teachings have been clarified.

God

To give a proper grounding for understanding the medieval take on God would require volumes. Since we don’t have that, I’ll hit a couple key points. One of the most important concepts is that God doesn’t need us. We add nothing to God by existing or worshipping God. What this means practically is that the universe has been loved into being by a God that created everything to share love rather than to benefit from it in any way. That which God does for us and instructs us to do is done so as to bring us into a fuller state of harmony with God and the rest of creation. Properly ordered, all aspects of creation, from the greatest to the smallest, ultimately wind their way back to this Grand Design of harmony and goodness.

Or, if that was a little heavy-handed and philosophical, just listen to “Through Heaven’s Eyes” from Prince of Egypt. I’m serious. It’s actually a very good illustration of the concept of Providence and the ultimate harmonic designs of God.

Angels and Demons

These beings of spirit were created with power and authority over creation that we would consider supernatural, but which are in fact simply a natural part of the Angels’ stewardship (more on stewardship later). There are nine choirs of angels: Seraphim, Cherubim, Thrones, Dominions, Virtues, Powers, Principalities, Archangels, and Angels. While I could get into what they are each responsible for, suffice it to say they have power and authority over specific things. Now, when a number of angels rebelled in pride, they separated themselves from the Grand Design because they separated themselves from God and, by extension, the Divine Life. They retain their power, because for the moment their power and authority is tied to the world. However, when the world ends, they are, to use common parlance, screwed.

A Note on Hell

Hell is most properly understood as an eternal state of being. With God is all of life, creation, harmony, and existence. Thus, if one is separated from God, the only remaining option is the hell; the absence of Life. Or, to put it more bluntly, eternal Death. When life and death are talked about theologically, it is thus vital to discern whether it is physical or spiritual life and death which are being discussed. It is further important to note that God did not make hell. Rather, hell is a state of void made by the very people who imprison themselves there by cutting themselves off from the Source of Life. To be clear, when I say ‘void,’ I do not mean that the place does not exist. Hell is very real and hell is a place of eternal punishment and damnation. When I say ‘void,’ I mean that it is an eternity of not-God/not-Life/not-Happiness, an unending absence of anything good. Hell is the result of a free choice to decide on ‘not-God,’ and thus be in a state/place of eternal separation and misery.

Human Stewardship

I briefly mentioned stewardship earlier; in essence, what stewardship refers to is the power, authority, and responsibility that a being is granted over a specific thing(s). Humans, in Genesis, were granted stewardship over the world, with both the right to be its stewards and responsibility to be good stewards. Stewardship is a recurring theme in the Bible. Many tales speak of honorable stewards who seek prosperity for all peoples and the respectful care for their land; these stewards are greatly rewarded. Bad stewards who make life miserable for others and abuse their land come to a bad end for their actions.

Stewardship is tied to gifts, faculties, and powers that an individual or collective is meant to have. For humans, this includes math, science, logic, philosophy, governance, art, creativity, etc. Humans are supposed to seek to use these faculties to the best of their abilities to better love, understand, and care for creation (Knowledge and Understanding are both considered Gifts of the Holy Spirit). This is why, despite hiccups like Galileo, the Catholic Church has a long history of advocating the sciences, from Copernicus (a doctor of canon law and the father of heliocentrism) to Mendel (a friar and the father of genetics) to George Lemaître (a priest and the formulator of the Big Bang Theory). The modern university system was begun by the medieval church. Monks preserved the works of Aristotle and Plato, the legends of Beowulf and the Norse, and pretty much any ancient texts they could get their hands on. Philosophers like Augustine and Aquinas would expound on what the Greeks and Romans had once discussed. I could go on, but this is sufficient for a brief overview.

Since another reader brought it up, I’ll also touch briefly on the medieval customs regarding medicine, because it’s actually a fairly good representation of the principle of human gifts and faculties with regards to stewardship. The practice of herbalists and apothecaries acting as healers was commonplace in medieval Europe and, while some parts of early medicine was laughably wrong (much medical knowledge had been lost with Rome, and some of what had been preserved was wrong anyway), the underlying principle gives good insight into their mindset: God created an intelligible world, and within it there are many things which can help us care for each other and creation; by better understanding them through science and reason, we can better live in harmony. Practicing medicine was simply an exercise in practicing the gifts we were born into as humans. Thus, mixing up a natural brew to cure an ailment would simply be an extension of one’s inherent, innate faculties.

Supernatural

Now that the groundwork has been laid, let’s talk about supernatural powers. It has always been the case that humans have wielded supernatural power within the Judeo-Christian tradition. A quick perusal of the Bible will reveal such stories as Samson’s superstrength and Elijah calling down fire from heaven in the Old Testament, and numerous healings and exorcisms in the New Testament. Beyond the Bible, we see accounts of saints working miracles (ranging from healing and bilocation to calling down lightning) well into the modern era. By the same token, we hear about demon possessions, practice of the dark arts, and fire summoned through magic. So the question is, what’s the distinction?

Well, for starters, I’m going to point out that terminology can actually be one of the most confusing parts of this. ‘Thaumaturgy,’ for instance, has been used historically to refer to miracles worked by saints and to magic performed by witches. And that’s just in the Christian context. In the end, terminology can be deceptive and meanings can change, so I’m going to talk about the underlying principles rather than the words.

Firstly, let’s talk about Good supernatural power. God can grant humans to work supernatural works (commonly called ‘miracles’) ranging from superhuman feats of strength and precision to reading the hearts of others to healing to calling down fire. Sometimes it’s an isolated event; sometimes the person is regularly a miracle-worker/wonder-worker/thaumaturge. St. Gregory of Neocaesarea, for instance, was called ‘the Thaumaturgist.’ Wielding this power is totally acceptable, because its source is in Life and it is in line with harmony and the Grand Design.

Then there’s Evil supernatural power. If a person ever tries to wield a power that they don’t actually have granted to them, it’s bad news. This is because, if God hasn’t granted the power, there’s really only one other place to get it: hell. Or, to put it another way, Death. Whether a person goes out explicitly seeking to make a bargain with a devil or is simply trying to bring it about by their own power or even if another person invokes the power upon them doesn’t matter. If it isn’t supposed to be there, then it comes about from an unnatural and ultimately evil source. Good intentions don’t really matter, because the evil seed ultimately corrupts. For reference, consider Gandalf and the reason he gives Frodo as to why he can’t use the One Ring: it would corrupt him; he would want to use it for good, but through him it would work evil. This power which comes from Death has been called many things over the years, but in the Judeo-Christian context is most commonly (though not always) called simply ‘magic.’

Thus, powers that humans wield fall broadly into three categories: that which is natural for us (stewardship), that which is made natural for us and has its origins in Life (Good Supernatural/Miracles), and that which is taken unnaturally and is, by extension, separated from the Divine Life (Evil Supernatural/Magic). Thus, magic is not evil because it’s a supernatural power called ‘magic,’ it’s evil because it has an unnatural origin, which by extension means that it’s separated from God and the Divine Life, and thus comes from Death. If ‘magic’ were a term used to refer to miracles or to an innate power that a being was truly created with, then ‘magic’ would be good in that context.

Legends

Okay, so that was a lot to throw at you. But wait! It gets even more complicated!

You see, as I mentioned before, terminology changes all the time. With the various pagan tribes of Europe gradually converting to Christianity in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, we see a lot of terms for supernatural being used for both miracles and magic and the workers of both (remember thaumaturge?)

It gets even more confusing when you consider mythical beasts. Many were considered automatically evil because they had been brought about through magic (or were just straight-up demons). On the other hand, many mythical beasts were traditionally considered holy, even heaven-sent. In the catacombs of Rome, I frequently saw phoenix drawn on the walls because the phoenix was a symbol for the Resurrection. Unicorns, as I hinted at with one of Jacques’ internal monologues, were often thought of as being holy, specifically as a symbol of Jesus’ glory. Saint Basil makes this connection in his writings on Psalm 92:10:

“On the whole, since it is possible to find the word ‘horn’ used by Scripture in many places instead of ‘glory’, as the saying ‘He will exalt the horn of his people’ (Ps 148:14) and ‘His horn shall be exalted in glory’ (Ps 112:9), or also, since the ‘horn’ is frequently used instead of ‘power’, as the saying ‘My protector and the horn of my salvation’, Christ is the power of God; therefore, he is called the Unicorn on the ground that he has one horn, that is, one common power with the Father.” – Homilies on the Psalms 13.5

Medieval minds had many conflicting views on which mythical monsters fell into which camp, or if they fell into a camp at all rather than being regular animals.

Then we get into legends regarding humans. Let’s take a look at Arthurian Legends. In some tales, Merlin, the ally of Arthur, is half-demon! Seems odd, right? Well, not when you consider the context. One thing that must be remembered about Arthur is that there are as many different narratives as there are writers, and the tales reflect the concerns of the time. Le Morte de’Arthur was patterned on existing Arthurian legends in which Arthur and his knights were not exactly heroic figures. Legendary, yes, but seldom heroic, and what heroes there were often died tragically. This is because these Arthurian tales were written as criticisms of the emerging corruption and lecherous behavior amongst period nobles. The half-demon Merlin is a semi-recurring character in these tales, and one of his most prominent acts is to help Uther (Arthur’s father) to essentially rape Arthur’s mother by using his magic to make Uther look like her husband. Which is just all kinds of awful.

On the other end of the supernatural spectrum in Arthurian storytelling, we look to some of the earliest legends. In a good number of these, Arthur was a great warrior king who bore a shield painted with the Madonna and Child and a holy sword called Caliburn. With heaven-blest strength and these holy weapons he is said to have been able to kill men with a single blow and once slew 900 single-handedly in a battle.

Note that supernatural events occur in both sorts of tales, but that the origin of such power makes the difference between good/evil. Again, this general principle is a better guide than terminology alone.

History

I could get into a very, very lengthy list of noted Jewish and Christian miracle-workers, but I think a better use of our time would just be to simply give an example of how supernatural events have been differentiated one from the other by the Church in history.

Joan of Arc was a peasant girl from an insignificant village in France during the Hundred Years War. France was on the brink of losing after about 90 years of steady decline, and they needed a miracle. That miracle came in the form of Joan having visions from various angels and saints telling her that God had charged her with saving France. Naturally, people were suspicious that she was receiving visions from the devil or (more likely) was simply sick in the head. She appeared before a Church court and, after investigation, the clergy became convinced that her visions were genuine. She was given their blessing to go forth and do the work to which she’d been assigned.

Now, I’d love to go on about Joan of Arc, as she’s one of the most remarkable historical figures in history. As the only person (male or female) to ever be granted supreme command of the military forces of a country at seventeen in all of history (not counting monarchs and the like), her career was short but stunningly successful. She was so impressive as a figure of courage, integrity, and piety that Mark Twain (who infamously disliked both the French and Catholicism) wrote a novel about her that took twelve years of labor and which he considered to be his best and most important work. However, for the sake of brevity, I’ll move into the rest of why she’s significant to this conversation.

After a long string of victories that were called miraculous, Joan made a lot of enemies in the French court (and the English were none too happy with her either). She was betrayed into English hands, tried by a sham court of power-hungry French clergymen who’d been bought for the purpose, and burned at the stake under false pretext of unrepentant witchcraft.

There are unsettling parallels to what happened to the Templars, but I digress.

Joan’s name was ultimately cleared in a later investigation by a Church court which exposed the lies of the false trial, brought up as evidence her first trial (which had been deliberately omitted in the second trial), and affirmed the original decision that her visions were Divine in origin.

I bring this story up to further illustrate the point that what power a person has doesn’t really matter in itself; only where they got it from and by what authority they wield it.

Friendship is Magic

So… what does this all mean in the context of MLP? Well, quite simply, it means that there’s no reason that Jacques can’t fit in. Jacques is a trained exorcist. His job is to determine the origin of supernatural powers, much like the original court that tried Joan. As far as he is concerned, what the ponies call ‘common magic’ is simply a term for a natural power that is granted them as a part of their stewardship; it’s akin to what he would call science, natural faculties, or knowledge in the human world rather than the human definition of magic. He would likely be able to compare it to the human capacity for making medicine as an extension of their God-given faculties and powers. He might not like the fact that the term ‘magic’ is used, but he understands that the definition in each world is fundamentally different. Once he’s able to make that distinction, there’s nothing to stop him from acclimating.

Conclusion

If you take nothing else from this, here is the principle that I want to leave you with: shorthand terminology, like ‘miracle’ or ‘magic,’ can be useful for getting a general idea of whether something would be considered good or evil, since many terms are consistent over long periods of time. However, to truly drill down to what it would be considered in actuality, it is necessary to consider it in the context of where the power originated, what its purpose is, how and why it was obtained/given, etc. Terms can lie, so the underlying premise must be examined. Also, the Catholic Church has professionals explicitly created for this purpose. If you want to know if there’s been an official statement on a specific thing, just putter around the Vatican website or check out the works of the late Fr. Gabriele Amorth (the Vatican’s chief exorcist before his death). If it’s been officially examined, there’s almost certainly an official document you can find (though, depending on what country it was examined in, it might not be in English; I had to find audio versions of Amorth’s work that were dubbed when doing my research).

One of the best allegories for it is to just read Tolkien, quite honestly. The distinctions that he makes as to where power and authority come from and who has the right to wield them explores the principles that would be common to Catholicism, but through the lens of a unique world with multiple races and frequent supernatural events in play; ‘magic’ in that world resembles to MLP’s definition, making it a good point of comparison.

Hope that answers a few questions. Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming. Happy reading!

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Intro to Equestria 101

Ponyville General, Ponyville

Jacques watched with some bemusement as the tangle of six mares struggled to pick themselves up from the floor under the mirthful gaze of Celestia, an unnamed stallion guard, and a unicorn mare in armor whom Celestia had called ‘Argent.’ Her name is French for ‘silver,’ yet she speaks with an English accent. How odd.

Oddity had become something of the order of the day, however, as the ponies before him defied his comfortable view of reality. Now that he was no longer half-conscious from blood loss, he was able to take a closer look at the various ponies.

Two were unicorns like Argent. The purple one he vaguely remembered was called ‘Twilight.’ The other, a white mare with deep blue mane coiffed like a noble-woman’s hair, was complaining loudly about a hoof being pressed into her spine.

The next pair were pegasi, one of whom, the rainbow one called ‘Ar’dee,’ leapt into the air as soon as she was free of the tangle to hover above the rest. The other, a pale yellow mare with pink mane, tried to hide meekly behind the others as soon as she regained her footing. Jacques felt a twinge of remorse, hoping that he wasn’t the source of her fear.

Finally were the relatively normal ponies, the ones without wings or horn. They ought to have been most familiar to Jacques, but two rather critical factors impeded that. The first was Applejack’s ever-present hat, which was still jarring to him for reasons that he couldn’t adequately quantify. The second, and far more bizarre, was a bright pink pony who had, for reasons that he could only begin to guess at, been bound and gagged, and now sat in the midst of the others, humming through the gag as she rocked back and forth to the rhythm of her music.

Next to that, the two armored ponies seemed almost bland. Their steel armor, with gold and red trim and red crests, reminded him of a knight’s plate armor, albeit with accents that were more stylistically Roman. Still, armored horses were by no means unknown to him, and if it hadn’t been for their magenta and deep blue coats, they might have been mistaken for war horses from France. Well, Argent’s horn would have muddied that illusion somewhat. As would her saber. And the stallion’s… boar spear.

While he watched, two more ponies entered the room, a ‘normal’ pony mare with white coat and pink mane, and a brown pegasus stallion with silver hair and a metal rear leg. The latter wore a white tunic, and the former a hat with a red cross and four pink hearts on it. For some reason the sight of the hat gave him pause, and it wasn’t just that he couldn’t fathom the reason for a pony to have a red cross for a symbol in this world.

The cross wasn’t just on her hat either, he realized. It was on her flank as well, as a brand or, more probably, a tattoo of some sort. In fact, they all have these marks, he noticed. Even Celestia. I wonder what purpose they serve? Their liege lord’s coat-of-arms? But then why aren’t more of them the same? Knightly regalia perhaps, or the symbols of monastic orders?

It was then that Jacques had what might be called a moment of clarity, as it occurred to him that there seemed to be something rather preposterous about being in a room filled with magical rainbow horses that could talk, perform medicine, and, apparently, wield weapons. This thought chose to remind him that when a rational man was confronted with such an absurd situation, the only logical thing to do was to react to it in an extreme manner befitting the magnitude of the mental upset that had been inflicted upon him.

Jacques acknowledged this thought readily, and even went so far as to agree with its assertion, but ultimately decided that the events of the day had been so exceedingly strange that there was no point in attempting to swim against the current of bizarre happenings. Better just to let the current take him, and accept that God’s providence superseded Man’s wisdom.

Or, as Methuselah once rather pithily put it, accept that God has a sense of humor.

He gave a short bow from the waist, all he could manage in his weakened state. “Greetings,” he said. “Please forgive me for not standing; I’m still not feeling quite myself. I believe I owe you all a debt of gratitude for saving my life. Thank you.”

Applejack removed her hat and cupped it to her chest. “T’weren’t nothing, Mister. Least we could do after ya saved our sisters.” Her voice was a touch husky.

“Yeah,” chimed Ar’dee, who looked suspiciously like she was trying not to cry. “That was pretty awesome, dude.”

Dude?

“Yes indeed,” added the white unicorn, whose accent reminded him of Andrew’s kin. “To risk your life for complete strangers, to save my beloved sister…” she trailed off with tears in her eyes.

Jacques couldn’t hold back an embarrassed chuckle. “Fair maidens, please. Your gratitude, while appreciated, is unnecessary. What kind of a man would I be if I did not protect children from monsters?”

Most of the ponies stared goggle-eyed when he said that, but Celestia and the soldiers nodded in approval.

“Is that what you are then?” asked Twilight, who had trotted forward eagerly, her face alight with interest. “A ‘man,’ I mean? I’ve never heard of one of your kind before! How long do you live? How advanced is your culture? How did you destroy those timber wolves so easily? What did you mean when you said that you had no common magic and—

The white unicorn stepped forward and rather forcibly yanked Twilight out of Jacques’ face. “Twilight, please! Calm yourself, darling!”

“Yeah, Twi,” laughed Ar’dee. “Give the poor guy some breathing room!”

Jacques chuckled again. “It’s no trouble. I understand her curiosity.” Like a young novice she is; so full of wonderment. Ah, for the enthusiasm of youth. “While I am happy to answer your questions, and have many of my own, perhaps we should introduce ourselves as your Princess suggested before we proceed any further.” He put a hand to his chest. “Yes, I am a man, though more properly I am Friar Jacques de Charette, Chaplain of the Knightly Order of St. John, more commonly called the Knights Hospitaller.”

“Awesome!” gushed Ar’dee, who seemed to forget her chiding of Twilight as she flew a few inches from his face to pepper him with questions. “An order of knights, huh? Do they call you ‘Hospitallers’ because you hospitalize people?”

Jacques blinked. “Well, not exactly—

Ar’dee was abruptly yanked from the air by the tail. “Woah there, Nelly,” remonstrated Applejack through clenched teeth. She spit the tail out on the ground. “Like ya just said, give the man his space. We ain’t even introduced ourselves yet. Questions second, remember?”

The friar scratched his head. “Well, I remember some of your names, I believe. Applejack, of course, and Twilight if I recall correctly.” Both mares nodded. He pointed to the rainbow-maned pegasus. Taking great care to pronounce the odd name correctly, he said, “Ar’dee, correct?”

Applejack and Ar’dee glanced at each other before bursting out laughing, the latter so much so that she fell over backwards. The friar cocked an eyebrow. I didn’t think I pronounced it that wrong. Through her chuckles, Applejack managed, “Her name ain’t Ar’dee, Friar. Ya just heard her nickname is all. Arr Dee is short for ‘Rainbow Dash.’”

“That’s me!” grinned the pegasus in question, who sprung back into the air to perform loops and spins that left Jacques’ eyes spinning in a vain attempt to keep up before she mercifully halted mid-air, striking a heroic pose. “Rainbow Dash! Stunt flier extraordinaire, Bearer of the Element of Loyalty, savior of Equestria, and future Wonderbolt!” She said these things as though he should recognize them, so he dutifully dipped his head in acknowledgment of her apparent greatness.

The white unicorn merely rolled her eyes. “Oh please girls. Friar Jacques here is a foreigner, and, judging by his Prench accent, not a native speaker of Ponish.” Wait, Ponish? Prench? “He can’t be expected to know your colloquial nicknames.” Trotting over, she fluttered her eyes and curtsied. “” she declared in flawless French. “” she tossed a lock of hair over one shoulder, “Couturier extraordinaire.”

Jacques didn’t know what she and Rainbow meant by ‘Bearers,’ but reasoned that they were perhaps indeed members of some sort of martial order. Moreover, Rarity had just identified herself as a ‘Lady,’ and given that Celestia hadn’t corrected her, he assumed her to be some sort of minor nobility. Though the fact that she’s a garmenteer suggests a merchant of some sort. Perhaps the customs and terms of address here include noted burghers as common gentry, as is becoming the case in the larger cities. Deciding to err on the side of decorum, he gave another half bow and replied, “”

Rarity giggled a little and stepped back with a blush, whispering, “such a gentlecolt” to Twilight.

The latter unicorn stepped forward again, her enthusiasm reigned in for the moment. “I’m Twilight Sparkle, student of Princess Celestia and Bearer of the Element of Magic.” Jacques’ eyebrows shot up and he glanced at the princess, who watched with a fond smile on her face. Your protégé, Celestia? And likely a powerful one if she literally bears Magic. Is she your court wonder-worker, then?

Applejack spoke up, dipping her hat respectfully. “Ah’m Applejack, but mah friends call me AJ. Mah family runs Sweet Apple Acres outside o’ town.” Yeoman farmers, perhaps? Or landed gentry? “Ah’m the Bearer o’ Honesty, if we’re talkin’ about ourselves like that.”

Ambling over to the meek pegasus, Applejack hoisted the timid mare into view. The mare responded by hiding her face in her mane. It looked… positively adorable. Jacques felt a rather unexpected urge to nuzzle with the pony as he would a pup.

Now where did that feeling come from? wondered Jacques with a shake of his head. I must still be little light-headed from the blood loss if I’m being this sentimental.

“This here’s Fluttershy,” declared Applejack. “Don’t mind her. She’s a mite on the shy side. Bearer o’ the Element o’ Kindness. She patched ya up until we go you back to the docs.”

“Um… hi,” managed the pegasus.

Jacques put on his gentlest smile. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. “Hello, little one. Thank you for tending my wounds. Without you I would surely have died.”

She flushed red beneath her mane. “Oh, well, um, it was nothing, really. I’m so used to it from taking care of my animals. I just had to clean the wound for infection and stop the bleeding and bandage you properly… I mean… really anypony could have done that… I’m not that special… eep!”

She trailed off until he couldn’t hear her anymore.

The mare with the white coat and pink mane took that moment to walk over to his bedside and examine the monitor. “I hate to interrupt, but do you mind if I turn this back on? I’d like to check your vitals.”

“Be my guest,” he replied.

“Thanks. Hey, Medevac, wanna give me a hoof here?” The brown stallion limped over as the mare flipped the monitor back on. Once more the machine beeped to Jacques’ heart, and the two ponies took notes on little writing boards that they’d brought with them. Using their mouths to hold the pens. This will take some getting used to. The mare glanced up at him and gave a quick smile. “I’m Nurse Redheart by the way. This is Medevac. Sorry that Doctor Stable can’t be here to see to you himself, but I just got word that a mare went into labor five minutes ago.”

“It’s a unicorn foal, too,” added Medevac, his tone dry. “Which means the mother will be doing well if she’s not trying to strangle her husband by the end of the first hour.” He tapped the top of his head. “It’s the horns, ye see. Quite painful.”

Jacques cocked an eyebrow. “Well, I certainly don’t envy the mother.” Or her poor husband. “And you needn’t apologize for this Doctor Stable being absent. A child’s life is far more important than mine. I wouldn’t dream of distracting your doctor from that. As for me, the work you’ve done for me is nothing short of miraculous. I would be dead without you. Thank you.”

Redheart smirked. “It’s like you said, Friar. No need to thank us. That’s the job.”

The friar smiled. Humble. Eager to serve. So like our healers at the Priory. It would seem that some traits are universal. “Are you two… bearers of elements as well?”

Medevac snorted. “No, sir, we are not. The world-saving bit is their gig,” he flicked a wing in the direction of the group of mares. “We just patch them up when they get back from whatever the catastrophe of the day is.”

It didn’t sound like he was joking. Jacques’ estimation of these ponies went up a notch. He did wonder at the fact that none of the mares who had introduced themselves as Bearers were wearing any sort of armor. Neither was Celestia, for that matter, but he was curious what exactly their rank and function was. He was just about to when he faced an unexpected interruption.

“Hi! I’m Pinkie Pie!” exclaimed the bright pink mare who seemed to appear from under his bed. The beeping of the monitor doubled in intensity. “I’m the Bearer of the Element of Laughter, which ponies say sooooo totally fits me because I love to have parties and play games and have fun and I’m going to throw a very super special party just for you!” She was in his face bouncing off the bed at this point, though somehow wasn’t bouncing him on the bed. “It’s gonna be a Thanks-For-Saving-The-Fillies-So-Glad-You’re-Not-Dead-Welcome-To-Ponyville-And-Equestria-We-Totally-Don’t-Judge-You-For-Not-Having-Magic-Party!” She threw up her hooves and colored paper and streamers sprung from nowhere to fill the air. “Won’t that be fun?! With cupcakes and ice cream and pie and hey! What’s your favorite pie, Jacquesy?” Her head twisted around at an impossible angle as she pondered this. “Is it alright if I call you Jacquesy? I just kinda rolls off the tongue and I think nicknames are super-duper important to—

“PINKIE PIE!” roared Redheart.

Jacques felt his heart skip a beat as the pink pony came to a halt. Mid-air.

“Yeees, Redheart?” came the sweet reply.

“What have I told you about scaring the daylights out of my patients?!” snarled the nurse.

Pinkie drifted slowly to the ground and Jacques’ heart monitor made odd, fluttering beeps. “Aw, but I was just—

“Go sit with the others!”

“But—"

“Now!”

Pinkie Pie’s mane seemed to deflate visibly, and she plodded over to sit with the other mares. It was then that Jacques remembered that he’d never actually seen any of them untie Pinkie. Nor did he see the ropes that had once bound her. Several moments passed before Jacques was able to blink, and even longer for the beeping to slow down again. During that time he came to what was, he felt, the most reasonable conclusion under the circumstances.

She is a Trickster. Perhaps the Trickster of this land. The Loki or Puck of this realm is a pink pony with springy mane, and these gentle creatures tamed her like St. Martha tamed the Tarasque. They tamed a bloody Trickster! What else are these ponies capable of?!

Redheart gave him a reassuring glance. “Don’t worry, Friar. Pinkie Pie is harmless…”

I somehow doubt that.

“…she just has issues with personal space.” Redheart shot a glare at the pink mare. “But we have an understanding after the last few incidents, don’t we, Pinkie Pie?”

“Yup,” came the defeated reply.

Was this nurse the one to tame the Trickster? Is that why she has the mark of the Cross?

Twilight gave a weak smile. “Sorry about that, Friar. She means well, she’s just… excitable.”

She’s a Trickster. I would expect nothing less. “Think…nothing of it,” he managed, clearing his throat and trying to force his hands to stop shaking. “It was just… unexpected.” He glanced at Celestia and noticed that the princess seemed to be shaking from ill-concealed mirth. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. You knew this would happen, didn’t you?

Argent picked that moment to step forward, an amused smile on her face. “Yes, meeting the Bearer of Laughter does tend to have that effect on newcomers.” She brought her hoof to her forehead in what he assumed was a salute. “I’m Captain Argent Sabre, and this is Corporal Thresher, of Their Highnesses’ Royal Expeditionary Force. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise,” he said, bringing his fist over his heart.

“Taking on five timber wolves without using magic or wielding enchanted weapons,” Argent shook her head. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed.” She winked. “You’ll have to let me study your techniques sometime.”

Jacques smirked, the conversation with a fellow soldier going a long way to help him regain his composure. “I’ll show you how I fight if you return the favor,” he promised with a smirk. “I admit, I’m curious how equines are so adept at weapons like sabers, and I imagine I’ll be far more impressed with you than you are with me.”

Rainbow snorted. “Says the old guy who tanked five timber wolves.”

Fluttershy hissed at the other pegasus. “Rainbow Dash! That wasn’t nice!”

The blue pegasus seemed genuinely confused. “Why not? I just said he was a rad fighter.”

Before Fluttershy could continue, Jacques cut her off with a chuckle and a wave of his hand. “You needn’t concern yourself with such things, Bearer of Kindness. I have been called far worse than ‘old.’” Like heretic, witch, demon… “In fact, in my line of work, ‘old’ is more complimentary than anything. Besides, no offense was intended, and I certainly took none. Truthfully, it would be difficult for any of you to truly anger me with words. Even leaving aside your saving my life, I have never found such hospitality amongst complete strangers before.”

“Well, you know what they say,” chirped Pinkie Pie, who had recovered her previous good humor. “Friendship is Magic!”

Jacques blinked. So is that literal, or… he decided to just ask the question aloud. “Forgive me, for I am a newcomer in these lands and many of your words and customs are, shall we say, unfamiliar to me.” Like magic that isn’t from a diabolical source. “When you say that ‘Friendship is Magic,’ do you mean that in a literal capacity or a figurative one?”

“Both!” smiled Pinkie Pie.

He stared at her for a moment before turning to the Bearer of Magic, his face a mute inquiry.

“Actually, Pinkie is correct,” explained Twilight. “The expression ‘Friendship is Magic’ is one of the oldest proverbs in Equestria, that’s the realm we’re in by the way, but it can also refer to the Magic of Friendship as a form of Harmonic Magic, chiefly wielded through the Elements of Harmony, of which the six of us are Bearers.”

“Ah. So you are wonder-workers then,” he said. “Thaumaturges, in the sense of performing miracles on a regular basis.”

Applejack rubbed the back of her neck. “Thauma-whatsitnow?”

Rainbow flapped low enough to elbow her friend teasingly. “You tell me, Miss My-Brother’s-a-Linguist.”

The orange pony rolled her eyes. “Why’d Rarity have to go an’ mention that to ya? Believe me, RD, it’s as much a shock to me as to you.”

“Why?” asked Pinkie brightly. “Macky’s always reading the ancient pony philosophers in their original languages.”

“How do you know that?!”

Twilight ignored her friends and stepped closer to the bed, her eyes alight. “Yes! Thaumaturges! That’s the original term for those who perform Harmony Magic regularly. I mean, the term was watered down over the centuries to the point that it’s largely only a scientific denotation at this point, and ‘thaum’ is now used as a unit of measurement for raw magical power of any form due to a linguistic error in the mid-third century Ante Coniunctionis, but the original term was used to refer to those who performed ‘wonders’ which had their origin in Harmony.”

She was now speaking almost as swiftly as Pinkie Pie had been, and practically glowed with excitement as she warmed to the topic. I can see that Celestia’s warning about her enthusiasm was accurate. He smiled. What refreshing exuberance and wonderment.

“Take the Elements of Harmony for example,” she continued. “Technically, the Magic of Friendship can respond to anypony with the right qualities of character, but the Elements bonded to us because of how we exemplify the various attributes. Thus, they come about not as a result of a particular technical proficiency so much as in response to the decision to act in accordance with a particular morality as an extension of the Harmony and the will of Providence. Is that how thaumaturges are in your world? Oh please let that be how they operate! It would be so nice to be able to discuss this with you!”

Her muzzle was now mere inches from his face, and Jacques got the distinct impression that personal space was a foreign concept to ponies. “Um… I believe so, yes,” he said carefully.

Twilight Sparkle, Thaumaturge of Magic and student of Celestia, emitted a girlish squeal of delight and clopped her forehooves together as though she were clapping. Like a child on the Feast of St. Nicholas. How precious.

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “Finally! Somepony around here who will understand the curious moral underpinnings that seem to determine traditional thaumaturgy! Friar, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to talk to somepony…” she trailed off and her brow furrowed with concentration. “Er…some…creature?” she blinked. “Some-man?”

It took Jacques a moment to realize what her quandary was. “Someone will do, young lady. And I will happily discuss miracles with you, though I suspect that they may appear to be different in practical terms in our respective worlds.” On the other hand, Elijah did call fire from heaven. Somehow I get the impression that these ponies could too if they wanted. “However, I fear that the, how did you say, technical specifics of our two worlds would be quite…disparate.” He held up one hand and examined the palm. “Your princess informed me that I have magic flowing through me now, but this is a new experience for me. My people do not have innate magic like yours do, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t somewhat confused by the whole affair.” And deeply concerned.

“If I may, Friar,” interjected Redheart. “I can give some tentative answers on that count.”

“Please do.”

She held up her chart and gestured to some of the symbols, but while he could read the words he could only guess as to the significance of the numbers on the graph. Twilight and Celestia also looked on. “Your thaumatic count, that’s the measure of your currently active magical power in laypony’s terms, is low at the moment, similar to how an earth pony’s count when he is at rest and not actively tapping into his magic or the ambient magic around him. Your count was much higher earlier when you were, frankly, closer to death and your body was trying harder to heal you. Now that your blood has been restored, your thaum count has been dropping steadily. Now, without a baseline for how low your count usually is when you’re resting, I can’t say for certain whether or not this is normal, but I would guess that it is.”

Nothing about this is normal. I didn’t used to have magic. “Very well then. Thank you.”

Twilight stroked her chin with a hoof in an oddly human gesture. “Interesting. It would seem that your magic aids in your recovery, which is common amongst many races, including ponies. But it still doesn’t account for your being able to shut off outside magical influence.”

Jacques blinked. “My ability to do what?”

“To shut out outside magic. When you first fell unconscious I could barely lift you with my magic. Then, when the doctors tried to use the blood replicator to heal you, it wouldn’t work until you woke up and saw something about Redheart’s hat that apparently made you think that you could trust her not to hurt you.”

Jacques glanced at Redheart’s cap, and had vague memories of being startled by the thought of a female Templar. “I see.” He looked to Celestia. “And before, when these…monitors stopped working?”

Celestia nodded. “It appears that part of your magic is a survival mechanism that resists any magic that you don’t want to affect you.” She quirked a smile. “A helpful trick, to be sure.”

The Friar nodded. In this world of constant ambient magic… helpful is an understatement. “Indeed, Princess.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” interrupted Rainbow Dash. “So tell me, Friar, if you don’t have magic, what controls your weather? Does one of the other races do it?” She folded her forelegs and gave a cocky smirk. “I bet they don’t do as good a job as pegasi!”

Jacques cocked an eyebrow. He had foggy memories of the vision wherein the different races had been given gifts of power, and at the mention of weather…

Ah. Literal control of the weather. Of course.

“In truth, we don’t control the weather, Rainbow Dash. And in my world, there aren’t any other intelligent races that walk the earth.” He considered the tales of elves and the like and added, “At least, none that are any more than legends.”

“So, what, the weather just… does whatever it wants?” she asked, incredulous.

“Yes, it does.”

Rainbow and Fluttershy recoiled as though they’d been struck.

Rarity tilted her head quizzically. “But… what of the sun and the moon? If you have no unicorns, what controls them?”

Now it was Jacques’ turn to recoil. “Wait, unicorns control the sun and the moon?!”

Celestia chortled. “Well, a powerful cabal of unicorns used to bear those mantles. But, ever since my sister and I were Annointed…” she flicked a wing at the mark of the sun on her flank.

Jacques’ eyes widened as his worldview was changed all out of perspective once again. At this point, it was becoming so routine that his mind simply filed the information away under ‘Insane New Reality’ with a perfunctory, ‘Oh.’

Applejack stepped up. “So, if’n ya’ll don’t control the weather, an’ ya don’t control the day and night, an’ in fact ya ain’t got innate magic at all, then ya don’t control plants growin.’” Jacques nodded and the farmpony scratched her head. “Well then how in the hoof do ya’ll guarantee a good harvest?”

Jacques was beginning to realize that the differences between their worlds went far beyond innate magic and talking horses. Things they take for granted are fantasy to me, and it seems that my normalcy is perhaps unthinkable to them. “Well… we don’t. If the weather is bad and the fertilizing fails then the farmers must fight to produce enough food.”

Applejack’s ears fell flat. “An’ if ya’ll can’t?”

The Friar shrugged. “We starve.”

Ears fell flat around the room. Fluttershy looked like she might cry. “So, what you’re saying,” began Rarity shakily, “is that you’re completely at the mercy of the whims of chance?”

Eleven pairs of large, colorful, utterly too adorable eyes bored into him and he felt suddenly uneasy under the weight of their pity. “Well… I suppose that’s one way of putting it, but it doesn’t take into account the will of Providence and—

He was cut off by a cacophony of horrified exclamations.

“Why that’s simply dreadful darling!”

“Don’t worry, Jacquesy! You won’t ever go hungry here!”

“I wonder if there’s a way to transport food from our world to yours…”

“We’ll get ya fed good an’ proper here, don’t you fret none!”

“Oh, you poor, poor man! That’s so dreadful, I could just scream thinking about it! Aaaa!”

“Dude! That is so hardcore!”

The other mares turned to glare at Rainbow Dash. “What?” she said defensively. “His entire race lives in a harsh and unforgiving world without any magic! I’m just saying they must be super tough.” She hunched her shoulders and folded her forelegs again. “Sheesh. No need to give me the death glare for a frigging compliment.”

“Returning to the matter at hoof,” interjected Argent before the mares could set to bickering, “I think there are some questions that deserve to be addressed. I, for one, am curious as to how you came to have magic if it is, indeed, not something that your race ordinarily possesses.”

Twilight’s eagerness returned, and Jacques could have sworn he saw stars twinkling in her eyes. His heart skipped a beat when a quill and parchment blinked into existence next to her, suspended in a magenta aura. “Yes! Please! Tell me!”

“Very well,” he agreed, scratching his head and trying not to think about the sudden appearance of her writing implements. “I admit, much of it is a mystery to me as well, but from what I can gather…” he related the experience of stepping through the portal, how he’d felt unnaturally strong and youthful upon arriving, the bizarre sensations he’d felt when his magic was used to kill the timber wolves and to shut out the magic of the machines, and, finally, the experience of the Source awakening a flame in him. Twilight was practically salivating as she pressed him for infinitesimal details. Rainbow looked bored by the technical speech and kept trying to wind the conversation back to the fight, but Twilight shut down her every attempt to do so without seeming aware of her obsessive behavior. Periodically Jacques glanced at Celestia and noticed the princess’s fond amusement. Apparently this is not new behavior.

It was some time before Twilight exhausted her immediate questions, though not before exhausting Jacques. By the end he was struggling to keep his mind from wandering. So much for the return of my youthful energy.

Rolling up her scroll, which had taken on the dimensions of a log, she dismissed it in a flash with her magic. “Well, that’s a good start at least,” she said with a contented smile. “I mean, we’ll obviously need to do some more specific stress-testing of your magic when you’ve fully recovered to properly nail down what exactly your abilities are, since that vision was not exactly specific, but I’m confident that we will be able to get some concrete answers in due time. Ooooh!” she squeed. “This is so exciting! I’m going to be able to tap an entirely unknown field of magic! I’ll have enough to write volumes worth of data and speculation!” She sat on her haunches giggling to herself.

Applejack sighed and turned to the other mares. “Alright. Whose turn is it?”

“Mine,” chimed Rarity. “I’ll be sure to coordinate with Spike as usual.”

Jacques tilted his head. “Your turn for what?”

Applejack gestured to the beaming Twilight, who was still muttering something about ‘academic accolades’ to herself. “Whenever she gets like this, we gotta make sure she leaves her house ta see the sun now an’ then. Learned that the hard way after a certain,” she coughed into her hoof, “time-related incident. Anyhoo, we got a roster for whose turn it is to check on ‘er.”

There was a loud snort, and heads turned to see Argent standing with her hoof in her mouth, stifling what would likely have been an unladylike display of mirth. “How very… organized of you,” she managed.

“Um…” came the soft voice of Fluttershy. Eyes turned to her and she hid behind her mane. “I have a question. If… if that’s alright with you.”

Oh my, thought Jacques. I certainly hope that I didn’t do anything to cause her to be fearful of me. Though perhaps this is her natural state. What could have happened to the poor lady for her to be so easily frightened? “Of course, child,” he said with all gentleness. “What is it?”

“I was, well, it’s a silly question I suppose, but, um, I was wondering…” she trailed off, and for a moment Jacques thought that she wouldn’t continue. “If you don’t have magic, and if this isn’t your world, well, why are you here?” Silence greeted her question. Her ears bent back. “I mean… not that we aren’t happy to have you but, well, it all seems very… odd?”

Further silence stretched out, broken only by the beeping of the heart monitor. “You know,” said Twilight, a contemplative look on her face, “now that she says that out loud, I’ve got to say: we really should have lead with that question.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room, including one particularly strident ‘Yuppers!’ from Pinkie Pie.

“That question is answered easily enough,” said Jacques. “I was sent to help you face a danger.”

That got their attention. Even Rainbow Dash perked up at the mention of ‘danger.’ Celestia and her soldiers in particular gave him scrutinizing looks. An unspoken shift seemed to ripple through the room, signaling an end to questions of curiosity and the beginning of a conversation of deeper significance.

The only one who seemed immune was Redheart, who looked to be only half listening as she continued to take notes. That fact gave Jacques pause. Are crises so frequent in this land that the healer is no longer distracted by them?

Medevac, however, seemed alert to the shift in mood, and tapped his comrade on her shoulder. “Say, Red. Why don’t we go see how Doc Stable is doing and discuss what food we want to start the good Friar on, eh?”

Redheart’s face twisted in confusion. “What? Why? We haven’t even finished collating all the data, and we still need to prescribe— hey!”

The other nurse had begun pushing her towards the door. “Trust me, Red. I’m a Marine, remember? And this conversation is triggering my Above-My-Paygrade Sense something fierce.”

Pinkie Pie bounded in front of the departing pair. “Oooooh!” she exclaimed. “You’ve got a super-special sense too? So do I!” she bounced, emitting an odd springy sound. “It lets me know all kinds of little things! Like, when I get a twitchy tail, it means something’s gonna fall, and when I get a crawly face it means the doctor’s about to come out with news that…”

As she droned on, Jacques came to two conclusions:

Firstly, that Medevac was speaking figuratively about his ‘sense,’ and that members his profession had a certain sense for when conversations were to be had by their superiors that he ought not to be privy to; Jacques was familiar with this sense.

Secondly, that Pinkie was being entirely serious, which was unsettling on many levels and added greater credence to his theory that she was some sort of Trickster.

Eventually the two physicians managed to evade the pink mare and leave the room, with Redheart loudly complaining that her work wasn’t finished and crying promises that she’d return in an hour to check on Jacques and bring some food that ought to help his recovery. At a nod from Argent, Corporal Thresher slipped out with them. Apparently, this is not for his ears either, thought Jacques. Is it simply that he is of too low a rank, or is the princess not sure whom she can trust? My visions and Methuselah’s were singularly non-specific as to the nature of the threat. He studied Celestia and Argent closely. They differed from the other ponies in that they seemed to be grimly anticipating that they would hear something they already knew. Perhaps the darkness has already come, and these two have seen it. Whatever the case, I must be cautious.

Thus, it was only once the door was shut, leaving him alone with the princess, her trusted captain, and six thaumaturges that Jacques felt able to speak. “It began as these things often do,” he stated, letting his eyes close as the recollection washed over him. “With a dream…”

Author's Note

I would first and foremost like to thank you all for your continued patronage of this story and for your patience in waiting for these updates. Life has been rather hectic for me lately, but it has been a joy for me to work on this story and I am gratified that it has resonated with so many of you.

On to the story itself: I went back and forth on whether or not to release this chapter as is a number of times. Parts of it just felt dense to me (though I tend to be my own harshest critic). However, the fact of the matter is that it has over a dozen characters stuck talking in a room with a lot of exposition and introduction that needs to happen. There isn't really a way around that; it's just going to be a crowded scene no matter what. Between that and the fact that I didn't want to make you wait any longer, I just decided to submit it as is. Rest-assured, this chapter will serve as a springboard to both slice-of-life and plot-specific chapters in the future. I'm glad to have this one down, because now we can finally start getting into more of the meat of the story.

Anyway, speaking of writers whose material I like reading more than my own, 8686's Free Hugs! is typical for this wordsmith's work in that it's funny, thought-provoking, and on-point for the values and class of the show. I have yet to come across anyone who does slice-of-life better than 8686. This particular iteration is particularly humorous (which is saying something), and is so sweet that I'm pretty sure I'm diabetic now.

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Ghosts and Shadows

Canterlot Castle, Canterlot, earlier that day…

Luna stood upon her balcony, overlooking the city. From here she was wont to watch over the country while it slept, and to enter the Dream Realm to guard her subjects in their slumber. It was rare that she stood here when the sun was up. But today she had cause.

By most ponies’ standards, Luna kept odd hours. She was active through most of the night, either fully awake or in the strange half-sleep that she entered when dreamstriding. When the sun rose, she went to bed, to shifting between continuing her dreamstriding for ponies who worked the ‘graveyard’ shift and resting herself with proper sleep. In the evenings she began her mornings, and she performed her other duties while also making the most of her limited free time. During the winter months, her free time became limited, and during the summer months it stretched. In both cases, however, the majority of her waking hours that were not devoted to her specific duties as Princess of the Night were taken up with other royal duties. She did not begrudge this time, and in fact enjoyed many aspects of it. Happily leaving the matters of the Day Court to her sister, she busied herself with matters such as intelligence gathering, civilian logistics, and military procurement. In truth, much of the time she was simply being brought up to speed on what needed to be done and signing off on documents that required royal approval (the Civil Service existed for a reason). But it was necessary work all the same, and she was careful to budget her time so as to balance both labor and rest.

But today had been unusual. She hadn’t gotten her typical morning rest, because apparently a crisis had erupted in Ponyville, spawned by the arrival of a strange creature who had bested a pack of timber wolves with unknown magic and was currently dying in Ponyville General. She and Celestia had agreed that the timing of the creature’s arrival was convenient in the extreme, and her sister had taken a detachment of guards to investigate. This left Luna to handle the royal audiences that could not be cancelled, attend a cabinet briefing, and endure several hours of additional paperwork, all of which left her longing for simpler times when paper had been at a premium and most of the nobles she had to deal were either useful and friendly or else readily dismissed.

Luna had barely had a minute to herself since the unpleasant awakening, but when she’d finally gotten it she’d immediately come to the tower. She’d told Celestia’s secretary, Raven, that she was simply taking a moment to clear her head. In fact, she had an ulterior motive.

If the strange creature is dying in a hospital bed, then there is a good chance he is unconscious. And, if that is the case, I may be able to learn something from his sleeping mind.

There was no guarantee that it would work, as it was more difficult to perform on non-ponies. But Luna reasoned that it was worth the effort.

And so, without ceremony, she entered the trance-like state of the Dreamstride.

Harsh winds whipped sand and gravel into her face as she surveyed the savage landscape. Barren lands, cracked and split for lack of moisture, stretched in all directions, blasted relentlessly by the gnawing bite of the storm. Black clouds blanketed the sky, though the air was filled with an unnatural light that somehow pierced the gloom. Intermittent heat lightning would arc through the clouds, but though she felt the tingle of electricity in her horn, her teeth, her bones, the thunder was muted as though by a great distance, and she heard little over the roar of the wind and the scrape of rock upon stone as the great earthen storm ravaged the parched land.

Luna decided that it was different from what she expected.

Far in the distance loomed a towering citadel. A shaft of pure, unyielding Light lanced down from the heavens, piercing deep into the core of the castle. The moment she perceived it, she took a step forward and crossed the distance separating them, finding herself close enough that the citadel filled her vision: a massive stone fortress, the size of the Canterhorn Mountain, three-tiered and walled in by as many barriers, unbowed by the elements and centered upon the shaft of Light.

The land around her was pock-marked by war, and she saw countless burnt and shattered siege engines of heinous and cruel design lying half-buried in the rushing sands, attended by the corpses of bipedal soldiers, their bones stripped of all flesh and their armor shredded by the ravages of war and the unrelenting hail of sand.

The castle itself was weathered as well, by both the onslaught of the earth and the scars of battle, but its ramparts were in good repair and its iron gates impregnable to offense of any sort. Luna got the distinct impression that it would resist any attack until not one stone stood atop another. From within the castle emanated the presence of a single occupant, the architect of the great walled citadel. She could not see him, but knew him to be in the presence of the shaft of Light.

This was not the first time that the Princess of the Night had encountered a dream wherein the dreamer was sealed within the walls of a fortress. But this was by far the most unusual case.

Not knowing what else to do, she walked the worn cobblestone path that led to the gate.

When she had drawn within fifty yards of the massive entrance, she became aware that she was being watched. Looking up, she saw that hundreds of figures peered down at her; bipedal warriors clad in shining armor from head to toe. Most wore livery of white with red crosses or of black with white crosses, though some wore unique livery styled after animals, weapons, and other heraldry. A few even appeared Saddle Arabian or Neighsraelite in their stylings. Some wore the armor of commoners; others of great lords. None of their faces could be seen, but behind each visor gleamed a pair of pure white-blue eyes.

Eyes that were locked on her.

Luna was not easily unnerved, but this dream was making a fair attempt at it. It was not so much that so many hundreds of eyes watched her movement, but rather that she did not feel the presence of life in their collective gaze. If the dreamer believed an individual in the dream to be alive in the waking world, then she would have been able to sense it. But she sensed nothing.

In a castle the size of a mountain, the sole resident was attended to only by ghosts.

The ghosts were unmoving, save for their eyes, until she had drawn within thirty feet of the gate. Then, as one, they raised their spears and aimed them at her. Luna halted at once. It was not that she was in any true danger, but even in a dream the results of such an attack would have been unpleasant at best. Perhaps more to the point, if she were to fight her way into the fortress it could have countless unknown effects upon its lonely resident. It was hard enough entering the dream of a non-pony without foreknowledge of the creature; to start a fight would be far worse.

Once she was certain that the ghosts were not going to immediately attack her, she took a step back. They continued to aim their spears at her until she had withdrawn three yards, at which point they returned to their guard stance and simply stared at her.

How long she stood, enduring their gaze, Luna could not say. But when she had finally resolved to leave, something changed. She sensed the approach of another life, this one from behind her.

Turning, she saw a lone, bipedal creature, garbed in a black robe with an eight-pointed white cross hobbling down the path towards the castle. His skin was coffee brown, and on his face was a bushy white beard that nearly covered the cross whenever he bent his neck. But what stood out to Luna the most was this: not only was the strange creature alive, but its life was like hers or the lone figure inside. In other words, he was not some mere fragment of a dream, alive only because the dreamer perceived him to be.

He was there.

Luna readied an attack. Even if she could not enter the fortress, she would ensure that if this creature was a threat to the dreamer that it would not either. But the creature, upon seeing her, simply waved a gnarled hand, his features utterly benign. “Hello, there,” creaked the ancient voice. “Out for a stroll, I see?”

The princess stared. “Who… what are you?” she demanded.

“Merely a fellow sojourner,” he assured her as he drew abreast. “Fret not, Dream Warden. I am not here to interfere with your work. Only to offer comfort and counsel to an old friend.”

He walked past her, towards the thirty-yard mark where the guards had menaced her. “Wait!” she cried out.

The creature waved her off. “I am expected, Princess Luna.” Sure enough, the guards let him approach unhindered. Though the roar of the wind should have cut off his words as he hobbled away, she still heard him clearly, as though he were speaking right next to her. “You did right not to force your way in, Princess, though it is likely that you could have.” Luna wasn’t sure how to take that. “Because of your patience, you will be allowed in one day, and the both of you shall be better for it.” The great iron doors opened, and Luna caught a glimpse of the great Light within. As he entered, the elderly creature turned to look back at her, and Luna could have sworn that his eyes flashed with the same Light as the great shaft. “Fare thee well, Daughter of the Night.”

Luna stood upon her balcony, overlooking the city. She blinked several times as her mind processed what had just transpired. The experience had been rather jarring, even for her, and she felt that it warranted a response appropriate to the gravity of the situation. Since her return, she had picked up on some of the modern slang from the castle staff, and it was to these terms that her subconscious turned, seeking the proper words.

“What the buck?!”

Ponyville General, Ponyville, present time…

Twilight had listened intently with the others as Jacques had described the nature of his visions, his conversation with his mentor, the vision of this Methuselah, and eventually his coming to Equestria. The scholar had many questions, among them who this ‘King Philip’ figure that he had glossed over was, what he had done to Jacques, and why Jacques now belonged to a different martial order. More pressing, however, was a far simpler question:

Why couldn’t these visions ever just come right out and say what they frigging meant?

It was only after she saw everypony staring at her that she realized she’d spoken aloud. “Ahem,” she coughed. “It would just be more convenient, I mean.”

Jacques gave an understanding smile. “I have pondered that many times myself, my young friend. And I am a priest! But I am certain that Providence has a reason.”

“I think it’d make for a boring story if we just got told the answer at the start,” Pinkie assured her.

Rarity sighed. “I think I could stand a little less excitement in my life.”

Jacques shrugged. “Far be it from me to guess at the will of the Author of Life, but speaking for myself I find it practical.” He gave a dry smile. “I very much doubt that if I’d been explicitly told that the land I was travelling to would be populated by magical ponies of pastel hues I would have believed the vision genuine.”

Twilight tilted her head. “Why? Because we’re things of legends?”

“Unicorns and pegasi are,” he answered. “But in my world normal ponies, or earth ponies I suppose I should say, are simple-minded beasts of burden with no intellect to speak of.”

“So what’s the difference?” deadpanned Rainbow Dash, earning a glare from Fluttershy and a hearty smack to the back of the head from Applejack. Twilight rolled her eyes. Rainbow, please try to contain the jokes in front of the world-travelling warrior.

“My point is,” continued Jacques, undeterred, “that I likely would have dismissed my visions as being madness if they’d been more direct.”

Twilight pondered this and other implications, nodding. “That and if visions just barked orders all the time the concept of Free Will would be suspect.”

“That as well.”

Fluttershy spoke up. “So, if you don’t mind my asking, does that mean that every creature that exists in our world is either a legend for you or a non-sapient animal?”

“I would imagine so,” answered Jacques. “Though without knowing all of your apparently many races I would be speculating. I only saw glimpses of a few of the creatures in my vision, ponies, griffons, and a few others, which suggests that there are many more besides what I directly perceived.”

“I hope griffons are just dumb animals,” muttered Rainbow darkly, so quiet that Twilight barely heard her and Jacques almost certainly didn’t.

Rarity gave the pegasus a sympathetic smile and patted her on the withers. “It’s in the past, darling. Let it go.”

Applejack rubbed the back of her neck. “Ah don’t rightly know ‘bout visions an’ the like, but Ah do know they ain’t ta be ignored. If’n the friar says we got a storm o’ trouble blowin’ in, we’d best be ready.”

“Indeed,” agreed Rarity. “Though I must say I don’t much like the sound of these shadows lurking at the edges, picking off those who stray too far from the herd. It reminds me entirely too much of—"

“S-s-sombra,” stammered Fluttershy.

“Precisely.”

“Blech,” grimaced Pinkie Pie. “I don’t want to see that big meanie again.” She tapped a hoof against her chin thoughtfully. “Though, on the bright side, a recurring villain would be a change of pace at least. Silver lining?” she suggested with a forced grin.

“It wouldn’t be Sombra,” said Twilight, shaking her head. “The Crystal Heart destroyed him utterly. He’d already been turned to shadow, and without a corporeal form to take the hit like the first time, he was helpless against the Light and Love of the Heart. Right, Princess?” She turned to her diarch for confirmation, but Celestia was just staring off into space. “Princess?” It was at that moment that she realized that neither Celestia nor Argent had said a word since Jacques had begun his story.

The friar cleared his throat. “If I may, Princess, I’d wager that you and the good captain know something that these others don’t, yes?”

Celestia sighed and shut her eyes. The last time Twilight had seen her this solemn had been right before being sent off to investigate the Crystal Empire. Before that it had been Discord. The realization made her shudder.

At length, the diarch spoke. “It is not Sombra, if that is what troubles you. He is, as you said, rather emphatically dead.” Somehow, the words failed to comfort Twilight. Celestia opened her eyes, and for a brief, horrifying instant, she looked old. “But the approximation to his power is understandable. After all, he was not the only pony to follow that dark path.” Her gaze flicked over to Argent. “Captain, please tell them about the incident in the throne room.”

The officer raised an eyebrow. “With respect, Your Highness, are you certain? We don’t yet know the full details, and our investigation is making little headway.”

Celestia gave a humorless smile. “A warrior has travelled the cosmos to face a dark foe in our land, Argent. I believe a certain measure of transparency is called for.”

“True enough, I suppose,” admitted Argent, who then turned to address the others. “It goes without saying that this is a matter of national security, not public knowledge. You would do well not to disseminate what you hear today outside those within the Princess’s immediate confidence.”

“Cross my heart, hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye!” grinned Pinkie, making her usual oath. “Don’t worry, Cappy! We won’t tell anypony who’s not in the knowie. Losing a princess’s trust is the fastest way to lose your head!”

Celestia gave a pained look at that. Twilight face-hoofed. Jacques just nodded.

Argent seemed unfazed by the outburst. She’s learning fast, thought Twilight.

The captain began her story. “Three nights ago, an as yet unidentified assailant attacked Canterlot Castle.” The others gasped in horror and Twilight was about to bombard Argent with panicked questions when the soldier forestalled her with an upheld hoof. “There were no civilian or military fatalities, as the attack was successfully repulsed, but unfortunately we know precious little about what led to the attack in the first place. The attacker was a unicorn stallion who appears to have had tan coat and dark mane at one point, but it is difficult to say for certain because he had been using Dark Magic.” Argent’s eyes narrowed. “His features had taken on the countenance of Sombra.” She glanced at Jacques and clarified. “An ancient unicorn who succumbed to darkness and wielded shadow as a weapon. It transformed his body, giving him reptilian eyes, living shadows that moved at his command, fangs, and more. This stallion had many of the same traits, down to the eyes and fangs.”

Fluttershy eeped.

“How tacky,” observed Rarity.

“I sent Raven to go find Celestia while two Lunar Guards and I faced the intruder. After making it clear that he wanted to speak with the princess, and was planning to kill anypony who interfered, he attacked us with living shadows that manifested as never-ending tentacles and claws capable of attacking even through the ground. He managed to severely wound one of the guards and use him as a hostage. Celestia arrived and bandied words with him. He claimed that he had no affiliation with Sombra, but that rather he was one of a group called ‘the Shades,’ and that they had come to destroy Celestia. Since it was clear at that point that he was intent upon killing the guardpony, Celestia destroyed him.”

Twilight and the others stood in silence for a moment, processing what had just been said. In all, it was rather a lot to take in, especially for Twilight. She’d grown up in the city, and had a military family; as such, she was intimately familiar with how unprecedented the event was. With the exception of the Changelings, it’s been a long time since anycreature had been brazen enough to attack Canterlot outright, much less Celestia herself. The fact that a lone assailant, and a pony no less, was enough of a threat that Celestia had no choice but to… kill him…

She shook off her worries and forced herself into the comforting embrace of analysis. “Well, you said that his dark magic prevented you from identifying features like his proper coat color and cutie mark, but what about the autopsy?”

Argent blinked. “Celestia destroyed him,” she repeated.

“Oh.” The words clicked. “Oh.”

“There was no choice,” said Celestia, sorrow evident in her voice. “He would not yield, and would not listen to reason. I only hope that it was madness that brought him to that end; perhaps there would be some mercy for him if it was not fully his choice.”

“One can hope,” murmured Jacques.

A morbid pallor hung over the room, restraining the six’s usual enthusiasm.

Rainbow rallied first. “All right, then!” she exclaimed, zipping into the air. “Who are these ‘Shades,’ and where do we go to bring the Harmony?”

“It is not that simple, my little pony,” cautioned Celestia.

“Of course it’s not,” grumbled Applejack.

The diarch didn’t seem to hear her. “The Shades are a threat with which I am familiar, but they are not a name that I have heard in centuries.”

At the word ‘centuries,’ Jacques gave a strangled noise. Twilight looked over, concerned that he’d had some sort of attack, but it appeared that he was merely staring with bulging eyes at Celestia, visibly restraining himself from asking a few hundred questions. Is that what I look like? she wondered.

Celestia either didn’t notice the friar’s discomfort or else chose not to acknowledge it, and strode over to the window to look out at the lengthening evening sky. “The Shades are an old enemy; one of the last ones that Luna and I faced before the coming of the Nightmare. At first we thought them to be survivors of Sombra’s cabal, or else a cult that had risen around him. They were, after all, practitioners of the Dark Arts, sorcerers of the foulest and cruelest kind, that had risen in the wake of Sombra’s first defeat.” She shook her head. “Perhaps it would have been better if they had been.”

Twilight and the others exchanged glances. Better if they had been more like Sombra?

“Better how, exactly?” asked Applejack with her typical frankness.

The Princess grimaced. “I do not know, even now, what dark bargains Sombra made to achieve his power. Doubtless they were damnable. But by the time we faced him he was more concerned with the domination of minds than with outright destruction. It was how he sought power, his own deranged quest for deification. But, heinous as his crimes were, he preferred his victims alive, and where there is life there is hope. But the Shades,” she spat, “they sought power at any cost. And to gain it, they performed blood sac—,” she shuddered, and did not finish. “I do not wish to speak of it now. Suffice it to say it was a black mark upon our history.”

The Bearers shared an uneasy look, disturbed that the princess hadn’t seen fit to tell the whole story. Jacques at least, seemed to have guessed, if his dark look and exclamation of “Mon Dieu aie pitié!” were any indication.

After a moment’s silence Celestia continued. “The Shades swept down from the north like a plague, slaughtering entire villages and cutting a swathe of destruction across the countryside.” Her voice shook with emotion as she recounted the deaths of her beloved subjects. “In all my many years, I have seldom witnessed such atrocities. As I said, Sombra, for all his many evils, would rather have slaves than corpses. But the Shades…” she trailed off and gazed silently at the waning sun. “Theirs was a wanton cruelty of a different nature. As far as sheer power, they could not match Sombra; he had become dangerous enough to be able to face two alicorns, after all. But the Shades were a more insidious threat. Where Sombra had relied on raw might, both his own and that of his slave army, the Shades relied on guile and deception. They, too, had an army, but they did not try to take and hold territory, but rather raided and killed in lightning attacks before vanishing. It was… exceedingly difficult to pin them down, and, without a central power like Sombra to face directly, we were forced into more conventional methods of destroying the menace.”

“The army we formed was a coalition force drawn from various nobles and states within the Three Tribes. Its backbone came from the earth pony warrior tribes of the north; its hammer was a hardy cohort pegasi legionaries; its anvil was cavaliers, the elite of the unicorn knights. For many bitter months we waged a rapid, mobile war against an enemy as elusive as the shadows themselves, until finally we found their wretched nest from which all their evils had spawned.” There was grim satisfaction in her voice and fire in her eyes. “There we buried them.”

To Twilight it seemed as though the temperature in the room rose to an uncomfortable level. The ambient power radiating off of Celestia had taken on a fiery essence, like the summer sun in the desert. This was a side of her mentor that she’d never seen before, the relentless and uncompromising warlord who would pursue an enemy to the very gates of Tartarus to keep her ponies safe. She was both frightened and deeply reassured.

But the story had not given all the details, and, given how vague the visions had been, Twilight wanted to know as much as she could.

Eventually, she put words to what she supposed many of them were wondering. “Um… Princess?” Celestia did not look at her. Twilight swallowed. “How did you finally stop them?”

The princess did not immediately respond. Instead, she turned and gave Argent a long, sad look. At length she replied, “At tremendous cost.” She looked back out the window. “Nine hundred volunteers followed Luna and I on our crusade. More would join us as we came across survivors and militia. But when the dust settled after that final battle…barely three hundred remained.”

Twilight blanched. She could tell without looking that some of the others had started crying.

At that sound, the princess finally faced them, remorse on her features as her aura softened and the room became a pleasant temperature once more. “I am sorry for burdening you with the memories of an old warrior. There is a reason that I do not often speak of it.” With her magic, she dried the eyes of those who had wept. “Our era is a gentler one, unaccustomed to such atrocities, and it is better for it. But the intruder claimed the name of a foe long buried, and that concerns me greatly.”

The Bearers were silent. This was not a threat like what they were accustomed to. Monsters like Sombra and Nightmare Moon were at least individuals. Individuals with the capacity to devastate the world, yes, but still individuals who were vulnerable to the Elements. But, as Celestia had said, a movement of evil ponies was harder to deal with. Nopony seemed to know what to say.

That restriction did not apply to Jacques. “So you think these Shades have returned, then?”

“Not necessarily,” replied Celestia. “My sister and I were rather thorough in stomping out their teachings and adherents. We were even aided in dismantling them by a former Shade who had repented and shown us where to look. It is more likely that this stallion, and any other associates that he may have, are a recent cult who are simply imitating one long dead.”

“But even if they are merely copycats, they are still dangerous,” added Argent, taking over the narrative. “And, while it has only been three days, the fact that our intelligence community has been unable to discover anything about this one ‘Shade’ and whether or not he acted alone is disconcerting.”

“Well ain’t that the understatement o’ the day,” grumbled Applejack.

“Whatever the case,” said Celestia, who now sounded more like her usual self, “there is nothing that the six of you can do at present.” She held up a hoof to cut off Rainbow, who had looked like she was about to spout bravado. “I know you are accustomed to facing down these foes directly, and no doubt the assistance of the Bearers will be required when the ultimate threat is determined. But, as of yet, we simply don’t know enough. Until that changes, you would do well to remain here.”

“Remain here?” repeated Twilight. She blushed at her exclamation and continued in more measured tone. “With all due respect, Princess, wouldn’t we be more useful helping in the investigation?”

“Yeah!” exclaimed Pinkie, who produced her detective hat from her mane and planted a bowler hat on Twilight’s head. “Twilight can be my lowly assistant again!”

“De quoi?” exclaimed Jacques at the sight of the pink mare’s antics.

Argent cleared her throat. “Thank you for the offer, but I believe it would be best to let the spies handle this one.”

“Which is not to say that you won’t have a vital role,” continued Celestia, “perhaps the most vital role of all.” She gestured to Jacques. “Welcoming our new friend.”

The friar raised an eyebrow. “Princess, I mean no disrespect, but my feeling welcome is hardly important. I would prefer to begin my work in rooting out this witchcraft immediately.”

Celestia raised an eyebrow. “Recall Methuselah’s dream, Friar. A wounded warrior cannot fight. And, if you are truly to live amongst us and aid us, then you must understand both our land and your new abilities.”

“Yes,” interjected Twilight emphatically. “You don’t want to be in a fight and have your magic start going off willy-nilly. Trust me!”

Pinkie bounced in place. “And we still gotta throw you a—

Twilight shoved a hoof over Pinkie’s mouth. “A party. Yes. That too.”

The party planner pushed the hoof aside. “I was going to say ‘celebration,’ but that works too.”

Jacques considered this, then nodded. “Very well. There is wisdom in this. Though I’m afraid I cannot pay for my care or lodging at this time, so I must seek work when I am recovered.”

Rarity snorted. “Oh, please, dear Friar. After saving my sister I would be more than happy to cover all your expenses.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Celestia. “The Crown shall pay for his medical treatment, and as for employment I will see to it that you are compensated for your service to Equestria, past and future.”

Argent smirked. “The Civil Service is very good at finding money in the budget for such noble causes as financing professional filly-rescuers.”

“As far as lodging, I’m sure that once you have recovered we can put you up in one of the inns here in Ponyville.”

Twilight considered the various inns available in Ponyville. They were good establishments, by and large, but she worried about the human, new to this land and to his powers, living amongst total strangers. The library is pretty big, and we’ve got a spare room. She grinned broadly. Plus, if he lived at the library, I’d be able to study his magic up close! She was about to suggest just that when Applejack stepped forward, holding her hat in one hoof.

“Er, beggin’ your pardon, Yer Highness, but if’n the Friar don’t mind, we’d sure be honored to have him up at Sweet Apple Acres.” She turned to Jacques. “We got plenty o’ headroom, lots o’ space, an’ I know Granny and Big Macintosh will wanna give ya a proper thank you for saving Applebloom. It’d be our pleasure ta have ya.”

Celestia nodded in approval. Jacques considered the offer, then gave a warm smile. “As I said, your gratitude is unnecessary. A man does his duty. But I would welcome the chance to live amongst friendly faces as I adjust to my…” he twisted one hand in the air, “unfamiliar surroundings. Thank you kindly.”

“Well, that’s sorted,” declared Argent. “And, unless there is nothing else, might I suggest that we adjourn for the evening? It is approaching time for the sun to properly set and I’m sure the good friar is quite tired from the day’s trials.”

Jacques yawned. “Well, I wasn’t until you said something.” Argent chuckled.

“I think that would be wise,” agreed Celestia. “We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow. I will have the nurses return to bring you anything you may require before retiring, Friar.” She dipped her head respectfully. “Once more, I bid you welcome to Equestria.”

Jacques managed a return bow. “Thank you, Princess.” To the group he said, “It has been a pleasure meeting you all. I look forward to seeing you on the morrow.”

The various ponies bid him goodnight and departed. Celestia and Argent split off soon after to discuss official business. The six friends informed Redheart and Medevac that Jacques was ready for them again and headed for the main door. It was at that point that Lieutenant Morning Song made her return with the three fillies and Spike in tow. Other than looking visibly tired, she appeared no worse for wear after the experience, which earned her no small amount of respect from the elder siblings.

All three girls and, to a lesser extent, Spike were disappointed to hear that they had talked to Jacques without them. But Pinkie, perhaps thanks to her experience with the Cakes’ foals, managed to convince them that all they had missed had been boring grown-up talk and that Jacques would be much more able to talk tomorrow now that all that was out of the way. This had succeeded in placating them, and with a final thank you to Lieutenant Song the friends and their siblings had departed.

By ones and twos they peeled off, heading for their respective homes, until only Applejack, Twilight, and their respective wards remained. Spike was walking some ways ahead, seeming eager to get home and finally finish his comic book. Applebloom, worn out from the day’s events, was dozing on Applejack’s back. This left the two adults time to talk.

“Applebloom will be thrilled to hear that the friar will be staying with you,” remarked Twilight.

“Eeyup,” grinned Applejack. “She sure as sugar will.” Her face fell. “Ah just hope the other two don’t get jealous.”

Twilight snickered. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry that they’ll be jealous. I’d worry that they’ll start camping out in your barn just to pester him!”

Applejack grimaced. “Thanks fer that cheery thought.”

Twilight giggled. “You know, if you hadn’t beaten me to it, I was going to invite him to stay at the library.”

“Oh, Ah know,” admitted Applejack. “That’s part o’ why Ah offered so fast.” Twilight gave her a confused look. Applejack responded with an impish grin. “Ah couldn’t bear the thought o’ you experimentin’ on him.”

Twilight glared and jostled her shoulder. Applejack chuckled and Twilight couldn’t suppress a small smile. “I would not experiment on him, AJ.” The farmpony shot her a look. “Without permission,” she amended. Applejack snorted.

The two lapsed into silence for a moment.

“Twi?” said Applejack, her voice serious. “This business about the…” she glanced back at her dozing sister, “…well, you know.” She bit her lip. “It’s gonna be a bad one, isn’t it?”

Mindful that Applebloom might not be as asleep as she appeared, Twilight chose her words carefully. “We were literally sent a warrior to help us, whose magic seems to counter other magics, especially the really bad ones.” She nudged her friend’s shoulder. “And we’ve still got each other.” With a confident smile she declared, “As long as we hold on to that, we’ll win. Just like we always do.”

Applejack sighed in relief. “Thanks, Twi. Ah guess Ah just needed to hear that out loud.”

Twilight nodded back, keeping the smile on her face. But, in her mind, all she could do was think about her beloved Ponyville, seeing it in flames as ponies wielding shadows bathed it in blood. Honestly, Applejack, I think I needed to hear it too.

Author's Note

Edit

I had to make a couple corrections to the 'My Dear Readers' interlude chapter. Specifically, I clarified that the rules concerning evil supernatural magic still apply even if it is an outside source that has worked the magic upon you (e.g. a curse). I also clarified the section on hell to be more explicit in my phrasing:

"Hell is most properly understood as an eternal state of being. With God is all of life, creation, harmony, and existence. Thus, if one is separated from God, the only remaining option is the hell; the absence of Life. Or, to put it more bluntly, eternal Death. When life and death are talked about theologically, it is thus vital to discern whether it is physical or spiritual life and death which are being discussed. It is further important to note that God did not make hell. Rather, hell is a state of void made by the very people who imprison themselves there by cutting themselves off from the Source of Life. To be clear, when I say ‘void,’ I do not mean that the place does not exist. Hell is very real and hell is a place of eternal punishment and damnation. When I say ‘void,’ I mean that it is an eternity of not-God/not-Life/not-Happiness, an unending absence of anything good. Hell is the result of a free choice to decide on ‘not-God,’ and thus be in a state/place of eternal separation and misery."

And, if this makes no sense to you because you didn't read the 'My Dear Readers' chapter, then you have no one to blame but yourself.

As far as this chapter goes, yes, it is more exposition. Turns out I still needed to clarify more than I thought. I don't have the knee-jerk hatred for exposition dumps that most people do (a byproduct of being a historian), but I do prefer a more human touch... ... so to speak. Now that the exposition is done, more personal chapters will follow, and I'm as happy about that as you are. God willing I'll have another chapter ready next weekend, but I know better than to make a promise that I'm unsure I'll be able to keep.

In direct contrast to a mostly serious chapter, today's recommended reading is the Cuil Theory, a story that takes your fragile grasp on reality and sets it on existential fire. What's that, you say? Existential fire isn't a real thing? Facts like that don't matter when you apply the Cuil Theory. Do not read within one hour before operating motor vehicles or heavy machinery. You have been warned.

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Somepony to Lean On

Canterlot Castle, Canterlot

Luna stifled a yawn as she shifted through the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated on her desk. Even though Celestia had canceled the Day Court during her absence, as well as most of her appointments, there were some things that simply couldn’t be put off. Meetings with certain dignitaries, the review of a new budget proposal that was making its rounds in the House of Lords, and reports from officers stationed on or over Equestria’s borders did not simply vanish when Celestia was away. It had taken most of the day for Luna to work through the essentials and, much to her chagrin, more of it had involved the budget than her much-preferred task of familiarizing herself with the modern EUP Guard. As such, she was not in the most pleasant of moods.

Be honest, Luna, she rebuked herself. You’re more irritable from the lack of sleep and the frankly perplexing encounter with that odd biped in the Dreamstride than with budgets.

In truth, the dream had unsettled her. She was centuries old, and instances wherein she came across something that was utterly beyond her understanding, especially within the Dreamstride, were vanishing rare.

Still, she reasoned, there’s nothing else to be done until Celestia returns with news, or at least until I can probe that creature’s dreams again.

Stifling another yawn, she returned to her paperwork. In a short while it would be time to raise the moon and set it on its journey, and not long after that she could resume her usual nightly duties as Dreamwarden and Watcher of the Night, the latter of which had taken on a rather pressing importance after the attack by the so-called ‘Shade.’ What the poor lost soul’s motivations and origins had been remained a mystery, and as of yet her investigators had revealed nothing.

All things in their due time, she reasoned as she signed off on another requisition form for explosive quarrels from the 101st Rangers. Nothing that lurks in the dark remains there long before it is thrust into the light.

There came a knock at the door of her study. “Who is it?” she called out.

“Mr. Grey is here to see you, Your Highness,” replied the guard.

Luna felt a smile come to her lips. “Excellent. Send him in, if you please.”

The door opened to admit a middle-aged earth pony stallion. True to his name, he was grey-coated, with a distinguished white mane, dapper blue jacket, rose tie, and gold cufflinks and pocket watch of the highest quality. His cutie mark was a stone smith’s compass and stylus. Grey’s face had begun to show wrinkles with age, but there was nothing aged about the cheeky grin he shot her as he burst into the room with the confidence of a Royal. “Luna!” he cried out cheerily. “How’s my favorite princess?”

Through the still open door Luna saw her guards stiffen, but they didn’t react. They knew Mr. Grey and, even if they didn’t approve of his familiarity with the princess, they would tolerate him as long as she did.

And tolerate him she did. More than that, she rather enjoyed his frankness, which was why he was one of the only ponies in Canterlot besides her sister that she was comfortable being on a casual first-name basis with. “Hello, Mason. I’m doing quite well, thank you. Please, have a seat.” She shut the door behind him with her magic while pulling out a pair of cups. “Tea?” she offered. Mason scoffed. Relenting, she pulled out a pair of glasses instead. “Wine?” she corrected.

“Now you’re speaking my language,” he grinned, rubbing his hooves in anticipation as she pulled out a bottle from the sisters’ private vintage and poured them each a generous amount. Taking it in his hoof, he sniffed the liquid appreciatively, allowing its aroma to wash over him. “Mmmm,” he hummed appreciatively. “You know, Luna, I’m really more of a scotch or bourbon stallion myself, but I must say that I have a hard time turning down one of your vintages.”

Luna smirked. “Not that you’ve ever tried to, of course.”

“Why would I deny myself anything? Life’s short, and a stallion’s gotta live, eh?”

The princess chuckled. “You are incorrigible, Mason.”

“I try my best, your princessliness.” He held up his glass for a toast. “To friends!”

She clinked her glass against his. “To friends indeed.”

They both drank in silence for a few moments, allowing the magnificent flavors to massage their palettes. Luna rather enjoyed the break from the monotony of the day’s labors. Sadly, the moment was not to last. With a grimace, Grey sat back in his chair. “Much as I hate to be ‘that stallion,’ I did come here on business, so what’s say we get that out of the way first so that we can talk about all the juicy gossip around the palace.”

Luna rolled her eyes. “You know I don’t enjoy the ‘juicy gossip’ nearly as much as you do, Mason.”

Grey shrugged. “Well, alright. If you don’t want to hear about Blueblood’s latest fiasco…”

“What are we waiting for? Let’s talk business.”

As well as being her friend, Mason happened to be one of the most successful industrialists in Equestria. His family had had a hoof in the construction business since their earliest days as stone cutters in the era before Luna’s banishment. In fact, Luna recalled that his ancestor, an engineer named Grey Stone, had helped in the construction of the Castle of the Two Sisters. Thus, she cherished her friendship with the present Grey not only for his wit, but also as a reminder of happier days and simpler times.

And, for all his distaste for ‘talking shop,’ Grey was a shrewd businesspony, and his insights into the various industries, combined with his personal connections in the professional community, made him a wealth of information. He’d done more to bring Luna up to date on the present economics of Equestria than a dozen other tutors combined. It didn’t hurt that he had an acerbic, even acidic sense of humor, which made even the driest of topics interesting in Luna’s mind.

Eventually, though, they had wound their way to more frivolous matters. Luna felt more than a little guilty to be engaging in gossip of any sort, but she rationalized that it helped keep her informed. Moreover, she had not taken kindly to her nephew Blueblood, especially after his less-than-genteel treatment of Rarity, and as such she took a perhaps unjust amount of delight in hearing about his missteps.

“He didn’t!” she exclaimed as Mason finished his story.

“He did,” smiled Grey. “Right in front of the Duke of Shetland, too. I imagine it will take them weeks to get it out of the carpet, and even longer before Old Mane Ironshod lets the ponce back into his castle.” Luna dissolved into giggles of mirth, and Grey chuckled along with her. Taking another sip of wine, he settled back in his chair and adopted and inquisitive air. “So tell me, Luna. Word on the grapevine is your sister took off in quite a hurry this morning with a bunch of her War Dogs in tow. Nothing catastrophically wrong, I trust?”

Much as Luna liked Grey, she wasn’t about to reveal what was at this moment considered a state secret. For his own safety as much as anything. “I’m afraid I have no interesting news for you, Mason. There are twenty new candidates for the REF who are completing their assessments. And, well, you know my sister. She likes to handle things personally from time to time.” She gestured to the paperwork. “Or, more likely, she just wanted a break.”

Mason gave a throaty chuckle. “Oh, so that’s how it is, eh?” His gaze darkened, though his smile remained. “Tell me, Luna. Do you think me a stupid stallion?”

“Of course not,” replied Luna, recoiling slightly at the suggestion.

“Then don’t talk to me like I’m stupid.”

Luna gave him an arch look. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning, Mason. Perhaps we would both be better served by you clarifying instead of expecting me to guess.”

“Then I’ll be blunt. I’m one of the wealthiest industrialists in all of Equestria, right?”

“You don’t say,” Luna deadpanned.

“Don’t get snippy, Princess. You’ll ruin those pretty features of yours with frowning.” He scratched the back of his head. “Where was I?”

“Wealthy.”

He winked and gave a toothy smile. “Always am. Anyway, my point is that many of my mines and factories are close to the borders or to dangerous zones within Equestria; the kinds of places where the military’s work isn’t exactly public knowledge, know what I mean? Point is, if I had a bit for every time I’d been fed the whole ‘it’s just a training mission’ line I’d be even more fabulously wealthy than I already am.” A look of inspiration struck his face and he pulled out a notepad and pencil to jot something down. “Note to self: have Sandy peruse obscure Equestrian law for me,” he muttered. “Anyway, the bottom line is, I know Sun Flank isn’t off for a walk in the park with her Dogs. And everypony knows Ponyville is where the skat hits the fan more than anywhere else in the heartland.” His eyes narrowed. “So if you can’t tell me what she’s up to, fine, but don’t insult my intelligence by pretending nothing’s up.”

Most ponies would have found themselves forcibly propelled through the door for such brazen conduct towards her, but Grey was hardly most ponies. Luna blushed, chastened, feeling unaccountably guilty for having been deceptive. “I suppose that is valid,” she admitted. “Though technically it really is a training operation. But you are correct in supposing that I can’t tell you the full story.”

Grey gave a sunny grin. “Hey, no worries, Luna. I just wanted us both to know where we stand.”

Luna smiled, grateful that he was not offended. “Care for another drink by way of recompense.”

The stallion stood, straightening his jacket. “You know I’d love to, but I’ve got another meeting to trot off to.” He pulled out his gold watch and glanced at the time. His eyebrows rose. “Check that, I’m late for another meeting that I’ve got to gallop off to.” He rolled his eyes. “No rest for the wicked, eh, Luna? Sometimes I feel like I’m running a frigging country.”

She gestured to her paperwork. “Care to trade?” she asked with a coy smile.

“Don’t tempt me,” he chuckled. “You might not come out as far ahead as you think with that deal.” He trotted over to the door and threw it open with a careless kick. “Ta-ta, Lulu! See you next week!” Then, with exaggerated loudness that was obviously directed at her two guards, he added, “You’ll have to spill all your state secrets to me then!” and with that he galloped off, cackling.

One of the stallions on guard cast a bemused glance at the princess, who simply shook her head with a dry smile by way of answer. Satisfied that this was simply a normal visit from Grey, the guard nodded and shut the door.

With the click of the latch, Luna was once more alone in her study with a mound of paperwork, like a prisoner under elegant house arrest. Glancing at the clock and realizing that she would have to double her efforts in order to get done before it was time to raise the moon, she heaved a deep sigh before setting her nose back to the grindstone, Grey’s words still lingering in her ears. No rest for the wicked indeed.

Ponyville General, Ponyville

Redheart and Medevac reentered Jacques’ room pushing a cart bearing a tray laden with food items that probably rated a description more generous than merely ‘edible,’ but did not yet meet the criteria for ‘good to eat.’ At least, as far as flavor was concerned. Nutritionally it was a different matter; the collection of plain applesauce, bland rice cereal, and protein slurry were calculated to provide the nutrients that a recovering body needed without being too hard to digest. They just don’t taste like much.

“Dinnertime, Friar,” she announced as she entered. “I hope your near-death experience was enough to work up an appetite.” Because you may have a hard time eating this if it wasn’t.

Jacques looked up from one of his books as they entered and greeted them warmly. “Ah, Bonne Sœur Redheart, Monsieur Medevac. Welcome. Tell me, how fares the mother and child?”

Redheart paused, caught off-guard by the inquiry. New foal. We mentioned it to explain why the doctor was absent. Right. “They’re doing well. The foal was born without any serious complications and she’s feeding normally.”

“And the happy mother managed to not strangle the unicorn father during the labor,” added Medevac with a smirk.

“Truly, a joyous day for all,” laughed Jacques.

Redheart wheeled the cart over to his bedside and pointed out the different foodstuffs. Jacques thanked her and began eating. Rapidly.

“Woah, slow down there, Friar,” chided Medevac. “You’re gonna make yourself sick eating that fast.”

“My apologies,” replied the old man, slowing his pace. “Old habit from the campaign trail that I never really lost. We always ate swiftly when in an unfamiliar place because we were worried about ambushes.”

Medevac gave a humorless chuckle. “Believe me, I get that.”

A period of silence followed as the two nurses watched the friar eat. Clearing her throat, Redheart asked a question that had been bothering her since she came in. “Friar, when we came in you called Medevac ‘Monsieur’ and me ‘Bonne Sœur.’”

He tilted his head. “I did? Hmph. Andrew would have been huffy with me for slipping into French like that in front of English speakers.”

English? “I don’t speak Prench, or ‘French’ as you say, but I do know that ‘monsieur’ basically means ‘mister.’ But I don’t recognize the other, and it’s the second time you’ve called me it.”

“Wait, the second?” asked Medevac. “When was the first?”

“When he was, well, passed out and delirious,” she admitted.

Jacques set aside his empty tray. “Well, I must confess that it may well be an inaccurate term, but one that I fall into by long habit.” He pointed to her hat. “It is on account of your cap.”

“My cap?”

“Indeed. Am I correct in guessing that you are a civilian physician rather than a member of an order of some sort?”

“Yes,” she replied slowly.

“Well, where I come from, the cross is a holy symbol, often worn by members of Holy Orders. Some, like my own Hospitaller Order, are martial in nature, though we also provide medical care as that was our original mission. Other orders teach, or preach, or give alms as their primary focus. The red cross in the white field is familiar to me because that was the symbol of my first order, the Knights Templar.”

“Huh,” remarked Redheart. “So, when you saw me, did you call me a knight? Is that what bonne sœur means?”

“Not exactly,” smiled Jacques. “You see, members of such orders live in community together as brothers and sisters. So when I called you bonne sœur…” he spread his palms wide.

“You called me ‘sister,’” she finished.

“Yes.”

Redheart turned the thought over in her head. He called me ‘sister.’ For some reason it gave her a warm feeling inside. “That’s… that’s kind of flattering, actually,” she said with a smile. “No stranger has every called me ‘sister’ right out of the gate before. I like it.”

Medevac snickered. “Well, good. The Friar’s from outta town and could use some family. You can be his little sister.”

The mare nudged him sharply. “It’s less endearing when you say it.”

Jacques held up a placating hand. “If it makes you uncomfortable—

Redheart cut him off with a wave of her hoof. “Nonsense. Like I said; I’m flattered.” She glanced up at the clock and noticed that it was getting rather late. Celestia’s probably getting ready to set the sun soon. “We still have to make our rounds this evening, though we’ll be back in to check on you throughout the night.” Given the unusual nature of the human, she and Medevac had elected to crash at the hospital and alternate waking up to check on him. “Before we go, is there anything else we can help you with?”

The friar looked like he was about to shake his head in the negative, but stopped short, seeming to have a sudden realization. “Well, yes there is,” he replied. “But it would probably be for the best if Medevac were the one to assist me while you made your rounds.”

She gave a teasing smile. “What’s the matter, Friar? You just made me your sister and now you’re trying to get rid of me?”

Jacques cocked an eyebrow. “I simply assumed that a lady wouldn’t want to be present while I relieved myself.”

Oh. Redheart blushed. “Well, no. I suppose I wouldn’t want to be,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. Medevac cackled and she jabbed him sharply. “Quiet, you! Or I’ll make you pull double shifts this week.”

“Is that a fact?” he asked mockingly.

Redheart made her way towards the door. “I outrank you, soldier! I’m the senior nurse, and I’m not afraid to abuse it!”

“You don’t scare me, Little Sister!” came Medevac’s jovial reply. “I have survived Marine E-rats! I fear nothing!”

Pausing at the door, Redheart shot a malicious smile back at her friend. “Call me ‘Little Sister’ again and Marine Emergency Rations will be the second most unpleasant thing that’s been forced down your throat,” she raised her hoof menacingly. Then she waved cheerily to Jacques, who looked rather bemused by the whole affair. “Have a good evening, Friar!” With that she left.

Medevac was still chuckling as Redheart left. Jacques shot him a cautioning glance. “I wouldn’t antagonize her if I were you.”

The former medic shrugged and began unhooking the friar from the machine. “Naw, she’s cool with it. Red’s got a good sense of humor.”

Jacques shook his head. “Young man, I’ve known many women with good senses of humor in my time. It was still a poor idea to antagonize them.”

“Women?”

“Mares, in your case.”

“Ah.” He finished removing the wires, sensors, and other medical instruments. “Now, how stable are your legs feeling?”

“How far are we going?”

Medevac pointed to a side door. “Latrine’s right through there.”

Jacques bushy eyebrows shot up. “You have indoor toilets?”

The medic chuckled. “Yeah, and we’ve got running water too. We might be a hick town, but we’ve still got indoor plumbing.” Medevac meant it teasingly, but frowned when he saw that Jacques was genuinely shocked. “Do you… not have indoor plumbing?”

“Ouah! No!” exclaimed Jacques. “Most just dump buckets outside! Only cities where the old aqueducts still work is there even safe drinking water to be had!”

Medevac blanched at the unsanitary conditions. Still, I’ve seen it over the borders. He probably shouldn’t tell Rarity, though. “So, if the drinking water’s unsafe, what do you drink?”

“Wine and ale, mostly,” responded Jacques, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Hm. Sounds like a party,” grunted Medevac. “Well, here we’re a little bit luckier than that. Our water is safe to drink, and our plumbing takes the sewage away so that it doesn’t contaminate anything. Only downside is we don’t have an excuse to start drinking booze first thing in the morning.” He pointed to the bathroom. “Now, the head ain’t that far, and I can take your weight if you want to walk, but if you’re afraid you won’t be able to stand I can fetch a wheelchair.” Or, more likely, an orderly to help me carry you because somehow I doubt we have a chair in your size; it’s a miracle we had a minotaur-sized bed.

Jacques gave him a skeptical look. “I believe I can walk, but are you certain you can help support my weight?”

Medevac chuckled. “Don’t let my size fool you. To be a medic I had to be able to fly carrying a full-sized earth pony stallion in assault rig and his weapons. And, lemme tell you, even without their armor those guys are dense. If two mares managed to drag you clear outta the Everfree Forest, I’m confident I can get you to the crapper in one piece.”

Jacques assented, and Medevac helped him to his feet. The human was too tall for the medic to walk beside, unless he felt like being used as a cane, so instead he took to the air and let Jacques loop a gnarled arm over his neck. The human hesitated, but once they actually started moving and it became clear that Medevac’s assurances had not been empty boasting, he calmed down. “So you were a soldier, then?” asked the friar as they slowly walked.

“Medical Officer Second Class Medevac, Royal Marine Corps, at your service,” replied the medic. “And there’s no ‘were’ about it. Once a Marine, always a Marine. I may be retired, but there’s no expiration date on being a warrior.”

Jacques chuckled. “I can certainly relate to that.”

Medevac glanced at the friar’s many scars. Too right you can, old man. He considered asking about them, but thought better of it. No telling whether it’s a painful memory for him. Maybe I’ll ask about the combat scars, but the lashes, the burns… I’ll let him bring those up.

“How did you lose your leg?” asked Jacques, his tone conversational.

Ah, the smalltalk of soldiers, thought Medevac as he pushed the door to the latrine open with his snout. “Nothing much to it. Just a spot of bad luck,” he answered. They entered the bathroom and managed to maneuver over to the toilet. There was some difficulty, considering how low the toilet was and the more confined space, but between Medevac’s support, the grab bars on the wall, and Jacques’ frankly impressive grip strength, they managed to get him sat down. Medevac was thankful that Jacques managed to pull down his shorts himself; as a medic, he dealt with far worse, but he still didn’t like having his muzzle or wings that near somecreature’s nether regions. “I was out on mission with my platoon, that’s a unit of about sixty ponies by the way, trying to clear out a bunch of slavers who’d set up shop in a town way south of the border. Intelligence said they didn’t have any artillery, but, as the saying goes, there are three things you never trust in the Marines: green officers, the chow, and the intel. One minute we were advancing down the street when our point pony shouts ‘cannon!’ Next thing I know I’m sailing through the air towards a wall.” He parted the silver hair of his close-cut mane to reveal a deep scar on his scalp. “Hit the wall hard enough to tear the flesh open. Helmet saved me from getting my brains sprayed everywhere, but I was out cold. When I came to, my leg was just gone. I didn’t even hear the shot that took it.”

Jacques said nothing, but nodded his head in sympathy.

Medevac continued. “I was lucky, you know? Same canister shot that took my leg killed four other Marines and crippled six.” He tapped his prosthetic against the floor. “I get by pretty well, all things considered. Better than some can say. And I’m a pegasus, so it doesn’t really slow me down much.” He shook his head and chuckled. “You know what the weirdest part of it is, though? It still itches. Darndest thing. I mean, the leg is gone. How the heck does it still itch?”

The friar gave a small smile. “A few of my brethren lost limbs over the years. They said the same thing. I confess that I don’t understand it personally, but I’m told it’s infuriating.”

“It is.”

“All the same, you seem to be handling it well.”

Medevac shrugged. “That’s war. Like I said, I was lucky. I came home on my own three legs while my brothers came home in boxes. I have a lot to be grateful for.”

“That I can relate to.”

The medic gave the man’s scars a long look. “I imagine you can.”

Jacques appeared to notice the scrutiny. “You’re a seasoned veteran, Medevac. And a physician at that. I assume you’ve guessed that most of my scars are not born of combat?”

You’re sharp, old-timer. “Yeah,” he admitted.

“Who else knows?” Jacques’ tone wasn’t accusing. More sad than anything.

“Red and Doc Stable, because they had to know when we were treating you. Two other nurses saw the scars, but they don’t know how you got ‘em. I told the princess, Captain Argent, and the corporal, which probably means they’ve debriefed the rest of the platoon. The Bearers all know that you were tortured, but only Twilight and Applejack actually heard my speculations as to how badly. The rest took my advice and left the room first.” Jacques’ shoulders slumped and Medevac winced. “Sorry if I violated your privacy or something. We just weren’t sure if you would wake up, and it seemed relevant—"

Jacques waved him to silence. “It’s not that. You were simply doing your duty. And I’m not ashamed of my scars; they were earned with honor.” He sighed. “It’s just that… the Bearers all seem to be such gentle souls. Innocent and kind. I would rather have preserved them from the knowledge.”

Medevac raised an eyebrow. “Take it from somepony who knows, Friar. Nothing stays secret for long around those six. Especially if somecreature’s been hurt. They’ve got a compulsive ‘must-help’ attitude. It’ll come up sooner or later.”

The friar raised an eyebrow. “It’s not exactly something that I want to discuss.”

“Time was I said the same thing about my leg.”

Jacques grunted but didn’t pass comment. A short while later he was finished and Medevac helped him over to the sink. After taking a few moments to be awestruck by the marvel of modern plumbing, a sight that Medevac found oddly touching, the two made their way back over to the bed. As they walked, Jacques sucked a breath in through his teeth, as though steeling himself to ask an unpleasant question. “Tell me, my friend,” he began carefully. “Am I… decent right now?”

The question was so unexpected that Medevac almost halted mid-air. “What?”

“It didn’t occur to me at first because horses and ponies and the like are just unthinking beasts of burden in my world and naturally clothes aren’t an issue,” Jacques hastened to explain, “but humans must wear clothing to protect our modesty. And yet most of you walk around naked.” They reached the bed and Medevac lowered the friar to sit on the edge. “So I ask, am I being immodest by not covering myself more thoroughly?”

“Gotcha,” replied the medic. “Well, as far as ponies go our fur pretty well provides all the covering we need. As far as you though…” Medevac had to think about that one for a moment. Inspiration struck when he remembered his time spent in Minotaur territory. “I think as long as you’ve got pants or shorts or something on you’re fine.”

“So why do you wear clothes, then? Is it because you’re male?”

Once again, Medevac was caught off guard. Then he realized that, of all the ponies Jacques had met, only he and the corporal were male, and both were wearing clothes. “Naw. I just wear this when I’m working.” He shrugged off his lab coat and flapped into the air, clad only in his deep brown fur. “See? Nothing to see here.”

Jacques cocked an eyebrow, then cleared his throat. “Um, not to be indelicate, but where I come from a male pony’s fur was not long enough to cover his, ahem, masculinity.”

Medevac tilted his head, then laughed. “That would be unfortunate, wouldn’t it? No worries, Friar. You have shorts to cover yours; we have foreskins for ours.”

“I see,” replied Jacques. He mulled the thought over for a moment, then gave a dry chuckle. “I suppose the question of circumcision versus uncircumcision would have had a much deeper level of complication for you lot than for us.”

“What?”

“It would take too long to explain.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “So what about dressing and undressing? Is that a matter of concern?”

Medevac waved his hoof side to side. “Depends on who you ask. It’s generally considered improper to change your clothes in front of members of the opposite sex if it can be avoided. Likewise it’s improper to enter the bedroom of a member of the opposite sex when they’re sleeping or trying to sleep. In both cases it’s because there’s an association of intimacy in that setting that’s inappropriate if you’re not married. But, since nothing is actually uncovered, it’s not really a big deal if that rule gets bent when there's a legitimate reason, like for soldiers out in the field where you don’t have a lot of options.”

“Fascinating,” replied Jacques. “Quite the departure from my own world.” He pointed to Medevac’s flank. “What does that brand signify?”

The medic glanced at his flank, or, more specifically, at the symbol of an upwards pointing silver arrow bracketed by wings. “Brand?” he chuckled. “You mean my cutie mark?”

Jacques blinked. “I’m sorry, English is my second language and I think I misheard you. Your what?”

“My cutie mark,” repeated Medevac.

“Cutie… mark,” echoed Jacques slowly.

“Yes, my cutie mark.”

The corners of Jacques’ mouth twitched. “It’s called a… cutie mark?”

Medevac frowned. “Yes. Why?”

There was a quiver in Jacque’s voice that sounded suspiciously like amusement. “And… is it called a… cutie mark…” he almost choked on the words, “for both stallions and mares?”

Folding his forelegs in annoyance, Medevac answered, “Yes, it is. A cutie mark is a reflection of one’s special talent, and since ‘cutie’ is derivative of ancient terms for ‘endearing’ and ‘attachment,’ it is used to describe the mark that shows one’s connection to one’s special talent.”

“Is that so?” managed Jacques through clenched teeth, his face becoming red with suppressed mirth.

“Yes, it is so,” half-snarled Medevac. “Why? You got a problem with cutie marks?”

It was too much for Jacques. With a snort he burst out into gales of laughter so intense that he had to grip the side of the bed to avoid falling off. Medevac glared. Between bouts of hilarity, Jacques managed to wheeze out an apology. “I’m sorry!” he chuckled. “I really am sorry. I’m sure the name makes perfect sense here and has a proud and noble tradition. It’s just that… where I’m from, ‘cutie’ is a term reserved for babes, puppies, and occasionally pretty young ladies. And the thought of you, a grizzled warrior, having a cutie mark…” he trailed off with renewed mirth.

Medevac glared for a few more moments, then felt a reluctant grin spread across his features. “Yeah, I guess I can see how that would be funny,” he muttered in agreement. And I suppose it’s good to see a guy who nearly died laughing so hard.

“I really am sorry,” said Jacques, who finally managed to bring his amusement under control. “Words mean different things to different people. I’m just… this is all so new to me, you see? Please forgive me.”

Medevac rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I reckon I can do that,” he smirked.

“Thank you,” replied Jacques with a humble dip of his head. “Now, I believe you mentioned a ‘special talent?’”

“Hm. Yeah, you guys wouldn’t have those with no magic, huh,” said Medevac. “Without getting too technical, when ponies discover what they’re particularly gifted at doing in a ‘life-purpose’ kind of way, they get their mark. It’s magical in nature and very powerful. Even now we don’t fully understand it, but it’s tied to the connection between a pony’s purpose and his or her ability to fulfill it.”

“A physical manifestation of one’s vocation, then?” asked Jacques.

“That’d be one way of putting it, yeah.”

“How marvelous,” remarked Jacques. “That would certainly make the discernment process somewhat clearer. If nothing else you’d know when you got it right.”

“Not necessarily,” corrected Medevac. “Ponies can misinterpret what their mark is supposed to be. And, of course, the mark itself can represent a pretty broad concept. For example, I’m good at physically air-lifting ponies out of dangerous situations. I’m also good at lifting their spirits.”

“So even after you get your mark, the discernment process continues?”

“More or less.”

Jacques nodded. “Well, I may not have a cutie mark,” he gave a small grin, “but my life has not been too different.” He gestured to his robe. “I, too, am marked by my vocation, but it has taken my whole life to bring me to where I am now in the journey.”

Medevac laughed. “You mean half-naked in a hospital surrounded by creatures from your myths?”

The friar smiled. “And there’s your special talent in action.”

“I try.” The medic glanced out the window and noticed that Celestia had already set the sun. “Speaking of trying, you should try to get some sleep. You’ve had a long day.”

Jacques obediently laid down. “You mean the several hours lying unconscious weren’t sufficient?” he quipped.

Medevac wrapped the old man in a blanket. “Hey, tasteless jokes about near-death experiences are the medic’s job, not the patient’s. Stop trying to take my job.”

“As you wish, milord,” said the friar with mock submission.

The medic handed him the call button. “Press this if you need anything during the night. Redheart and I will be in to check on you a few times.” Jacques looked at the button, muttered something in Prench that sounded like ‘marvelous,’ and nodded. Medevac retrieved his jacket and flew to the door. “Sweet dreams, Friar.”

As he turned out the light and left, he could have sworn he heard, “Wouldn’t that be a nice change of pace.”

Knotter’s Knoll, Ponyville

The etymology of the name given to the short hill that lay behind Ponyville General had been lost to time, leading to a great deal of speculation on the part of the local populace as to why anypony in their right mind would name a knoll after a knotter. A goodly number of local legends had sprung up to explain the odd moniker, ranging from humorous to romantic to ghastly. However, none of those reasons were of any concern to Celestia and Argent. They just wanted a secluded place for the princess to lower the sun without fanfare.

It was always something rather awe-inspiring for Argent to see, even after all these years. Perhaps it was because she was so seldom in Canterlot to actually see it. Perhaps it was simply that a magical feat of that magnitude ought to be incredible even after many repetitions. Or perhaps there’s still one little bit of childlike wonder that life over the borders hasn’t killed yet.

The thought of the borders brought Argent’s attention back to her surroundings. Ponyville, she reflected, so close to the capitol, and yet virtually undefended. A handful of reservists from the constabulary pass through from time to time, but that’s it. The DCS isn’t even in Ponyville; he’s a few townships over. Granted, no need for a Detective Chief Superintendent when there’s precious little crime to speak of, and the Bearers tend to get deputized to handle what little there is, but you’d think that a place this close to the capital would at least sport a small garrison of guards and a couple constables. True, they’ve managed thus far, but with evil tidings on the horizon, who’s to say that will last?

“What’s troubling you, Argent?”

Argent jolted at the voice, glancing up at Celestia. “Nothing, Princess,” she replied. Celestia cocked an eyebrow. Bloody Tartarus. Should have known better than to think an immortal wouldn’t pick up on my mood. “I was just thinking about the security in Ponyville, Your Highness.” Or the lack thereof.

“I see,” nodded Celestia. “And you think we should increase it?”

Yes. “Just pondering, Princess.”

Celestia rolled her eyes. “Speak freely, Captain. Sycophancy has never been a family trait of the Argents and I would hate to see that change.”

With a blush, Argent obliged. “Very well, Princess. I must admit that I have often wondered about Ponyville’s relative lack of a permanent Guard or Police presence. For that matter, I often wonder about many towns in Equestria. It’s not uncommon for one DCS and a hoof full of detectives and constables or a sheriff and a few deputies to cover five or six towns in a district. And, away from the borders, the capital, and a few major industrial nodes, EUP Guard presence is negligible.” She sighed and rubbed absently at the dent in her armor. “Perhaps I’ve just spent too long over the border, but I find myself… uncomfortable in any place this open to attack.”

Celestia nodded. “I understand, Captain. And, I admit, there are times when I feel the same way myself.” She gave a dry chuckle. “Equestria was not always this peaceful, after all.” She sat on the soft grass of the knoll and bade Argent do the same. “But there is method to my madness, I assure you.”

Argent took her seat slowly, having a hard time relaxing from her rigidity in the presence of royalty, whatever Celestia directed. “I have no doubt of that, Princess.”

“I’m sure,” smiled the alicorn. She looked up at the rising moon, deep in thought, and for a moment Argent thought the two of them would be sitting in silence. Then Celestia spoke. “The State has no authority by its own right, but only that which is granted unto it. This is the First Rule of Governance. The Second is that the State exists to serve the populace by protecting and promoting their Intrinsic Rights. The Third is that a State which infringes upon that which is Intrinsic is no longer a valid State, but is rather Tyranny, and must be opposed. These Rules are fundamental to the very nature of the world, and I have always striven to live by them throughout the evolution of Equestria’s government from a feudal realm to a constitutional diarchy.”

The soldier nodded, not knowing what to say. What Celestia was speaking of was Augusteed’s Three Rules of Governance, which predated Equestria and were themselves informed by the works of the ancient philosophers Ploto and Aristotail. Every Guard in Equestria was required to memorize the Three Rules, and to swear to uphold them even in the eventuality that the State did not. Which is why our oaths are taken to the authority of the throne, rather than to the pony who sits on it. Before Nightmare Moon’s return, Argent had never fully appreciated why the distinction existed, but she certainly appreciated it now. Imagine if Celestia had decided to follow the same path. She shuddered. It didn’t bear considering.

What did bear considering was why Celestia was bringing it up now. Rather than asking, Argent decided to let the diarch talk.

“In order to protect the populace, the State must be willing to fight and have military and police forces on hoof to counter threats to their rights. However,” she cautioned, “great care must be taken to avoid creating a system in which the State and its extensions remove the rights of the populace through their own actions. Thus, the State must exercise power as far as it is needed to promote Justice. No more, and no less. Law; military; police; government; all are ultimately responsible to the higher cause of Justice, and from this they derive their authority. If they are not needed to protect Justice, then they are not to be employed in that capacity.” The diarch shut her eyes. “In the old days, threats to Equestria were many, and I often had cause to fly out with my sister and call for the ponies of the realm to lend their armies to the cause of Justice. There were times when no town in Equestria was without warriors.” She opened her eyes. “But, when the era of peace came, there was no need for armies in every corner of the land. Most towns are perfectly capable of policing themselves; so they are allowed to.”

Argent nodded. “I understand, Your Highness.”

Celestia glanced at her captain, and for a brief flash Argent saw fire in her eyes. “Make no mistake, Captain; if a horde of griffons or an army of dragons were descending on Ponyville, I would ride out with every spear I could muster and pave a bloody road to the Abyss.” The fire dimmed. “But until then, I stay out of my little ponies’ lives as much as possible.” She chuckled and shook her head. “A true ruler is not a tyrant, even if many have called me one of late, and I would rather my head be mounted on a spike than that I become one.”

Argent blanched at the thought of her beloved ruler’s head on a spike. “Perish the thought, Princess! Who has been saying such things?”

The alicorn chuckled. “I take it you haven’t been keeping up with politics in Canterlot?” Argent shook her head. “Well, let’s just say that there are some rather vocal ponies who consider any sort of uneven distribution of power, magical or otherwise, to be tyranny, and seek to establish a new system wherein the power is held equally amongst the masses.”

“And just how do they plan to accomplish such a feat?” asked Argent with raised eyebrow.

Celestia gave a sly smile. “Why, by the actions of a select few who distribute it, of course.”

Argent snorted. “Yes, because they can surely be trusted not to hold the power for themselves. I swear, this rot gets stupider every year.”

“I don’t know. It might be an improvement over the hide-bound reactionaries in the House of Lords who would prefer to establish serfdom.”

“Truly, a higher bar has never been set,” deadpanned Argent. Celestia gave a rather unladylike snicker. Argent removed her helmet and regarded the polished surface with a frown. Talking about this year’s flavor of anti-diarchy numbskulls is not exactly calculated to improve my mood. These fools never understand how good they have it; they don’t know what it’s like over the borders. We might not be perfect, but we’re a darn sight better than half the countries I’ve been to. And we have heroes who are always striving to make us better. We’re lucky to have…

“What about the Bearers, Your Highness?” she asked abruptly.

“Pardon?”

Argent turned to face her. “What about the Bearers? After all the threats they’ve faced… I suppose I’m surprised you don’t have half a regiment stationed here to serve and protect them.”

Celestia smiled. “You know, Luna proposed almost exactly the same thing. Except, well louder.” She ran a hoof through the grass. “Fame is a two-edged sword, Argent. On one hoof, a land needs heroes; honor ought to mark virtue. On the other hoof, fame can attract bad elements. And not just physical threats either. A hero becomes the target of every sycophant, politico, and self-serving con artist looking to get ahead in the world.”

Finding a flower with her hoof, she began to toy with it.

“She is manipulated; harassed; every facet of her private life becomes public knowledge.”

With a tug of her magic, she plucked the flower and regarded its figure with a frown.

“In a sense it has always been this way. Even in bygone eras heroes have been subject to this. But it was different in those days. News travelled far slower; active threats kept the heroes busy; statecraft was less corrupted by personal intrigues; and, to be quite frank, many heroes died in battle before they could be dragged into the soft war of politics and drama.”

The flower began to wilt.

“Then there’s the small matter of the Bearers’ services to the crown that are best kept quiet,” murmured Celestia. “The dangerous little artifacts that have resurfaced here and there. Talks with dragons that are better served by avoiding our official channels entirely. The stealth mission to the Crystal Empire. The full details behind the how the Elements function. Even that business with Discord was theoretically to remain out of the public eye, though that didn’t exactly go according to plan. Time and time again we’ve needed a rapid response team that is tailored to a unique threat, and in those times we have been served neither by overt military force nor the red tape of bureaucracy, but by a collection of small-town heroes.”

She reattached the flower to its stem with her magic.

“And so I am placed in an awkward position. The Bearers deserve their due as heroes, and the land needs heroes to emulate. Yet if they are not shielded from court intrigues, their lives will become embroiled in the morass of petty power plays and underhooved machinations and, worse yet, they won’t have the freedom to be the heroes we need them to be. Heroes must be honored, yes. But they must have their autonomy, as there can be no playing favorites. And, of course, I have an obligation to protect the freedoms of my ponies without interfering with them. Quite a conundrum, yes?”

Argent was afraid to speak, lest she interrupt this unguarded revelation from her diarch, and simply nodded.

Celestia gave a sly smile. “Fortunately, I am quite old. And in my time I have learned many lessons about statecraft, among them the fact that misdirection is often a better weapon than outright deceit or bull-headed displays of power. For instance, do you know why it isn’t common knowledge what exactly the Elements of Harmony are or how they work?” Argent shook her head. Celestia flicked an invisible speck of dust from her coat. “I didn’t lie or deceive. I simply told the press that the six mares who defeated Nightmare Moon and Discord were the Bearers of the Elements, and nothing more. Rumor and speculation took care of the rest. Every newspaper, every journalist, every private citizen has his or her own version of what they think happened. Some are spot on, where others get more… esoteric.” She lowered her voice and whispered, “My personal favorite is that Starswirl shaped the six Bearers out of clay and that Luna and I breathed life into them at the direct prompting of the Source after falling into a trance when we first dawned the Mantles of the Sun and Moon.”

Argent gaped. What?

Before she could ask, Celestia continued, “The conflicting theories act as a smokescreen to reality. Misinformation spreads with depressing virulence. Add to this the fact that the public has a short attention span and doesn’t care nearly as much about heroes as they ought to…” Reflecting on the poor reception that she and many soldiers received in some towns, Argent couldn’t help but grunt in agreement, “…and the end result is that the Bearers are largely left to their own devices. You’d be surprised to know how few ponies even know where they all live or what they look like.”

“I see,” murmured Argent, who regarded her ruler in a new light. Note to self, never play poker with Celestia.

“It is better this way,” said Celestia. “The Bearers do not wish for favoritism or special privileges. They have never demanded nor expected rewards for what they’ve done. Each desires success from merit rather than fame. Dash would hardly want to be let into the Wonderbolts for her status rather than her talent, and Applejack would rather have lost the Apple Farm to a pair of swindlers than call down the wrath of the Royals upon them.”

What an oddly specific example, thought Argent.

“They are content to live their lives as they have, and I am loath to be so ungrateful to them as to upset that. Though, I admit,” she added a touch wistfully, “a part of me yearns for the days where I could have just named them Peers of the Realm, made them all Countesses, and given them a cross-section of the kingdom as payment.”

Argent couldn’t suppress a laugh at that. “Wouldn’t that be a sight! Still, I imagine they’d do a finer job than most of the nobles do these days.”

“Now don’t be bitter, Argent,” chided Celestia. “There are still some other nobles who remember their duties.”

“Precious few,” grumbled the captain.

“Well, this friar is a knight and seems quite worthy of the rank. Perhaps the two of you can commiserate together on the sad state of the Canterlot nobility.”

“I would like that, Your Highness.”

The two mares shared a chuckle.

By this time the moon had risen steadily into the sky. Soon, both would be departing for their temporary lodgings at the Mayor’s residence, where it was customary for visiting royalty to be billeted. Before they departed, however, Argent had one final question. “Your Highness…”

“Yes, Argent?”

The captain bit her lip. “Forgive my forwardness, Princess, but you said that you did not interfere unless it was necessary. And I understand that stationing a garrison here prematurely would undermine the discretion you’ve held up to this point. But, with all these ominous happenings lately…” she faced her ruler steadily, “may I ask what you plan to do when it becomes necessary?”

Celestia returned her gaze levelly, and for a moment Argent wondered if she’d overstepped. Then Celestia cracked a smile. “Well, that’s what you’re for, Captain. Which is why tomorrow morning we will be discussing the best means of rapidly deploying your entire platoon to Ponyville from a discreet encampment that you will just so happen to have set up between here and Canterlot. In a purely hypothetical scenario, of course.”

Argent allowed herself a toothy grin. “Of course, Your Highness.”

Author's Note

Edit: Friar Jacques exaggerates when referring to sanitary conditions in the medieval period. Unfortunately, there is a great deal of misinformation about that time in history, largely due to the chronological snobbery and revisionist history spawned in the 'Enlightenment' which then got repeated into common 'knowledge.' Even I've believed and repeated many of these misconceptions, and only subsequently discovered these errors. Looking back, I've realized this chapter can be misleading in that respect. While (depending on the area) most of what Jacques says is technically correct to a degree (the topic of alcohol exaggerates most, and more applies to some of the filthier cities), it leaves out a lot of context. Rather than do a re-write that I don't have time for, here are a couple short videos which cover most of the topic of hygiene. "How clean were Medieval people?" and "Gong Farmer."

Woof! So this one took a little longer than I expected . Went through several re-writes, and upheaval at work didn’t help. But, here we are. As promised, some more personal interactions between characters with a side of world-building for good measure. Also my rendition of how I have always interpreted Celestia’s handling of the Bearers. I admit that I have never understood why people dislike the fact that they are used to handle every problem Equestria faces. In the Arthurian legends (and similar stories) there was generally one band of noted heroes who solved basically every problem, and six is a good number for that. With Equestria’s fantasy motif, that fits. Or, if you prefer a modern approximation, just consider them to be SEAL Team Six.

Some quick business before I elaborate on Celestia’s little speech (because I didn’t pull it out of thin air). The next update may be a bit delayed, in part because of work and in part because I want to have a short story to put out for Memorial Day (since writing a Veteran’s Day tribute is how I got started and, as far as I’m concerned, the most important kind of thing for me to post on this site). I’ll still try to get at least one more chapter in this month though. Maybe two if it flows well. The shoutout this week is a bit of an oddity, since I don’t like to recommend stories that are on indefinite hiatus and I don’t know if the author will be returning to finish it. However, DEI Caboose’s “The Magician’s Mantle” was just such an interesting concept that I can’t help but give it a recommendation. Maybe if we’re fortunate Caboose will come back and finish it.

Now. Celestia. The Three Rules of Governance that she references are fictional, but those of you with a little philosophical background may have noticed that Augusteed, Ploto, and Aristotail were references to Augustine of Hippo, Plato, and Aristotle. The latter two were, of course, Greek philosophers whose work has been foundational to Western philosophy. Augustine was a bishop in North Africa and a Catholic saint who, in addition to being foundational to much of Christian theology, has also influenced Western concepts of Law and Ethics for generations. As I said, the Three Rules of Governance are fictional, but Augustinian philosophy has made its mark on history with such assertions as “An unjust law is no law at all.” Augustine defined Positive Law as laws which are created by the State (any governing man-made entity). Positive Laws, he said, are responsible to Justice, which is an intrinsic and transcendental principle of reality rather than a man-made principle (see Plato and the Forms and the concept of the Transcendental). According to Augustine, the State exists to promote Positive Laws which serve the cause of Justice. Whenever the Positive Laws are unjust, they lose their legitimacy, and the State that promotes them becomes illegitimate (at least in that regard) by extension. This concept has been foundational to statecraft in the West ever since, ultimately evolving into the guarantees of rights that we often take for granted today. ‘Life, Liberty, and Happiness’ ring a bell as fundamental and intrinsic human rights? Well, Jefferson got that from Locke, who got that from Hugo Grotius, who got it from a Jesuit by the name of Francisco Suarez, who was influenced by both Aquinas and Augustine, who combined Plato and Aristotle’s articulations with the precepts of their own faith (and this is why when you study history you have to go in for the long haul ). You want examples of people opposing a Positive Law because it is Unjust? Everyone from Thoreau to Martin Luther King Jr. to Gandhi has referenced Augustine, not just for his comments on Positive Law, but for many related principles on Law and Ethics surrounding them. He articulated concepts that we more or less assume today, but that were revolutionary at the time.

Why did I decide to put Augusteed in? Well, MLP already has references like Haycartes (Descartes in our world), so the idea of parallel thinkers is not out of the question. Since MLP doesn’t have religion the same way that our world does, it would make sense that moral philosophers like Augustine would have ponified equivalents who wrote treatises directly on law and ethics rather than theological treatises that included discussions of law and ethics.

Or maybe it’s just that I’ve been brushing back up on my readings into moral philosophy and Augustine hit me in a way that he didn’t the last time around . One or the other. Anyway. Happy reading.

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While You Were Sleeping

Celestia approached the Lore Stone with the somber dignity that the construct demanded. In the modern world, few would have recognized it as being anything other than a large boulder sat in the midst of rolling highlands with runes of old scripts carved into it. But Celestia knew better. The runes were of the so-called Tongues of Eddas, the languages spoken by the Scoltanavian and Braelic clans of earth ponies in the years before the Unification. In those days, the tradition was to inscribe the Sagas of the Clans upon great stones such as this one. To an outsider, they might appear to be merely written histories, but to one who knew better, they were much more.

The princess bowed in respect to the ponies of ages past and touched the stone with her magic, allowing the latent earth pony power in the Lore Stone to interact with the world once more. In an instant she was surrounded by ghostly apparitions, hundreds of ponies girded for battle and armed for war; the IX Cohort of the VII Legion; the Chevaliers of the Lord High Marshal; the warriors of Clans Úll, Eriskay, Galloway, and Connemaras; militia; wandering warriors; witch hunters. A vast gathering of ponies from all races and tribes, united together in one purpose. Leading them, a pair of alicorns, one of the sun, the other of the moon.

Celestia watched with detachment as her younger self gave orders to her commanders, speaking in the archaic Ponish of the era. It was always strange for her to watch the scene play out, as though she were watching an entirely different pony. In a way, she was. The Celestia of the vision looked identical to her, it was true. But their physical similarities masked how much had changed.

I was so young, she mused. So young and naïve. Dozens of wars won and scores of great threats vanquished, and still I was innocent to what was to come. We both were, she added, seeing the eagerness for battle on Luna’s face. It was as though we thought the light of our righteous fury alone would burn out the Shades.

The past Celestia finished giving her orders and the army marched forward, the land shifting around them to show their movement while the viewer remained close to the Stone.

This spot I know well. The Battle of Westingfoal. Seventy-three killed in the melee and five score wounded. She sighed and let her eyes fall shut. Such bloodshed there was in those days.

“Punishing yourself for the past won’t change things, dear sister.” Celestia turned to see Luna, the real one, standing close by, watching her with a frown. “It worries me that you seem to want to dream of such things.”

Celestia raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps it is simply on my mind. Is that truly so surprising under the circumstances?”

“Surprising? No. But you know as well as I that we can’t change the past. And wishing we could won’t help us cope.”

The solar diarch nodded, not disputing the statement. “You are right of course, sister. It won’t. Intellectually, I know this. But rationality often eludes me when it comes to the suffering of my little ponies.”

Luna gave a humorless smirk and stepped to her sister’s side. “And logic has always been my strength, has it? I think that Nightmare Moon would disagree.” Celestia shot her a pained glance. “Sorry,” added Luna. “But my point stands. I know how difficult it is to balance reason and emotion, but that doesn’t mean I can’t remind you to stop wool-gathering. It’s not healthy.”

The elder alicorn gave her sister an affectionate nuzzle. “Thank you, Luna. It is good that you are here to remind me.” While they talked the ancient Equestrian army broke into a charge against the black-clad cultists of the old war. “It is just so easy to wonder how things might have been different if only I had reacted a little faster or been a little wiser.”

Luna nodded sagely. “All warriors must wonder such things. It is our lot. We ageless ones have it worst of all.” She returned the nuzzle. “But you mustn’t try to bear it alone. You were not the only young fool on the battlefield, and I was more reckless than you.” She watched the battle unfold with a sorrowful eye. “I left you with the burden of our dead for a thousand years. Now that I have returned, please lean on me.”

With a smile, Celestia draped a wing over her sister’s back. “I will do so gladly. Especially since you seem to bear it more gracefully than I.”

The younger mare shrugged. “For me, the wars of old are a recent memory. You have maintained near-total peace for centuries. Far be it from me to begrudge you your reluctance to face such horrors once more.” She reached out a hoof to the Lore Stone. At her touch, the battle faded. “Still, I would like to visit the real stone with you. To reminisce of old comrades.”

Celestia sighed, her voice thick with sorrow. “Would that we could, little sister. But I am afraid this stone only exists in my dreams now.” Luna gave her a sharp look. “Iconoclasts,” explained Celestia. “A byproduct of the ideology of the Prench Revolution in 306 AU. Violence from that war spilled over into Equestria, and ponies sympathetic to the revolutionaries destroyed monuments, books, artifacts, relics, shrines and sacred places, anything that resembled the established powers in their eyes.”

Luna spat an oath in old Ponish that would have made Twilight blush. Celestia couldn’t help but smirk.

“My sentiments exactly. They even dishonored the graves of old warriors and the memorials of heroes because they were viewed as agents of the old system. This stone and dozens of others were destroyed. Fearing that they would be lost forever, the elders of the clans hid the remainder away so deeply that even I do not know where they are.” Luna gaped in horror, as though unable to comprehend what was said. Celestia just walked over to the Lore Stone with a resigned expression and stroked its surface. “I gathered the pieces of the shattered stones with the idea of reforging them, of course, but the techniques used by the ancient clans to weave the magic have been lost to time. Now, there are few who live that know that they even existed, and none but you and I who have seen them in person.” She gestured to the surrounding hills. “This place now exists only in my dreams and in yours. It is fortunate that my memory is as long as my years.”

Luna ground her teeth in fury. “What madness would possess ponies to desecrate the tombs of the dead?!”

Celestia gave a bitter chuckle. “Oh, Luna, you know as well as I the reasons. Hubris, greed, misplaced honor… the reasons are simple.” She leaned against the pillar of stone and added in a whisper, “The reasons are always simple.” Clearing her throat she stood erect and turned to face her sister. “But I suspect you did not come into my dream to reminisce or visit, and I don’t want to waste any more time on my little pity party.”

Luna frowned. “Pity party? Is that a real event? If so, we may need to have a word with Miss Pie about mental health and—

“It’s an expression, Luna. What’s wrong?”

“The investigation has revealed some… troubling news,” answered Luna. “I thought it best to bring word to you immediately, but it was too complex to send in a letter.”

“A breakthrough in the investigation?” demanded Celestia. “Luna, why didn’t you say so immediately?!”

Luna waved her off. “Time passes slowly in the dream realm. Since we started, mere seconds have passed in the waking world, and I thought it best to ensure that you were in a good frame of mind before we began. Or do you doubt my methods?” she inquired a touch archly.

Celestia glanced down, chastened. “You are right of course. Tell me; what has happened?”

“T’would be easier to show you than to tell you,” replied Luna. “Colonel Query and his aide-de-camp are already asleep and waiting to debrief you. Before we begin, however, I would like to ask you about another of your officers.”

That does not bode well. “Oh? Who?”

“Captain Sabre,” answered Luna. “I would like to involve her as well, but, before I do, I must ask: how far do you trust her?”

It worries me that you feel the need to ask; not because of Argent, but because your asking suggests a conspiracy. “The Argents have served the realm faithfully for longer than we have. Argent Sabre more than lives up to their legacy.”

Luna glanced at the Lore Stone. “Fitting, under the circumstances. Very well. With your permission I would like to brief her as well. I require her opinion on certain matters.”

“Be my guest,” replied Celestia.

The lunar princess closed her eyes, and the dream dissolved around them, leaving them floating through an endless expanse of night sky. It reminded Celestia of the visions she’d had when she first took up the Mantle of the Sun. All around them drifted orbs of light, and within them lives and stories played out, ranging from cheerful to frightening to outright strange. Celestia caught herself looking with great interest (and no small amount of confusion) at what appeared to be a realm populated entirely by giant talking heads of great philosophers conversing with a familiar red draft pony. She forced herself to close her eyes. This is Luna’s territory to watch over, not mine. I shouldn’t pry.

“Ah, here we are,” announced Luna. “Argent Sabre is… oh my.”

“What?” asked Celestia, opening her eyes as her curiosity got the better of her. “What— oh.”

The two alicorns found themselves in an underground chamber hewn from rock. Dimly lit passages branched off in all directions from the central room, which itself appeared to be the living space of a musician hinging on madness. An abundance of music sheets littered the room amidst costumes and tools of the operatic arts. A grand piano dominated the room and a dark-maned stallion cloaked in black stood playing it in a frenzy, his zeal obvious even behind the white mask that covered his features. The most striking feature of the scene, however, was Argent herself, who had eschewed her armor in favor of a white gown and stood trancelike in the center of the chamber singing in passionate crescendo. Her aria reached higher and higher as the stallion behind the piano urged her to, “Sing, my angel!”

Luna shot Celestia a glance. The elder diarch fluffed her wings in a shrug. “Honestly, I had no idea she was such a fan of musicals.”

Her words seemed to shake Argent from her trance and she blinked in shock at the presence of the alicorns. “Your Highnesses? How did you… where am I… what…?”

The stallion, furious at the interruption, stormed towards them. “Darn you! You little lying Pondora!” he bellowed. “You little demon! Is this what you wanted to see?”

Luna rolled her eyes. “Be gone, phantom. You have no power here.”

At her command, the stallion vanished. Argent gasped in horror. “Princess! Why did you… wait…” she narrowed her eyes, “…is this…” the vision began to fade around them, “this is… a dream?”

“Indeed it is, Captain,” replied Luna. “I apologize for interrupting you in the midst of… whatever that was, but my sister and I require your aid.”

Celestia nickered softly. “You would probably enjoy The Specter of the Opera, sister. It strikes me as your brand of musical. Though I am surprised to see your own love for it, Argent.”

Argent managed a dignified sniff. “I didn’t always want to be a soldier, Princess, whatever my father wished. And I’ll have you know that my singing voice is every bit as mellifluous in the waking world as it is here.”

“Then I look forward to a demonstration,” teased Celestia. “But, in the meantime, I believe Luna wishes to discuss the investigation with us.” She didn’t need to specify which investigation.

Argent nodded, instantly alert. As though reflecting this, her dress morphed into her armor.

Taking the reins of the conversation, Luna explained, “I’ve left Colonel Query and Lieutenant Watch in another shared dream to wait for us. I’ll bring us together now.” Luna lit her horn and the starscape around them spun into motion. By all rights it should have been sickening, but, according to the bizarre rules that govern dreams, Celestia was able to look on without difficulty. The scene resolved with them standing in a lab. The solar diarch recognized it as one of the crime labs of Equestrian Military Intelligence. Celestia might have thought that they were actually in the EMI headquarters, had it not been for the fact that the lab drifted through an endless ether of stars and nebulas. That sort of ruins the illusion. Then again, she amended, there was that one incident when Colonel O’Neigh’s team overcharged the teleportation ring while fighting an Ursa Major…

Two ponies were waiting for them: a heavyset earth pony stallion with dark grey coat and black comb-over and a slightly built unicorn mare with pale blue coat and blonde hair. Both wore the green-brown semi-dress uniform of the EUP Guard with crossed swords and watchful eye of the EMI. Both ponies had been examining the starscape when Celestia and the others arrived, the mare with interest and the stallion with some trepidation. So intent were they on their research that they didn’t appear to notice the newcomers.

“Fascinating,” the mare was saying. “Despite the lucidity of the dream, I seem unable to interact with or effect anything beyond the room.” Her voice was without accent, which surprised Celestia because she knew for a fact that the mare had one and simply hid it. Does she consider herself on-duty even while sleeping, or has her mask become her face, I wonder? Unaware of the scrutiny, the officer reached out a hoof and waved it in the open starscape. “I wonder if the magical properties of the dream differ from one section to the next, or if I simply have mental block in place that prevents me from altering it.”

The stallion looked on uneasily. “Close, maybe don’t poke the mysterious ether,” he advised, the gravel in his voice revealing his age. “I don’t even want to imagine the paperwork for reporting a subordinate lost in the endless realm of dreams.”

Argent looked up at Luna with trepidation on her features. The alicorn gave a reassuring smile and shook her head before addressing the stallion. “I assure you, Colonel, that such harm would not befall you or your aide.”

The two intelligence ponies jumped in shock at her voice and spun to salute. “Princesses,” greeted the stallion, recovering from his surprise with admirable swiftness. He glanced at Argent. “And I see you brought the captain. Good.” He limped over to Argent and held out a hoof for shaking. “I’m Colonel Earnest Query, but ponies who work with me call me Ernie. This is First Lieutenant Close Watch, my aide-de-camp.”

“Charmed,” chorused the two unicorns.

“It’s a pleasure to officially meet you in person,” he glanced around the dream world and chuckled, “so to speak. You’ve given EMI quite the workout over the years, especially with that business in Stalliongrad.”

If Argent was put off by the fact that the intelligence officer clearly knew about missions that weren’t part of the public record, she didn’t show it. “I trust I haven’t made too much trouble for you?”

Query laughed. “You have, but it’s been the good kind of trouble.” He made his way over to the table at the center of the lab, where Celestia now saw the scorched tip of a unicorn horn. Where did they get that little trophy? “But, much as I’d like to discuss your escapades at length, we’ve got more pressing business to attend to.” He fixed his diarchs and the captain with a grim look. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this; we’ve got a serious breach of security on our hooves and we aren’t certain who we can trust.” He paused to let that statement sink in.

It came as little surprise to Celestia, but she still felt a pit form in her stomach at the thought of a traitor in their midst.

Seeing that no one had any questions yet, Query continued, “The first problem, of course, is that the infiltrator never should have been able to make it as deep as he did without being spotted. If he’d snuck in the conventional way through all the checkpoints or over the walls, he would have needed to use some sort of magical ability; a ghost-step, a phasewalk, a chameleon spell, something to avoid notice by the patrols. Those spells aren’t easy to do, and they leave magical residue that we can trace when they’re used, especially dark magic.” He grimaced. “However, we didn’t find any signs of evil magic anywhere on the grounds before the Great Hall itself. That means he teleported in.”

“Which brings us to our second problem,” said Watch, taking over the story. “As you know, the anti-teleportation wards on the castle grounds prevent unsanctioned arrivals from popping their heads in. They can still be overcome with enough power but, quite frankly, the experience is so taxing that even a unicorn like Miss Sparkle would be fairly disoriented and drained.”

Argent nodded. “So his dark magic was powerful enough to overcome the ward without draining him then. Ominous indeed.”

“Respectfully, Captain, no,” corrected Watch.

“Pardon?”

Query sighed. “At first we assumed the same as you did, that whatever Dark Arts he was practicing were sufficiently powerful to overcome the wards, but the fact of the matter is that he wasn’t that powerful.”

Argent huffed. “He seemed plenty powerful to me.”

The stallion winced. “I misspoke. I meant powerful enough.”

“Overcoming the wards without being drained takes a truly absurd level of magic,” explained Watch. “It’s not unheard of, especially when the Dark Arts are in play, but I was concerned that there might be a simpler explanation.”

Celestia didn’t need to be an intelligence officer to guess where this was headed. “Like a traitor deactivating the wards.”

Watch nodded. “Exactly. Now, this is a representation of the spell formula of the active ward.” Her horn lit with golden light and a complex magical glyph sprang into life in the air. “I won’t waste time making you examine it; it’s flawless, as it should be. It seemed like a dead end, but, well, my instincts said otherwise. So I decided to take a closer look at the infiltrator’s remains.”

Argent’s brow furrowed. “How’d you manage that? Celestia didn’t leave enough left to fill a paper bag.” The princess gave her a pained look and Argent blushed. “Er… what I meant to say was—"

“You are correct, Captain,” interrupted Watch. “There wasn’t much left. But I’m very thorough. My special talent enables me to tease the instrumentation down to a level of detail impossible to reproduce without a prohibitively high number of tailor-made enchantments. Most of the body was ash, but,” she indicated the nub of horn on the table with her hoof, “there was just enough left of the horn to enable me to find this.” Once more her magic lit the room, and this time a string of medical projections were displayed, one set in black, one set in gold.

Watch explained the charts with the air of a university lecturer or doctor. “The gold is my thaumatic field. The black is the stallion’s thaumatic field, or what’s left of it at any rate. Now, in a healthy unicorn’s thaumatic field, like mine, the currents of magic flow and arc according to a predictable and measurable pattern. When spikes occur, they do so in direct proportion to the level of magic being utilized and follow an exponential increase. Whenever it is pushed too far, the field becomes unstable, leading to magical exhaustion, backlash, and even total thaumatic collapse. A unicorn can continue to cast in this state, but it risks permanent damage to the nerves, horn, heart, thaumatic field, ultimately the entire nervous system if left unchecked.”

As she explained, Celestia examined the gold systems more closely. Watch’s magical field was indeed a healthy one, even if the occasional spike did indicate above average stress. For the most part the thaumatic energy flowed in natural peaks and troughs, not unlike the waves of the sea.

“Now for the stallion’s,” continued Watch, gesturing to the other pony’s field. “He was not healthy. Notice the erratic flow of energy, the constant and unpredictable spikes, the way that the power ramps up to ridiculous levels even when there isn’t an active body attached to it to prompt the magic, and—look there!” she pointed to a brief break in the line that appeared before the wave reappeared at an even higher power level than before. “Sometimes the thaumatic field just shorts out as though experiencing total collapse before coming back. Conventional magic doesn’t do that; the thaumatic energy is encouraged to flow in specified ways according to the deliberate action of the unicorn or according to the natural flow of energy. When spells are used, they’re supposed to redirect the current in a manner akin to digging a channel for the energy and pointing it in a specific direction. What this is doing is more like forcibly ripping the current up and slapping it down in a new place with no rhyme or reason whatsoever.

Argent massaged her temples as though she was getting a headache. “So, in practical terms, what does that mean?”

“Simply put, this stallion’s thaumatic field was falling apart,” explained Watch. “The dark magic was reshaping his field to suit its own specific designs and forcing it into whatever configuration it needed to achieve it, regardless of the damage it did. Ordinarily, the body’s immune system kicks in to prevent that; that’s why the thaumatic field gives out due to exhaustion or collapse before the body does. But here?” She shook her head in disgust. “I’m frankly astonished he was holding together at all. By all rights he should have been catatonic from this level of thaumatic distress. I can only imagine that the dark magic was stitching him together as it went. Even so, he was probably half dead by the time he broke into the Great Hall. After all, this magic is still active in a nub of a horn three days after death. But the damage was probably already permanent. Without more of the body to examine I’m just guessing here, but I’d estimate that he was maybe an hour at most away from organ failure, with Ghoul Syndrome not long after that.”

Argent blanched, and Celestia didn’t blame her. ‘Ghoul Syndrome’ was the vernacular for a particularly virulent byproduct of certain Dark Arts wherein the body was gradually consumed to feed the enchantment. “Well, that’s bloody horrifying,” murmured the captain. “But, as truly unspeakable as all this is, I must admit that I fail to see how this equates to their being a traitor in our midst.”

Query gave a dark chuckle. “Because there was no cleanup on aisle seven.” The four mares gave him looks ranging from confused to censorious. He seemed unbothered. “Teleportation is an incredibly complex spell under the best of circumstances, Argent, and this poor son-of-a-mule’s circumstances were anything but. It’s impressive enough that he managed to ‘port in without exploding. If he’d tried to do it through a ward, well, the only fight you would have gotten in that evening would have been with Raven over who got the decontamination shower first.”

Watch sighed. “That’s disgusting, boss.”

“Tact is for young stallions and field officers, Close. I’m neither.”

Luna cleared her throat. “Returning to the matter at hoof, I believe the implications of this are clear. Somepony, or perhaps multiple ponies, altered the ward to allow the intrusion before repairing it.” Her eyes narrowed. “And the only ponies capable of such sabotage are our own.”

A grim silence followed the declaration. Celestia fought the urge to gnash her teeth in rage. Centuries of practice helped, but only just.

“Well, somepony’s going to be joining the statue garden after this,” mused Argent with disgust evident on her features. “Though at least it’s a pretty short list of suspects. Not many ponies have the expertise necessary to alter those sorts of spells, much less the access.”

“It’s longer than you may think,” countered Luna. “And the pony with the access and the pony with the expertise don’t necessarily need to be the same pony. A turncoat guard could escort the saboteur almost as easily as sneaking about himself, and a patrol of turncoats could ensure that nopony would be in the area to interrupt the work.”

“A chilling prospect,” stated Celestia. “And one that places few above suspicion.” She glanced at Argent. “It seems we are quite fortunate to have you in the capital, Captain. Can you vouch for your soldiers?”

Argent nodded. “My dogs have all been with me for at least two years of dirty work on the borders. Some were here for the invasion. If any of them are traitors, I’ll eat my helmet.”

“And you came with a full platoon; twenty here in Ponyville and forty more still in Canterlot. Sixty trustworthy ponies.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but I’d suggest more like eighty,” corrected Argent. “The twenty Solars and Lunars we have training with us have all been vetted by our resident quack.” Luna looked confused. “Apologies, Princess. Our resident psychologist. And I trust Lieutenant Morning Song like I trust my own sister. Besides,” she shrugged, “We’ve been running the poor blighters ragged the last month; none of them have had time to shoplift, much less commit high treason. And, to be blunt, we’ll need the horsepower”

Luna gave a noncommittal grunt. “I’m not entirely enamored with the idea of taking that word as bond, no offense to your lieutenant, but you’re right in saying that we won’t accomplish much without more hooves. And I suppose we don’t need to tell everypony the full story; just a select few trusted officers and footponies.” She grimaced. “My apologies, enlisted ponies.”

Celestia smirked. “Old habits die hard, eh, Luna?”

Her sister glared, then continued. “Query, Watch, and I have begun compiling a list of guards and staff members with alibis or else personal connections to the throne that make the likelihood of treachery remote.” She turned to Celestia, “However, that would be much easier with you here, dear sister. To put it bluntly, I don’t know the servants like you do, and in any case I would like to have all eighty of the soldiers we can count on for certain present as soon as possible.”

Celestia and Argent exchanged a glance. “All eighty might be problematic.” She explained the situation with Jacques and the plan to leave Argent and her soldiers operating discretely nearby.

Query quirked an odd smile. “Well, this just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it? You think he’s on our side?”

“He’s given me no reasons to doubt him and ample reasons to trust,” replied Celestia frankly. “I think he’ll be instrumental in the coming fight.”

Watch shook her head. “Only if Ponyville is truly secure. Though, I admit, I think it’s probably safer than Canterlot at the moment.”

Luna frowned. “I can certainly see the importance of having a Guard presence in, or rather near Ponyville as you’ve planned, but the Bearers can handle themselves. As can this Friar Jacques, I suspect. Knowing Twilight’s propensity for research, he’ll unlock his powers in short order, and he’ll be quite a menace to any practitioners of the Dark Arts who bother him. At the moment, Canterlot is more vulnerable and we’ll need numbers to secure it. I don’t suppose you have a way of leaving only a few soldiers in Ponyville?”

“Not easily without drawing attention,” responded Celestia. “Without the excuse of training exercises for the whole company, it would draw the wrong kind of attention to leave only a few guards bivouacked nearby.” She ran through a mental checklist of ponies she knew from the quaint village. “There’s a former operative in town that I’m confident I can convince to start working again, and a few retired soldiers and spies who I’ve trusted to keep an eye on things, but I’d feel more comfortable with a few more spears on hoof should things go sour.”

Argent tapped a hoof against her barding, her expression thoughtful. “Perhaps a pair of soldiers assigned to Jacques as bodyguards? Declare him a foreign diplomat?”

Celestia shook her head. “No, making him a diplomat would only increase his visibility. We need another excuse to…” she trailed off as inspiration struck and broke into a wide grin. “Captain, Morning Song was a psychologist, correct?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“And a strange creature coming to a new world via magic portal may require some counseling to help him adjust, wouldn’t you say?”

Argent’s smile was sly. “Why yes, Your Highness. I suppose he would. And I can’t imagine anypony thinking too much of that.”

“Or of an officer of Song’s station having an assistant or two,” added Luna. “Say, a pair of fellow soldiers perhaps?”

“I know just the stallions for the job,” nodded Argent. “And, if I may, Princesses, I have another recommendation as well. It seems that there are two stallions who recently faced off against a Shade and fared reasonably well against him. It happens that one of them was injured and they may benefit from some time off base in Ponyville.”

“Are you certain they can be trusted?” asked Luna, skeptical. “I know that Oaken nearly died, but I would not put it above our enemy to stage that.”

Argent nodded. “I’m certain. I could see it in their eyes. One sees the heart of a warrior in battle, and, unless Oaken and Ironhide are exceptionally good actors, they’re trustworthy.”

“Well, you’d know about good actors,” remarked Celestia. Argent shot her an arch look. “All the same, I think that’s an excellent idea. If nothing else it will give us a local presence while we resolve the situation in Canterlot.”

Watch stepped forward. “If it puts your mind at ease, Princess Luna, Ernie and I had the exact concern that you do about Privates Oaken and Ironhide, so we looked into it. There’s nothing in their records to suggest any involvement. I’m confident they can be trusted.”

Luna still looked unhappy, but she didn’t argue. “I have reservations, I admit, but I suppose taking a few risks is inevitable. Very well. You have our blessing, Captain.”

“Excellent,” said Celestia. “Then come morning we shall make the necessary arrangements and leave the good friar in the capable hooves of the Bearers and their helpers.” She gestured to the starscape around them. “This is quite useful. Why don’t we use this for planning sessions more often?”

Argent cocked an eyebrow. “Respectfully, Princess, I think that the fact that we haven’t had to resort to this before now is a good sign.”

“I’ll send you back to your own slumbers now,” announced Luna. “I still have the rest of the night to attend to, after all. And, while I can’t alter your dreams per se, would you like me to hint at any special requests to your subconscious?” she offered.

Query didn’t even hesitate. “The Osprey’s concert at the Stockyard, ’76.” Watch turned and gave him a long look. “What? I was young once.”

Luna nodded to the colonel. “As you wish.” He vanished in a shimmer of light. “Lieutenant Watch?”

The mare shook her head. “I’m a lucid dreamer. Wherever I end up I’ll probably just change it.” There was a flash of light akin to a teleport and she was gone.

“Something peaceful and innocent, if you please,” requested Argent. “I imagine I’ll need it in the days to come.” She glanced at Celestia. “Though I have always been curious as to whether or not princesses truly do dream of magic sheep.”

Celestia considered her options then gave a sly grin. “Something musical for me.” She winked at Argent. “I’m of a mind to get back into the sing of things.” Her grin turned cheeky at the pun.

Luna and Argent just stared flatly. They exchanged a glance, and then Luna asked, “What do you think her penance should be for that?”

Argent adopted a courtly stance. “Far be it from a lowly captain to suggest a penalty for a princess.” Her gaze flicked to Celestia. “But, if I did, I would suggest the infliction of the latest colt bands upon her.”

Both princesses eyes widened in horror. “You’re a cold mare, Argent,” chided Celestia.

“Given my profession, that’s probably a compliment.” She bowed low. “Goodnight, Princesses.”

“Goodnight, Argent.”

The captain faded into mist, leaving the two sisters alone. Celestia regarded her astral surroundings with approval. “This really is helpful. Though, I must say, the temptation to use it to prank ponies who’ve tweaked you must be intense. I don’t know how you resist it.” Luna didn’t reply. “Luna?” Celestia turned to see her sister wearing an impish grin. “Luna…”

“Goodnight, sister!”

“Luna, wait—"

Celestia found herself in the front row of a concert for a skinny jean-wearing colt with bangs like a mare and a voice like a filly, surrounded by shrieking females of all ages. “Immortal protectors of the realm,” the alicorn grumbled to herself. “Intrigue. Strategy. Betrayal and espionage. Childish pranks.” Her eyes narrowed. “I will spend decades making Luna and Argent pay for this.”

Sandstone pulled the collar of his jacket up with a nervous tug and peered out of the dark alley to survey the worn cobblestone thoroughfares that crisscrossed the area. He needn’t have bothered. The Industrial District of Canterlot was deserted after 7:00 PM, and that had been seven hours ago. Nopony was in sight and, even if they had been, the brown jacket and hat he wore thoroughly masked his golden coat and brown hair. Still, Sandstone couldn’t quite shake the feeling he was being watched. He shot a fearful glance up at the twinkling stars. What if the stars spy for them too? Would we even know? Or would the first warning be when stallions and mares started disappearing in the night, starting with our leadership and moving onto—

He smacked the side of his head with a hoof. Get a hold of yourself! If those classist bastards could do that they’d have done it by now. You’re wasting time! Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to cross the street deeper into the Industrial District.

His path took him down a series of twists and turns that would have left an outsider befuddled. The warehouses and factories of the District were strung together in a manner that might generously be called eclectic, the product of centuries of changing technology and expanding consumer society. Older, smaller factories geared towards practical industries like steel and copper smithing were buried beneath modern behemoths built to churn out luxury goods. Each new generation of fashionability seemed to demand new factories, with their predecessors being absorbed, converted, or, most commonly, discarded. Just like the ponies who work them, thought Sandstone bitterly as his journey took him into the oldest part of the District, where tiny brick buildings shivered in the shadow of the giants that had invaded their lands. Designer bags; buildings; industries; ponies; it doesn’t matter. As soon as we outlive our usefulness, we’re discarded and replaced with the newest fad. He spied his destination: a dilapidated little brick warehouse bearing a sign so worn that the lettering was mostly gone. Once, he knew, it had been a booming business by the name of Marks’ and Angles’ Manufacturing, named for the two stallions who ran it. Now, only the faded ‘Marks’ remained.

Hastening to the heavy iron door, Sandstone knocked, two taps, a pause, then three in rapid succession. A slit window opened in the door to reveal a pair of eyes. “State your business,” came the challenge.

“The State is my business,” answered Sandstone.

The slit slid closed, and a moment later the door guard, a fellow earth pony, opened the door to admit him. They bumped hooves by way of greeting. “Welcome, brother,” said the guard warmly. “Please head below. The meeting will begin shortly.”

Thanking him, Sandstone trotted towards the stairs. While the factory itself was dark, the orange light emanating up from the lower rooms let him easily find his way. Voices drifted up to him as he descended into the fire-like glow, and he felt a shiver of anticipation as he entered the meeting room.

The chamber had once been a storage room for the factory, a wide open space with tall ceilings held up by iron beams and rivets. Nearly two hundred stools had been set out, with a space cleared in front of them for a podium, a microphone, and two heavy workbenches, all backdropped by a massive red banner. Sandstone felt his heart swell with pride at the sight of the flag. It was a beautiful thing, really: a majestic crimson field with three black hooves in triangular formation set in a gold circle at the center, reaching for a black forging hammer from which white lightning shot.It was a flag of unity; of dedication; of justice.

It was the flag of the Vox Mannorum.

Already the room was mostly full, as Sandstone had been one of the last to arrive. Many of the faces present he recognized, but there were plenty of newcomers as well. Given that this was a meeting for trusted members of the Vox only, he guessed that most of them were from their sister chapters in Manehatten, Detrot, Fillydelphia, and the other major cities. There was an excited buzz in the air as stallions and mares speculated as to what could have prompted the summons. More than one pony seemed to think that something had happened at the palace and, though they weren’t sure what, they were confident that it had taken the Diarchists down a peg.

Sandstone stayed at the edge of the group, not really listening that hard to the conversations as he searched for one pony in partic—

Two light blue hooves covered his eyes. “Guess who?” sang a sweet voice.

Sandstone couldn’t keep a mischievous smile off his face. “The Great and Powerful Trixie?”

An indignant huff greeted his guess. “Hmph. Figures that a male can’t tell the difference between that windbag’s coat and mine.” The hooves started to retract. “I mean, her blue’s a long ways from cyan or sea greeEEE—

Her scream was cut off as he seized her hooves and swung her around in front of him, planting a kiss on the startled mare’s lips. “The coat of the most beautiful mare in the entire world you mean?” he said with a sly grin. “Yes, I’d have to be pretty thick not to tell the difference wouldn’t I?”

The mare, a pretty unicorn with blue-green mane and cyan coat, flushed red, but still tried to maintain her huff. “S-so you think you can just whip me around and kiss me and compliment me and it’ll all be better, Sandy? You’re going to have to do a lot better than that to—"

He cut her off with another kiss, this one lasting considerably longer and having the added flare of dipping her to the floor as though they were swing dancing. After holding the position long enough to both draw glances and subsequently be ignored by other Vox, he gently pulled her back to her hooves. He smiled in satisfaction as the indignation on her face was replaced with a deep flush and a dreamy look in her sea green eyes.

“Tha…” she breathed. “That… wow. Okay. That would do it.”

With a cheeky grin, he ran a hoof through her mane. “What can I say? I was happy to see my best girl.”

Regaining something of her mocking tone, she brushed his hoof aside. “Your ‘best’ girl, huh? I hope that doesn’t mean you have some other mares stashed away someplace.”

Sandstone chuckled and kissed her on the tip of her horn. “Aw, come on, Breeze. You know you’re the only gal for me.”

She nuzzled him under the chin. “What’d I ever do to deserve you?” she asked with a happy sigh.

“Something awful, I bet,” he replied.

Before she could retort, they were interrupted by a stallion clearing his throat. “Sea Breeze? Sandstone?” They turned to see a wizened stallion who had the air of a professor. He tilted his head towards the stools meaningfully. “We’re about to get started.”

“Thanks, Tweed,” replied Breeze. She looked up at her coltfriend. “Where should we sit?”

He threw a foreleg over her withers and started towards the seating area. “Someplace up front if we can manage it,” he answered. “I don’t want to miss anything.”

She nodded feelingly. “Yeah. There’s got to be something big going down if Brother Thornberry asked so many of us to be here. I can’t remember the last time I saw this many Vox in one place!”

“Neither can I,” agreed Sandstone as they made their way towards the front. “So many ponies I haven’t seen in ages. Cabbie Jack from the Manehatten rally; Bronze Spoon from U of F; even ‘Auntie’ Farm from Trottingham!”

“And it’s not just Equestria, either,” murmured Breeze, pointing to a blonde stallion with chiseled features, lean muscles, and a thick Germane accent who was holding forth on some matter of policy to a mare. “Isn’t that Brown Shirt over there?”

“Yup. And that’s Red Star he’s speaking to.” They found two seats relatively close to the front and ponies shuffled down to give them space on the end. “Quite the collection of Vox,” he remarked. Then, teasingly, he added, “Though I can’t help but notice that your gaze was drawn to our friend from Germaney.”

Breeze snorted. “Please! He’s not my type.” She glanced over at him. “Though, I admit, it is impressive to see a unicorn who’s better muscled than most earth ponies.”

“Hey!”

She giggled and leaned against him. “Don’t worry, Sandy. You don’t need big muscles to be the right guy for me.”

Further banter was cut short by the distinct thunking sound of a hoof being tapped against a mic. They turned to see Brother Tweed standing at the podium as the chatter of the crowd quieted. “If I could have everypony’s attention please,” the stallion asked. “Brother Thornberry will begin in a moment, so if everypony would please find your way to the seats, we can begin.” There was a shuffle as the assembled ponies found their places. “Thank you. Now, please put your hooves together and welcome Brother Thornberry.”

With that he stepped aside to allow another pony to take the stand. As introductions went, Sandstone found it to be rather lackluster. But then, Brother Thornberry really needed no introduction. The blue-coated stallion was a legend, having stepped up to fill the hole left by the death of the Vox Mannorum’s chief architect. Like the true believer he was, he’d made it clear that he had no intention of replacing their martyred leader. But Sandstone knew that none of the Vox would have begrudged him the role. He has enough fire for all of us.

The stocky blue stallion stepped up to the podium with alacrity, black mustache bristling fiercely as his crimson eyes blazed beneath brow and mane that stopped just short of being disheveled. With slightly rumpled jacket and aggressive movements, he looked more like a harried businesspony than the dynamic leader of a movement that was going to change the world. As it should be, thought Sandstone with satisfaction. A common pony to free the common ponies!

A thunder of stomping hooves and cheers greeted Thornberry’s arrival at the stand. The stallion gave a curt smile and acknowledged the applause with a wave of his hoof, but he didn’t indulge himself. After a moment he held up his hoof for silence. Instantly, the noise ended.

“Thank you,” he said, his tone terse and blunt. “Thank you all for coming. The journey has been long for many and dangerous for all, but I would not have asked you here if it were not of the gravest importance.” He paused to see to it that his words had the desired sobering effect. He needn’t have bothered. Everypony was already listening with rapt attention. “For so long the Vox has labored in the shadows to ensure that one day we shall all walk equally in the light, free from the tyranny of the alicorns and their Imperialist lackeys. Long have our allies in Parliament labored to bring about equality for all, that no pony may hold power above another, but…” a growl rumbled in his throat and his eyes smoldered, “at every turn that sun-flanked witch has undermined the very ponies she claims to protect.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the audience.

“It started innocently enough,” he began, his voice dripping with scorn. “It always does. First the high class ponies invite poor ponies to their towns with the promise of work and good pay. But soon the prices of living go up and the pay goes down; lives become less than the bottom line; factories close as each new product goes out of fad in a month and the working pony gets thrown into the trash along with designer purses and gold watches!”

Grumbles of assent and a cry for justice. Sandstone nodded his head, his jaw set in anger for all the working class ponies who’d been wronged.

“Pretty soon, the workers have to take any job they can get just to put bread on the table! And the State, rather than providing that bread, instead encourages the very businesses that keep us enslaved to the almighty bit!”

Angry shouts and curses against the unfairness of the system.

“And where do these bits go, you ask?” Thornberry snarled. “Well, if they’re not building new penthouses and mansions for the wealthiest Equestrians, they’re funding the Diarchists’ imperialist wars abroad!” He leaned over the podium to glare out over the audience. “The princesses are fools if they think we don’t see what’s happening! Celestia may couch it in platitudes about ‘relief efforts’ and ‘peacekeeping’ and ‘honoring alliances,’ but her War Dogs are imposing Equestrian policy and culture on foreign powers every, day!” He punctuated his words by pounding on the stand. “And Her Royal Highness Luna is even worse! Ever since she’s taken power, she’s been pushing for even more war-mongering! And why should we be surprised? We’ve all heard the rumors of what happened in Ponyville! I don’t know what Celestia is doing to keep that savage on a leash, but her Dark Age barbarism will lead us down the path to destruction!”

Roars of approval and demands for change.

“Proof?” exclaimed Thornberry as though that had been what was demanded. “You want proof of their imperialism? Well, my brothers and sisters, look no further than the Crystal Empire! The utter gall of Celestia, to make her niece the Empress of that land in all but name, to enslave an entire population of ponies after overthrowing the existing government! She even sent in her War Dogs under the command of one of her most trusted lieutenants to establish an Equestrian-controlled military! A lieutenant who just happens to be the Prince Consort of Cadence herself, and thus a member of the royal family!”

It was a testament to Thornberry’s vocal power that he could continue to be heard over the outrage of the crowd.

“On the topic of the illustrious Shining Armor,” he spat the name, “has anypony else noticed the coincidence that he just so happens to be the brother of Celestia’s personal student, who Celestia just happened to entrust with the most powerful magical weapon in the realm, along with her hoof-picked entourage?”

The assembly was growing hoarse from the shouting.

“And in all this, tell me, where was the voice of the populace?” he demanded, smashing his hoof hard enough against the podium to make the top crack. “Was Parliament consulted about the annexation of the Crystal Ponies? Or the power granted to Celestia’s cronies? Or the unilateral deployment of Equestrian forces to the so-called Empire? No! Of course they weren’t! Not that it would matter, as our Populist comrades are continually overruled by Their Majesties’ Government! It’s a mockery is what it is! A darned mockery of everything we—

His voice cracked, and a sound akin to a sob escaped his lips, cracking in the abrupt silence like a dropped glass. He gripped the sides of the podium and lurched forward, eyes shaking with emotion. Sandstone felt his pulse skip a beat. Is he having a heart attack? A concerned murmur rippled through the crowd and a pair of medical students from the University of Canterlot rose to attend to him, but the venerable stallion held up a hoof to forestall them.

“I’m fine,” he croaked. The crowed relaxed. “I simply couldn’t help but think…” his voice trailed off to a sigh. Sandstone and Breeze exchanged a worried glance. Brother Thornberry was never at a loss for words. At length, the stallion found the strength to continue. “It has become apparent that our allies in Parliament are not making headway against the corrupt system. The State, I fear, has become too far removed from the ponies it is meant to serve to recover. Which means…” he sighed once more, and, had he not been mic’d, his voice would have been inaudible to them, “…which means that, with a heavy heart, I must remind you that, if equality will not be granted, it must be taken.”

No cheers or cries of approval greeted Thornberry’s words, as everypony seemed to sense the solemnity of the moment. But, even so, Sandstone felt a thrill of excitement ripple through the crowd as each pony seemed to look on with eager anticipation. They had waited, dreamed of this day for so long, and, while it was regrettable that it had come to this, they were willing to bear the burden that other ponies feared to. They knew their cause was righteous; they knew that the Imperialist Dogs could not stop their fury.

He himself was not immune to their strength of conviction. Indeed, his heart soared with exhilaration for the liberation at hoof. And yet, he still felt a treacherous spike of fear in his soul. We’re going up against trained soldiers… EUP Guardponies. And not just Regulars, either, but Solars and Lunars. Most of those guys are twice my size! They’ll snap me in half! He tried to shove his treacherous fears aside, but the nagging voice would not go away. Seeming to sense something amiss, Breeze leaned in and nuzzled him, a beatific expression on her face as she tried to share her passion without violating the silence. But the sight of her only redoubled his fears. What if something happens to her?! She’s even smaller than me! I know it’s all for a better world, but if she’s not in it—

So deep in thought was he that when Thornberry spoke again he jumped in his seat. “Make no mistake, brothers and sisters. The struggle will be great, for our enemy is strong, numerous, and armed with an arsenal born of greed. Some may call us fools for what we are to do.” He paused to let the words sink in, then leaned in with a sly grin on his face. “But we shall have the advantage. Yes, brothers and sisters, we have acquired weapons which shall ensure our victory over our oppressors. And, while the full details must be kept secret from you for your own safety until the time is right, tonight we shall begin familiarizing you with the tools of war. To that end,” he extended a foreleg to a shadowed alcove in the back of the room, “our benefactor.”

Sandstone’s eyes travelled to the dark corner and he jolted in his seat at what he saw. Stepping from the shadows was a truly massive stallion. The grey-furred earth pony wore a white long coat and fedora with a tie the color of burning embers. His tale and mane were of the same color. The eyes were obscured beneath the brim of the hat, and his cutie mark was obscured by the coat. Sandstone might have wondered about both, but he was too busy being distracted by the size of the stallion. He stood easily half a head above the average draft pony, and more than twice that above the average stallion. His muscles flexed beneath the coat even at rest, and when he walked towards the podium his hoofsteps sounded like the tread of some great beast.

How did I not see him there?

“Has he been standing there his whole time?” hissed Breeze, unknowingly echoing his own thoughts. Sandstone could only shrug.

The mystery stallion reached the podium, which Thornberry yielded to him, and ducked his head to be low enough to use the mic. He then smiled, a wide, toothy grin of perfect, pearly white teeth. More than one mare in the audience became extra attentive. Sandstone’s eyes narrowed.

“Good evening,” said the stallion, his voice a rumble that seemed to emerge from the depths of the earth while still being gentle enough to soothe a frightened child. He tipped his cap to the audience. “It is a pleasure to join you all here. While I cannot give you my name for security reasons, you may call me ‘Quartermaster.’” His grin stretched back to his ears. “And I am here to help you win a war.”

Whispers broke out amongst the Vox as ponies questioned who he was and what he meant, but he held up a hoof for silence and was obeyed. “I know many of you must be afraid to fight trained soldiers,” he said slowly, sympathy in his voice. “There is no shame in this. The first battle is not an easy thing. But, in the end, the enemy is mere flesh and blood. And, with the right weapon, no one is invincible. You have all the fire necessary to fight. All you need,” he gestured to the tables behind him, “is an edge.”

Once more Sandstone was startled as four ponies emerged from the shadows pulling two large wooden cases with them. Did I miss them too?! And who are they? They don’t look like Vox! Without a word, the four ponies clustered around one of the cases and began lifting it onto the leftmost table. Though they looked to be strong, fit earth ponies, they struggled to raise it up high enough to complete the task, and had to do so with careful coordination. While they worked, the stallion called Quartermaster simply walked over to the other case, grabbed it with one foreleg, and heaved it onto the right table without ceremony.

Sandstone gaped. He heard at least one mare whistle appreciatively.

While they worked, four more silent stallions emerged, hauling what looked to be mannequins wearing Royal Guard armor out onto the floor and setting them up in a line stretching out from the podium to the left. Once their preparations were complete, they withdrew without a word, leaving Quartermaster alone.

He opened both cases and began removing items from inside, setting them down on the table. It was a mixture of crossbows and spears, though there seemed to be two distinct varieties of each, one plain and the other ornate. “Any laborer knows that getting the job right is more about the tool than about the pony wielding it,” he said as he worked. “A weak pony with a screwdriver will drive screws better than a strong one with a hammer.” His work done, he turned to face them. “What I bring today is your tool kit.”

The hulking stallion looked out at the audience, tilting his hat back as he scanned their faces and allowing Sandstone to see his eyes for the first time. They were the color of smoldering embers, the same as his mane and tale, with pupils and irises that struck Sandstone as being just a shade too large.

“Words are cheap. Actions are better. So, to show you how effective they are, I’ll need a volunteer.”

His eyes drifted over the room, at one point passing over Sandstone. The young stallion wilted under the other’s eyes, as the fiery gaze seem to burn straight though to the back of his skull. For a moment, Sandstone thought he was going to be picked, and his mane stood on end with an instinctive fear. Then Quartermaster’s gaze drifted right, and the feeling grew worse as a mighty hoof was pointed at Breeze.

“You.”

Breeze swallowed. “M-me?” she asked.

Quartermaster beckoned her forward.

The mare glanced at her coltfriend. His instincts clamored for him to keep her away from the strange stallion, but he had no idea why. Brother Thornberry wouldn’t have invited him if he wasn’t trustworthy, he assured himself. I’m just being paranoid. Even so, it took all his effort to swallow his unease and force a reassuring smile. “Go on,” he said as encouragingly as he could manage. Smiling, she trotted forward amidst whispers of ‘lucky’ and ‘see if he’ll pick me next’ from other attendees. Sandstone just watched, unable to will his stomach to settle.

Breeze reached the front and stood fidgeting. She wasn’t the fidgety type, but, as she was dwarfed by the massive stallion, Sandstone couldn’t blame her. “What’s your name?” asked the giant.

She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “Breeze,” she replied. “Sea Breeze.”

He put a foreleg over her shoulder and led her over to the weapons with a wide grin. “Well, Breeze, let me show you what we’ll be working with today.”

Is he an arms dealer or a shop teacher? thought Sandstone sourly, wishing he’d been picked instead.

Quartermaster took one of the plain crossbows from the table and passed it to Breeze, along with ten bolts. “Have you ever fired a crossbow before?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s fairly simple to do. You simply pull back the string, lock it into position, load the bolt, point, and fire.” He demonstrated on a crossbow of his own. “The crossbow is the great equalizer on the field of battle. Even the armor of an EUP Guard can only do so much to resist a well-placed shot. Observe.” Casually, he aimed his crossbow and fired at one of the dummies, placing the bolt squarely in the heart of the peytral. “See? Now you try.”

Breeze went to cock back the bowstring with her magic, but Quartermaster stopped her. “Ah, ah,” he tutted as though speaking to a child or a dog. “No magic.” He glanced out at the audience. “And no wings for you pegasi. For unicorns, the stress of combat makes it easy to lose control of your magic if you aren’t trained, and the repetition of the action may wear out your thaumatic reserves and leave you vulnerable. As for pegasi, well, these aren’t shortbows we’re using; pulling the string back on a crossbow with your wings is a great way to snap your wings. Now try again.”

Unable to use her magic, Breeze had to resort to brute strength. Which, unfortunately for her, wasn’t much. It didn’t help that she was having difficulty figuring out how best to hold the weapon while she pulled on it. She fumbled with the weapon for nearly a minute, earning snickers from many of the Vox as her face turned red with embarrassment and frustration. Quartermaster just watched.

Sandstone glared. Why isn’t he helping her? Does he like watching her struggle? And how are these weapons supposed to help us if we can’t use them?

Eventually Quartermaster seemed to take pity on her, though only after she’d tried to brace it against the floor with her mouth on the butt of the weapon and both hooves on the string. He told her to brace the crossbow with one foreleg while the other levered against the string. Once she’d managed to load the bolt, he pulled out a pocket watch. “On my mark, begin firing and reloading at the closest target. We’ll see how many you can shoot in a minute. Ready? Mark!”

Breeze fired. The bolt shot wide of her target. Dropping the weapon back into the load position, she struggled to pull the string back for a second shot. Sandstone willed her to work faster as Quartermaster watched impassively. Breeze’s reloading went considerably better now that she knew what to do, but even with her best efforts she only managed to fire two more shots and load a third before she was interrupted by the command, “Stop.” She sat down panting. The Quartermaster took her weapon and unloaded it as he talked. “Three shots in a minute. This is actually not terrible for a first time shooter, so you should not be ashamed,” Breeze perked up a little. “But it’s a liability on the battlefield.” Her ears wilted. “The average for a standard infantrypony is six; Solar and Lunar drill to eight; Rangers demand a minimum of ten, and some of their snipers have been known to approach twenty by some super-equine feat.”

Stallions and mares exchanged distressed glances and whispered dark predictions to each other of how a battle with the army would go. For the first time that evening, Sandstone felt the confidence of the Vox fall.

“Yes, attempting to outshoot Guardponies with standard equipment would be suicide,” agreed Quartermaster. “Fortunately,” he retrieved one of the other crossbows, “this weapon is anything but ordinary.” He held it up so that even the ponies in the back could see it. The stock appeared to be a relatively normal crossbow, but the bow looked far stronger and the string was connected to a mechanism of gears and levers which all culminated in a crossbar grip. “This, fillies and gentlecolts, is the future of ranged warfare. Half again as powerful as the average crossbow, reduced bolt drop, and sighted for increased accuracy, with a unique loading mechanism that will shave precious seconds off of every shot. Simply pull the lever and go.” He passed it to Breeze along with enough bolts to bring her total back to ten, then stood behind her. “Give this a try.”

Breeze took the weapon with some trepidation, likely still embarrassed from her earlier display. Tentatively, she took hold of the cocking mechanism, sitting down on her hindquarters to give herself stability in preparation for what would no doubt require considerable exertion. She braced, yanked—

And fell over backwards when the lever cocked the bow with ease. Only Quartermaster’s bulk kept her from hitting the floor. He gave her a broad smile and helped her back to her hooves amidst chuckles from the audience. She blushed again, but Sandstone was relieved to see that she was smiling this time. Once more Quartermaster took out his watch. “Ready?” she nodded. “Mark!”

Thunk!

The sound of the first bolt drilling deep into the dummy was audible throughout the basement. Blinking away her shock at the success of her shot, Breeze cranked back the mechanism and fired again. And again. And again. And again until she’d exhausted all ten bolts a split second before Quartermaster announced, “Time.”

Silence reigned, broken only by the sound of Breeze panting from the adrenalin rushing through her veins. Quartermaster gave his broad smile and winked. “Congratulations, Miss Breeze. You just shot like a Ranger.”

Breeze gazed at the ten bolts buried in various dummies, then bared her teeth in an eager smile. “Buck yeah I did.”

Cheers ripped out from the audience and there was a thunder of hooves as ponies leapt to their feet to celebrate. Brother Thornberry picked that moment to return to the podium and direct their cheers to the fact that they now had the edge over the enemy and to ask for volunteers to come and demonstrate all the new weapons that Quartermaster had brought. Stallions and mares from all backgrounds and professions flocked to the stage to be the first to try them out. The chant of “Vox! Vox! Vox!” broke out and more than one pony wept for joy in the heady passion of the moment.

Sandstone remained in his seat, watching. He wanted to be ecstatic like the others. After all, having an edge like this would mean that the revolution would be over quickly and with little bloodshed; that soon the tyranny of the Crown would be ended and the power distributed to the citizens of Equestria; that he would be a part of that change. Tweed was celebrating. Thornberry was celebrating. Everypony was celebrating. And rightly so! We have every right to be celebrating! Everything finally seemed to be coming together.

So what’s wrong?

He looked to the front of the room, where, through the mass of clamoring ponies, he saw Quartermaster holding two spears, one a normal steel-tipped spear, and one tipped with a strange dark crystal. At the moment he seemed to be explaining the difference between the two to a cluster of eager young Vox, Breeze foremost among them. As though he sensed the other stallion’s scrutiny, Quartermaster looked up. Their gazes locked across the room, and once more the pale stallion’s gaze seemed to burn through Sandstone’s skull. This time, the younger stallion refused to look away.

What followed was unlike anything Sandstone had ever experienced. If asked, he could not have described what he saw in the other stallion’s eyes, but a potent sense of wrongness settled in his gut like a poison. And still Quartermaster stared. Their wordless interaction could not have lasted more than a moment, but to Sandstone it felt as though hours had passed.

Then the spell was broken. Breeze looked back at her coltfriend and waved him forward. Quartermaster shot him a wink and a smile and beckoned to him as well. Sandstone shook his head to clear it. See? That wink was normal. Nothing to it. Mind’s playing tricks. Forcing a smile, he strode up to join them, looping a foreleg over his marefriend’s withers and listening attentively as Quartermaster explained. It’s just my imagination, he assured himself as Quartermaster spoke of the weapons like a professor lecturing on physics. I’m jumpy from the lack of sleep and the stress. So what if the guy looks a little weird? If Thornberry trusts him, I should to.

The pit in his stomach remained.

Author's Note

Aura entered Antiquarian’s office to find him staring out the window in a brown study, a mug of Neighrish coffee in one hoof and a slight frown on his features. All in all, it was not an unusual position to find him in. “I’ve brought up the files you requested on early Equestrian warfare, as well as Dr. Quill’s Treatise on Magical Ethics and Commander Fire’s correspondence from the Kudandan War. Where shall I leave them?”

Antiquarian didn’t look up. “Anywhere on the undignified sprawl is fine.”

Aura looked at the minor catastrophe that was Antiquarian’s desk and sighed. “Of course,” she said. Unable to leave the desk in such a state, she began tidying up almost on instinct. “Brooding over the pending meeting with Mr. Set and Mrs. Crust?” Knowing him, he was dreading the interaction.

“Oh, not at all,” he replied blithely. “In fact, I’ll be missing that meeting.”

Aura paused mid-cleaning and glared at her boss. “No, you won’t be.”

He shrugged. “Can’t be helped.”

The secretary pursed her lips and fought back the urge to hurl a tome at his head. “Antiq, I know you can’t stand those two pretentious windbags, but this meeting has been on the books for months. You are not going to make me reschedule.”

“Sorry, Aura. Got no choice in the matter,” he replied. “And, believe it or not, missing a meeting with them is just a welcome bonus. This isn’t actually about them.” He tapped on the glass. “It’s about them.”

Curious, Aura trotted over. “Who?” She joined him by the window and looked down to see an approaching mass off—

“Is that an angry mob?” she asked.

“It is.”

“And they’re here for you?”

He nodded. “Most probably.”

She shot him a sharp glance. “How late was the last chapter?”

“Over two weeks.”

Aura winced. “Ah.”

Antiquarian sighed and loosened his tie, draining his cup and ambling in the direction of the door. “Well, nothing for it them. I’d best be off. Sorry to leave you holding the baby again.”

“It’s no trouble, sir, but,” she bit her lip, “I hope you’re not planning on just going down and facing the music, are you?”

He actually chuckled at that. “Oh heavens no! I’m going out the back! Why do you think I always keep a grappling hook and rope stashed by the fire escape?”

“Surprise inspections by Neighsay?” she ventured.

“Well, that too. Take the day off, Aura. I very much doubt I’ll be back tonight.”

“Very good, sir,” replied Aura. Once he was gone, she went back to tidying his desk. Might as well do this while he’s not around to mess it up.

I live! Okay, that chapter took much longer to get out than I thought it would. Usually I go through 3-5 versions of a chapter before posting it, though they all tend to be versions of the same basic idea. This is my 10th version of this chapter, and the 2nd overall concept; it doesn't share a single paragraph or theme in common with the original version. Add to that health problems, travel, a wedding, writer's block, more travel, changes at work, and a host of other problems and we have the significant delay. The only upside to all this is that I actually wrote my Memorial Day tribute story a couple days before all the issues hit, so that at least got published as promised. Read 'The Tab' here.

This chapter is rife with references to both history and fiction, some obvious and some not, as well as quite a bit of foreshadowing. I'm curious to see which ones people catch.

Also, hey a first look at the enemies lurking in the shadows. How about that? Worth the wait, right? Please don't kill me .

Final bit: the story recommendation. Usually I do a story that isn't that well known, but, given the themes dealt with in this chapter, I feel that "A Mad Glimmer" is appropriate. Happy reading!

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The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

Twilight did not consider herself to be an easily irritated pony. That being said, she had enough self-awareness to know that when a task (particularly one related to research, the princess, or friendship) was not going well, she tended to get testy. This one happened to involve all three, which went a long way to explaining the dog-like snarl she emitted as she slammed the latest book shut.

“Not one,” she muttered to herself. “I have the entire, freaking, Golden Oaks Library, and my substantial personal collection at my hooves, and I can’t find one complete account of that stupid war!” Her head slumped onto the desk with a groan.

She’d spent the better part of the night pouring through every book in the library even tangentially related to spellcraft, portals, prophesy, history, and myth, hoping for some clarity regarding Jacques’ abilities and the Shades. While she’d dug up some helpful resources on the former, and some tidbits about the latter, she had not found a single conclusively helpful book in the entire library about either.

Taking a deep breath, Twilight forced herself to think about the matter dispassionately. To be fair, the lack of any data about Jacques and his magic doesn’t surprise me. He’s one of a kind, as far as we know, and the best I had any reasonable hope of finding was further information about similar types of magic found in other races and compendiums on Curatrix and Dark Magic. Which, indeed, she had, albeit not in any large quantity.

The second endeavor, however, had yielded next to no results, and try as she might she could not find it in herself to think positively about that fact. I know it was a long time ago, but is there seriously not one complete account of that war? Heaving a sigh, she glanced around at the shelves, hoping for some burst of inspiration. The morning sunlight filtered in through the windows, illuminating the texts that hadn’t seemed relevant to her research and as such had remained on the shelves. Distantly she heard the sound of somepony singing, and she blinked blearily. Did I really stay up all night again? She shrugged and rubbed her eyes. Oh well. Research never sleeps. I suppose I could start combing through every book in the library, even the ones with unrelated topics. It’s always possible there’s some small connection—

“As though I would make it that easy,” mused a basso voice.

“GAA!” yelped Twilight, jolting bolt-upright and tumbling off her stool in shock. “Who’s there?! How did you get in my house?!”

“Who am I?” chuckled the voice, ignoring the second question. “Who am I?” His voice came from every direction at once and the room began to sway around her. Twilight bit her lip and scanned the room frantically as sweat beaded on her brow. “Oh, little pony, I am hurt. Have you forgotten me already?” His laughter echoed in her skull. “Hardly the friendly thing to do.”

“Where are you?” she shouted, leaping to all four hooves despite the shaking floor and charging her horn as though to attack. In reality, she was preparing a teleport spell to transport her to Spike and then another to get them outside as soon as she knew what she was up against. “Show yourself!”

“Very well,” purred the voice. “If you must know, little pony…” the voice came behind her. Twilight spun, a defiant snarl on her lips, but what she beheld almost sent her tumbling back to the trembling floor in abject terror. Leering out from a pall of black smoke was a visage she’d thought annihilated in the icy lands of the far north. Baring a fanged smile, Sombra announced, “I’ve been with you this whole time.”

Twilight didn’t hesitate. She altered the prepared spell matrix on the fly, dumping the power from her teleport into an old Curatrix technique known affectionately as ‘Sunsinger’s Lance’ and launching it at his head. She was rewarded by a snarl of pain as the beam punched through his head, reducing him to vapor. Knowing that she didn’t have much time, she turned and sprinted for the stairs. Can’t teleport. Had wards against it in the Empire. Grab Spike. Make hole in wall. Flee.

Her plan had come together with impressive swiftness, but, unfortunately for her, it wasn’t swift enough. A wall of black crystal shot up through the floor, very nearly severing her head and certainly cutting her off from Spike. Sombra’s head emerged from the crystals, his glare baleful. “You’ve learned a new trick, you little nag.”

Twilight tried to put on a brave face, but it was difficult to accomplish with the floor constantly shifting beneath her as though she were on a sailing ship. “I’ve been practicing since our last encounter,” she snarled. “Or should I say, my last encounter with Sombra.”

The head reared back. “I am Sombra!”

“Sombra’s dead,” replied Twilight, who was rather proud of herself for keeping the shakiness out of her voice. “I saw him die myself. You’re not him…” her eyes narrowed, “but to impersonate him like this would require knowledge of his powers. So who are you really…Shade?”

Rather than being annoyed by her question, the Sombra head merely chuckled. “An accurate deduction, little mare. I imagine you will rise to great heights. Unfortunately…”

The ground rumbled and Twilight screamed as a host of inky black vines of concentrated magic exploded up through the floor, wrapping around her in a cocoon before punching up through the roof of the library and carrying her hundreds of feet into the sky. She thrashed against the tendrils, striking out with her magic, but to no avail. Her shrieks filled the air as the smoking head loomed above her, eyes mocking.

“…the higher you rise, the farther you have to fall.”

With that, he released his grip.

Twilight’s screams redoubled as she plummeted groundward. Operating on autopilot, she tried to teleport to safety, but without an anchor point for her starting location her spell fizzled out time and time again. She tried to summon clouds to cushion her fall, but she hadn’t applied the cloudwalk spell recently enough for it to do more than drench her. She tried to summon a trampoline, but apparently there wasn’t one close enough to respond to the summons. She tried every technique she knew and failed, while one persistent thought coursed like a raging river through her mind.

I just got killed by a nameless antagonist making a bad joke.

As the full weight of that depressing fact settled on her shoulders, she actually stopped screaming long enough to examine where she was going to land. It appeared that she was going to end her journey in front of the desk where she’d spent most of the night. She stared at the spot, unable to believe that it was truly to be her final stop. She stared so long that it felt like her eyelids were being peeled open as the ground rushed on.

In fact, it almost feels like my eyes are opening even though they’re already open. Almost like I’m asleep and opening my eyes to see—

Twilight fell off her stool and smashed her face against the hard oak floor with a resounding crack. “BUCK!” she swore.

Spike sang softly to himself as he stirred the pancake batter. The coffee had finished brewing a few moments ago and he’d already taken the liberty of pouring five cups; two for himself, and three for Twilight. A selection of assorted fruits for the librarian and some gemstones for himself were already on their plates (admittedly fewer of the latter than he’d started with), and soon the griddle would be hot enough for the batter. He briefly considered rousing Twilight, but figured that she would soon wake to the smell of the pancakes, if the rising sun hadn’t woken her already. She’d passed out on the lower level of their sleeping quarters, right in front of the window, so it seemed likely that she’d be down directly.

In fact, I think I hear her now, he reflected as he heard the sound of hooves knocking against wood upstairs. He picked up the mixing bowl and was just about to pour the batter when a thought occurred to him. Wait, that doesn’t sound like hooves on floorboards; that sounds like hooves kicking a desk. And didn’t I leave her sleeping in a chair? I hope she doesn’t kick her chair out from under herself—

There was a thunderous wham! from the second floor, followed by the bellow of “BUCK!”

Spike sighed and set down the batter, flicking off the burner and hopping down from the stool to head upstairs. I should probably go check on that.

“Son of a mule-loving horseapple-eating cow pie!” spat Twilight, who sat on the floor nursing her bloody nose. She’d somehow contrived to fall clean out of her chair and crack her muzzle against the floorboards. Ordinarily she was somewhat bleary when she first woke up after a long night studying, at least until she got her first cup of coffee. As it happened, however, the sensation of feeling like she’d broken her snout was a wonderful source of morning energy. “How in Tartarus did I manage to fall so perfectly to smash my Celestia-blessed snout against the freaking floor and I had that stupid freaky dream and I am so peeved right now!”

“Language!” chuckled Spike from the door. He walked up holding a box of tissues. “I haven’t heard you swear like that since Uni.”

“Shut your gem hole, Spike,” hissed Twilight, snatching the tissues from him with her magical grasp and dabbing at the blood. “This isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” smirked Spike. “And besides; you’ve gotten clocked worse than that ice-skating. Well, trying to ice-skate.”

If looks could have killed, Spike would have been lucky to get off merely injured.

Taking the hint, he went back downstairs. “Speaking of ice, how about I go fetch you some.”

“Please do,” she replied, all acid.

While she waited, Twilight took the time to collect her thoughts. It was easy to deduce that the combination of a sunbeam creeping across her face and the sounds of Spike singing while he cooked downstairs had stirred her to the beginnings of wakefulness, which in turn had led to her kicking her hooves in her sleep when the nightmare startled her. That her kicking hooves had thrown her from her stool was simply an unfortunate side effect. The dream itself had doubtless been the product of her late night research, and her desk held more than enough evidence to corroborate that theory. Strewn across it were every book on Curatrix magic, the Dark Arts, and the Shades that she could find. Which, in practice, means seven books.

There was, in fact, precious little in her library on those topics. What books she did have were mostly on Curatrix magic itself and how to recognize the Dark Arts and protect oneself from them. Anything providing greater detail on the latter was only available to those who directly fought dark magic users, as the danger of an unprepared reader becoming fascinated with and succumbing to the Dark Arts was a very real one. Still, I would have thought that there would have been more than passing mentions of the War of Shades in my books. I mean, sure, a lot of records from that time were lost on Nightmare Night, but even then the details of the campaign are really sparse. It wasn’t exactly surprising; record-keeping a thousand years ago had been expensive, and if the original copy was lost then everything it contained went with it. And I suppose Celestia has better things to do than sit around and dictate campaign memoires; especially for something that she would rather not be publicized. Still, she made a point of requesting any relevant books she could from the Canterlot archives.

Her reverie was interrupted by the return of her number one assistant, who brought with him a much-needed icepack and a cup of coffee. As to which I need more, jury’s still out. With a grateful nod she applied the former and set about draining the latter. “Thanks, Spike. Sorry I snapped at you.”

He shrugged. “I get it. Rude awakening.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” she breathed. “I had a crazy dream.”

Spike tapped the stack of books and notes with his claw. “Can’t imagine why. Though I’m surprised; you usually don’t get that wild of dreams. Unless,” he sniffed the air suspiciously, then walked over to the desk and grabbed a dirty dish from it. He sniffed it more closely, gagged, then frowned at her. “Twilight, did you eat the leftover five-alarm hot-wings for a midnight study snack?”

Twilight hid behind her coffee mug. “Maybe?”

The dragon put his claws on his hips. “Twilight, do you remember what you said to me four years ago after you ate that chili right before bed while reading Se7en Sins?”

She hid further behind the mug. “No?”

Spike cocked an eyebrow.

Heaving a sigh, Twilight relented. “I said, ‘I will never eat spicy food while reading about creepy things right before bed again.’”

“And do you remember why?”

Twilight’s voice dipped to a barely audible grumble. “Because I… kinda set the room on fire in the middle of my nightmare.”

“Right,” agreed Spike smugly. “And we were both very lucky that I’m fireproof.”

“In my defense, I wasn’t planning on sleeping after I read Se7en.”

“Twilight,” yawned Spike, “planning on making poor life choices is not an excuse for making other poor life choices.”

At his yawn, Twilight noticed that her assistant didn’t look to be in much better shape than her. He had pronounced bags under his eyes and was blinking owlishly. Time to go on the offensive, she thought with a smug grin. “Okay, mister, if you’re so much better at making responsible choices, how come you’re so tired, huh?”

Spike looked around guiltily. “What? I, uh, don’t know what you’re talking about! I slept great!”

“Okay, Applejack,” replied Twilight.

He opened his mouth to protest, then gave a rueful grin. “That bad, eh? I must be slipping. Yeah, you caught me. I was up too late reading.”

Twilight tilted her head. “Well, since it would be hypocritical of me to chew you out for that this morning, I’ll instead ask how you were up so late reading? You went upstairs at ten; that was nine hours ago. How did one comic last you that long?”

Spike twiddled his claws. “It, uh. It wasn’t one comic. You see, my new Batmare comic was pretty… um… dark, so I kinda had to read a few Captain Equestria and Iron Mane stories afterwards to lighten the mood.”

Twilight frowned. “Define ‘dark.’”

“Weeeeellll…”

Spike told her about the ‘punchline’ of Batmare: the Killer Joke. The mare felt her jaw hit the floor. “How the heck did that get past the censors for a kid’s comic book?!”

“It’s not a kid’s comic book. It’s for mature audiences. And I may be a baby dragon, but in pony years I’m old enough to buy one. And before you go on a lecture about discussing the content of material that I’m exposed to,” he cut her off with an upraised claw, “I already agree with you. I’m swearing off that whole comic line for a while. I’m strictly Power Ponies and Marevel for a while. Okay?”

Twilight had been poised to launch into full lecture mode but, given that she hadn’t even had her second cup of coffee yet and it was shaping up to be a busy day of discovery and friendship, she wasn’t in the mood to pursue it. “Fine. I suppose I can let that be sufficient punishment this time. But I’ll be keeping a closer eye on what you read from here on out, mister!”

Spike waved her off, unconcerned. “Yeah, yeah. That’s fair. Now, do you want breakfast, or do you just plan on rushing off to ambush the poor friar first thing in the morning while on an empty stomach and insufficient caffeine?”

Her stomach rumbled. “Well, when you put it like that, I suppose it’d be best to give him some time to settle into his morning before disturbing him.”

“She can be taught!” cheered Spike as he led the way downstairs.

As they reached the main floor there was a knock at the door. Twilight set her icepack down and sent Spike to the kitchen before trotting over to answer it, wondering who could be at the library at seven in the morning. It proved to be Applejack and Rarity, both with their younger sisters in tow. “Good morning, Twilight,” sang Rarity, opening the pleasantries. “How lovely it is to— good gracious, darling! What happened to your face?!”

Twilight sniffed on the bloodied tissues shoved into her muzzle. “I hit the books a little too hard last night.” Her guests stared. “Long story. Anyway, what’s up? Isn’t it kinda early for you all to be coming by? Not that I’m not happy to see you, of course,” she hastened to add. “I’m always happy to see you!”

“Oh, think nothing of it, darling,” scoffed Rarity. “We knew what you meant. I simply wanted to come by to, ahem, inquire how well you slept last night.” Her eyes narrowed. “And see how you were feeling.”

Twilight tilted her head quizzically. “Why would you want to check that?”

“Because you usually don’t sleep when you get into research mode,” called Spike from the kitchen. “Yes, Rarity, she slept last night, though not well. And don’t worry about the nose; she just fell out of her chair in her sleep.” Applejack snickered, only to be silenced by a sharp jab from Rarity. “Thanks for asking. Really nice of you to check!”

“Well, that’s the best we can hope for under the circumstances,” stated Rarity with a satisfied smile. “And seven in the morning isn’t so terribly early, after all. I only had to get up at five to get ready.” Twilight gave a slow blink at that. Sweetie Belle just face-hooved and the Apples rolled their eyes. “What?”

Applejack didn’t try to answer her. “As fer us, seven’s actually late. Ain’t a lot o’ farm work needs doin today, but we been up since six or so fixin’ up the farm fer the friar when he comes ‘round.”

Sweetie Belle stomped her hoof. “I’m so jealous he gets to stay with you.”

Rarity gave a coy smile. “Oh, don’t worry, Sweetie Belle. I’m sure you’ll get to visit him lots.”

The filly brightened. “Really?”

“Why of course, darling,” gushed Rarity, the smile on her face taking an evil quality. “In twelve years when you’re done being grounded for running off into the Everfree without telling anypony where you were.”

Sweetie Belle’s face fell. Applebloom didn’t appear sympathetic. “Ya’ll got off easy,” she declared flatly. “I got fifteen to twenty with no hope of parole.”

Twilight wanted to assure the fillies that the massive punishments were likely to be lifted within a month or so, but a look at their sisters assured her that ruining the illusion would be counterproductive. If it is an illusion, she amended, noting Applejack’s flat nod at Applebloom’s statement. “Would you all care to join us for breakfast?” she offered instead. “I’m planning on bringing some books to the friar to help him integrate to Equestrian society after we eat; I can always ask Spike to throw some more pancakes on.”

“Oh no, my dear, we couldn’t possibly impose,” insisted Rarity.

Spike poked his head out of the kitchen. “Rarity! I hope you stay for breakfast. I went ahead and made enough for everypony!”

Twilight looked back at her fellow unicorn. Rarity shrugged. “Well, I suppose if it’s not an imposition…”

Soon the six of them were happily munching their way through a hearty breakfast. As it happened, Rarity and Applejack had been planning on taking their siblings by the hospital to thank the friar that morning and had already arranged to meet Rainbow and Scootaloo there. Despite their disappointment at being grounded, the fillies were plainly excited to meet their savior when he was awake, and they peppered the elder ponies with questions about Jacques, his magic, where he came from, and anything else that came to mind. The adults answered as best as they were able to without telling the fillies about the secrets surrounding the man. Spike had already been filled in the night before, though Twilight had glossed over most of the more graphic details; as Twilight’s assistant it would have been impossible to keep him out of the loop anyway.

Eventually the conversation wound its way to inquiries about Twilight’s study habits. “So, what did yer all-nighter net ya other than a bloody nose?” asked Applejack.

“Not as much as I would have liked,” admitted Twilight. “I was mostly looking into possible explanations for Friar Jacques’ unique magical properties but, without more data, I’m mostly just crafting theories. I also wanted to investigate that, um,” she glanced at the fillies, “old war that the princess mentioned in passing, but there aren’t a lot of specifics on it. I got ranks and partial names and descriptions for the commanders, but not much else.”

“Isn’t that a little odd?” asked Rarity. “I seem to recall most history books being a touch more detailed than that. And, even if this war wasn’t, shall we say, publicized, shouldn’t the knowledge still be accessible?”

“Not necessarily,” answered Twilight. “What you have to understand about the early years of Equestria is that it was a pretty tumultuous time. The weather wasn’t as controlled as it is now, which led to fires, floods, earthquakes, and all kinds of natural disasters that we really don’t see anymore. And that’s not even accounting for the semi-frequent wars, raids, and riots that plagued the lands.”

Applejack scrunched her nose in confusion. “What does all that have ta do with books?”

“Everything,” replied Twilight. “You see, paper was an expensive a rare commodity at that time, and printing presses didn’t exist. Books were seldom written, and when they were it was common for there to only be a few copies in existence. And, if those copies happened to be in a collection that was, say, flooded, burned, raided, or in some other way destroyed…”

“Poof! No history!” finished Spike with a pithy epithet.

“Yes,” sighed Twilight. “All that knowledge, lost for all the ages…” she blinked away a bit of moisture and cleared her throat before continuing. “Anyway, it’s pretty common for data from that era to be piecemeal at best. Remember the Crystal Empire and how not even I had heard of it? Well, the Crystal War was a pretty well-documented and well-known conflict at the time, even if Equestria didn’t know much about the Empire itself, but it passed out of history almost entirely thanks to the ascension of Nightmare Moon since she destroyed a few hundred tomes in her fight with Celestia.” In what was doubtless the single greatest evil she committed short of the actual betrayal of Celestia. “And that’s really a shame in more ways than one. Not only is that knowledge lost for all time, but I get the impression that Jacques’ culture most closely resembles our own Medieval Period in history, part of which was centered around that era, and it might have made his adjustment to our world simpler to have that on hoof.”

“Medieval period you say,” said a pondering voice to her left.

“Yes, Pinkie Pie, Medieval PerioOH SWEET CELESTIA!” Twilight almost fell out of her chair in shock as she saw Pinkie sitting next to her. The pink mare was stroking her chin, lost in thought, and, judging by the stunned looks of the rest of the room’s occupants, no one else had seen her enter either. “Gonna have to put a bell on you,” grumbled Twilight.

“No thanks,” replied Pinkie Pie. “Cowbell Day is next week in honor of Christofoal Walken’s birthday. I wouldn’t want to confuse everypony by celebrating that early, now would I?”

“Heaven forbid, that happen,” deadpanned Applejack.

“Say, Twilight, have you got any books on celebration customs in Medieval Equestria?” asked Pinkie.

Twilight cocked an eyebrow. “Why?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Twilight, it’s Pinkie. She’s asking about celebrations, ergo, parties. Why do you think she’s asking about it?”

“Fair point,” conceded Twilight. “Stack seventeen, third shelf from the bottom, Pinkie.”

“Okie dokie lokie! Thanks, Twilight!” And with that, Pinkie bounced into the main room to fetch the books.

The breakfasters stared out the door she’d vanished through for a moment before Twilight broke the silence. “So… did anypony else see her enter?”

“Eenope,” answered Applebloom, doing a fair impression of her older brother.

“And did anypony else even notice her before she spoke?”

“Eenope,” answered Applejack, following her sister’s lead.

Sweetie Belle, who was seated closest to the door, peered into the library. “She’s not in there anymore.” She paused. “Did anypony hear her leave?”

“I confess that I did not,” answered Rarity.

A moment of silence followed.

Spike took over the line of questioning. “Anypony else feel like, if Pinkie wanted to, she could probably conquer the world and there wouldn’t be a darn thing we could do about it?”

“Honestly, Spike? Ah try not ta think about it,” declared Applejack.

“And the fact that that’s your response scares me more than anything.”

Twilight thought back to her own vain attempts to understand Pinkie Pie, and how after meeting Discord it had occurred to her that the two had a similar propensity for defying what she understood to be the nature of the world. And now I regret thinking about this. “Well, this conversation has taken a turn. What say we all head down to the hospital to visit the friar before we follow Pinkie Pie into… whatever state her mind is in.”

“Eeyup.”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds good.”

“That’s probably wise, darling.”

“Ah’m all for it.”

Twilight levitated the dishes over to the sink and led the way to the door. “Motion carries. Meeting adjourned.”

A single ray of golden light streamed in through a crack in the curtains, courtesy of the rising morning sun. It touched the edge of the bedspread, working its way along inch by inch until it illuminated the face of the sleeping warrior. It then made its assault upon the unconscious being, battering upon the shuttered eyes like a ram upon gates. The eyelids made a valiant effort to stem the onslaught, but in the end their last defenses were broken and the citadel of the sleeping mind was laid bare by the ravaging spears of wakefulness.

Argent moaned and rolled over, pulling a pillow over her eyes in a vain effort to reclaim her slumber. It was a hopeless cause and she knew it. Once she was awake, it was very hard for her to fall back asleep. Most soldiers developed the ability to become instantly alert when need be and to fall immediately unconscious the instant that need passed. Argent had only ever mastered the first half of that ability. Still, she had lain awake for the better part of the night war-gaming as to how best to oust any traitors from Canterlot in the most efficient manner possible. Thus, she held out some small hope that, in her exhaustion, she might manage to once more seize the elusive quarry that was sleep.

That hope was dashed the moment the door opened to the sound of humming as hoofsteps crossed the room to her side. “Good morning, Captain,” sang the soprano voice of Morning Song.

Argent bit back a hiss. “Lieutenant Song, how long have we known each other?” she demanded through her pillow.

“Four years, seven months, and ten days, ma’am,” came Morning Song’s chipper reply.

“And in that time, Lieutenant, have you ever known me to be a morning pony?”

“No, ma’am. In fact, I recall one instance when you threatened to maim a bugler for playing Reveille two minutes too early.”

“Then why, pray tell, after slipping out so quietly as to not awaken me have you dared to return humming a confounded aria?”

Morning Song chortled. “Because, Captain, I slipped out expressly to bring you this.” There was the sound of a tray being lifted, and suddenly the aroma of fresh Zebrican coffee wafted through the room like a heavenly perfume. Argent felt something in her soul sing. “Given that your meal with Celestia is in thirty minutes time and you’ll, ahem, doubtless want to freshen up, I thought it best to prepare for you the proper beverage to set you in motion.”

Argent tried to fight the compulsion to rise, to follow the aroma to the decadent nectar that was its source. It proved to be her second defeat of the day. “Bloody Tartarus I hate you,” she snapped, sitting bolt upright in bed to glare at her smirking subordinate. She gave Song a grim look before seizing the carafe of coffee from the serving tray, putting it to her lips, and guzzling the scalding contents, all the while maintaining eye contact with her subordinate.

Morning Song, not surprisingly, was already groomed for the day. Argent knew from years of sharing sleeping quarters with her fellow officer that Song possessed the ability to go about her morning ablutions in total silence, as evidenced by the fact that she managed to never wake Argent. And I’m a notoriously light sleeper. She even makes her bed in silence. Argent always wondered if it had something to do with Song’s special talent. Her mark, visible for the moment as Song had not yet donned her armor, was a musical note with a sun for the ball attached to the eighth note branch. Argent knew that her talent helped her brighten the moods of others and lent her a cheerful demeanor, but the lieutenant had always been vague as to what all her talent entailed. Perhaps her powers are stronger in the morning or something.

In the dim light of the room, Argent also caught sight of her own reflection in the mirror behind Song. The image was not flattering. Her coat was matted and her mane more closely resembled that of the legendary physicist Einsteed than her usual meticulous coiffure. Had anyone but Song been in the room, Argent would have been mortified.

As it was, though, Song was accustomed to the fact that her typically spotless superior did not tend to awaken with much aesthetic dignity intact when she was fortunate enough to be sleeping in a bed rather than on the ground. Ironically, I wake up in better condition when I’m camping under the stars. Luxury makes me soft.

It was at this point in her musings that she finished the carafe of coffee and took a breath. She set the empty vessel back on the tray with a contented sigh. “Thank you kindly, Lieutenant. Your efforts on my behalf are always appreciated.”

Song didn’t even bat an eye at the mood shift. “Of course, Captain. Will there be anything else?”

Argent slipped out of bed, trailing the covers behind her as she plodded to the shower. “See to it that your minions are prepared to speak with royalty this morning. I have a little task for the three of you.”

“They’re not minions,” replied Song with a roll of her eyes. “You make it sound so nefarious.”

The elder mare gave her a dry smile. “Haven’t you been reading the Canterlot Post?” She flicked her tail at the copy of the paper that she’d read last night before turning it. “We’re Celestia’s War Dogs. It seems that everything we do is nefarious.”

“I’ll make a note to practice my maniacal laughter, then,” deadpanned Song.

“See that you do,” smirked Argent.

The next hour saw Argent enjoying a pleasant breakfast with Celestia and Mayor Mare, during which time they engaged in harmless small talk regarding the town’s new resident. The mayor was told everything she needed to know regarding Jacques’ circumstances and nothing more. A seasoned statespony and a Crown Loyalist, Mayor Mare knew not to press for details she didn’t need and simply assured Celestia that she would accommodate the friar in any way she could.

After finishing their meal, Argent led Celestia to the study, where she’d told Song to meet them with her subordinates. “Colour Sergeant Krucjata Włócznia and Staff Sergeant Marble Slab,” she was saying as they walked. “They’ve served me well for years, and hit it off especially well with Lieutenant Song. Capable, reliable soldiers. A touch… eccentric perhaps,” she admitted more quietly, “but loyal to a fault and beyond reproach,” she hastened to add.

If Celestia was moved one way or the other by the descriptions, she didn’t show it. Her face was its usual mask of pleasantness and calm that very few were ever privileged enough, or unfortunate enough, to see under. “I’ve always felt that a measure of eccentricity is called for in the REF, wouldn’t you agree?” asked the ruler.

“I suppose so, Your Highness, but these two are, well,” she cleared her throat, “more eccentric than most. Especially Włócznia.”

Celestia favored her with a warm smile. “I have full confidence that you wouldn’t recommend them if they weren’t the stallions for the job.”

Argent felt her heart swell at the confidence that her ruler had in her, which only redoubled her anxiety over introducing her to two of her more off-kilter soldiers. This is ridiculous! she admonished herself. I’ve known Celestia personally for years, and I’m acting like a new maidservant! Calm down, Argent! Celestia trusts you, and I’m sure even those two mongrels will be on their best behavior for Her Highness. “Thank you, Princess.” She gripped the knob of the study door with her magic, faintly hearing the sounds of conversation beyond. “You won’t be disappointed.”

With a twist and a push she opened the door, preparing herself to announce the Princess’s arrival to the room’s occupants. What she saw caused her voice to catch in her throat. It wasn’t Morning Song that caught her off-guard; unsurprisingly, the lieutenant was fully kitted in polished armor and snapped to attention the moment the door opened. Nor was it Marble Slab; the short, stocky red pegasus was just as professionally situated as Song, much to Argent’s relief. Rather, it was the room’s third occupant that drove Argent’s voice back down her throat and sent rage racing through her veins.

Krucjata Włócznia was a rangy unicorn stallion with coarse dark brown fur and a tousled mop of red and white hair for a mane; a mane that was quite plainly seen because he wasn’t wearing his helmet. A week’s worth of crimson stubble marked his chin and his bloodshot blue eyes gave him the look of a crazed scientist rather than a professional soldier awaiting his diarch. He braced against his spear in a pose somewhere between a lean and a slump, and, rather than coming fully to attention, he merely froze in his current position as though a lack of motion would allow him to remain unnoticed. Each of these factors was calculated to raise Argent’s blood pressure to dangerous levels, but there was one point which made her verge on homicidal rage:

He was eating.

A donut was clutched in the red of his magical grip, poised mere inches from his lips, indicating that he had been interrupted mid-snack by a meeting that was already scheduled. Song herself looked mortified and Marble frightened. Argent’s personal feelings on the matter were more in the realm of absolutely livid.

However, Argent was a professional, and she would not let a little thing like blinding rage make her lose her composure. “Colour Sergeant,” she began, her voice clipped and even, “I assume there is a valid reason for your being out of uniform and eating a pastry? Perhaps a late night of thwarting assassination attempts against the princess or a sudden ambush by griffon mercenaries that has left you in so unpresentable a state?”

Argent could have sworn that a potted plant near the door began to melt from her weapons-grade sarcasm. Pondering the possibility helped distract her from the overbearing presence of Celestia behind her.

To his credit, the stallion escaped her verbal assault without injury and, seeing that his attempt to remain unnoticed had failed, he straightened into something resembling attention, still clutching his donut. “Well, Captain,” he began, his accent betraying his foreign birth, “in my admittedly weak defense, you’re five minutes early and I wasn’t expecting you just yet.”

The captain felt her eye twitch. “And it didn’t cross your mind to reach some level of presentability well in advance of Her Highness’s arrival?” she asked, managing not to hiss.

Włócznia gave a weak smile. “Be honest, Captain. Have I ever been what you would call ‘presentable?’”

Argent face-hooved so hard it hurt. “Princess,” she managed through gritted teeth, “I humbly apologize for the conduct of this idiot. I’ll see to it that he is properly punished for his utterly disgraceful behavior—"

“No need, Argent,” interrupted Celestia, sweeping past the captain with a cold expression. “I think I’ll see to his punishment personally.”

Argent blanched. He may be a lout, but I certainly don’t want him in the statue garden. She opened her mouth to object, but her reverence for her ruler silenced whatever she might have said. Song likewise moved to intervene, but with a look at Celestia’s face she stepped back, an odd look on her face. Marble didn’t even try. He just patted his fellow NCO’s leg and stepped back saying, “Been nice knowing you, buddy.”

Celestia loomed over the colour sergeant, looking down from twice his height. Włócznia swallowed. “Colour Sergeant Włócznia,” she began gravely. “For this abominable heresy you have displayed in my presence…”

Wait, heresy?!

“…which is obviously a display of your worship of the Dark Arts…”

Wait, Dark Arts what?!

“…I find you guilty and sentence you…” she leaned down to be eye-to-eye with the sergeant. “To give me that donut.”

Włócznia blinked, then gave a cheeky grin. “All that cake you eat and now you demand a donut from a commoner? The nerve of you tyrants.”

Argent felt something in her brain snap.

With a hearty laugh, Celestia gave the stallion a gentle smack. “You cheeky rip! You’re lucky I’m more patient with you than my sister is.”

Wlocznia cackled. “Even I’m not dumb enough to make her peeved at me.” He magicked over a fresh donut. “Here. I imagine you burn this garbage off suppressing the urge to throttle dignitaries in court all day.”

“Physiology was never your strong suit, was it?” she teased.

He hefted his spear. “I know what parts to break. What more could a simple warrior need?” He glanced at Argent. “All due respect, Captain, but your left eye is rolling backwards in your skull.”

Argent noticed that her vision had indeed blurred, and she gave her head a vigorous shake, trying to ignore Celestia’s barely suppressed amusement and the stallion’s open smirk. “Sergeant, it seems that you failed to mention a rather important detail to me.” Her eyes narrowed. “I had no idea that you knew the Princess personally.”

Włócznia shrugged. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to get the idea that I was reputable.” He gestured to the uniform. “I do apologize for this, though. It wasn’t my intention to give you an aneurism, amusing as it was, and I truly thought I had more time.”

She gave a thin-lipped smile. “It’s not a problem. You can simply make it up to me by taking my slot on the next diplomatic escort detail in Saddle Arabia. That way you can have all the fun sharing a carriage with politicians for six hours.” She tried to suppress a triumphant grin at the slump in his shoulders. Then she fixed her gaze on Marble. “Did you know about his association with the princess?”

“N-no, ma’am!” stammered the pegasus. “I see nothing, I hear nothing, I know nothing!”

Not sure why he slipped into a Germane accent for that, but all right. “And you, Song?”

The mare shook her head. “I suspected something was off when Her Highness decided to, ahem, lighten the mood, but he never told me, no.” She shot the offending stallion a glare. “Kind of an important life detail to gloss over there, Fritters.”

Celestia almost choked on the last bite of her donut. “Pardon me, but did you say Fritters?”

‘Fritters’ shot Song a pained look. “Now why’d you have to go and bring that up?”

Song responded with a sweet smile. “Because you almost gave me a heart attack, silly stallion.”

“Fritters?” repeated Celestia.

With a sigh and a hangdog look, he explained. “Most ponies can’t exactly pronounce a Konik name that well, so nicknames have always been the order of the day for me. Unfortunately, the day I got assigned to this unit there was an…incident in the mess hall.”

“Bloody lot more than an incident,” muttered Argent.

“Let’s just say that my blood sugar was low, and you know how I get when that happens, and it just so happened that the cooks had been making fritters, and I grabbed one or two—"

“Or twenty,” interjected Song.

"—and, well, one thing led to another, and I now have to wear a disguise whenever I enter Fillydelphia.”

Silence hung in the room following the abrupt end of the story. Celestia stared at Fritters for a moment, then cast Argent a long glance. “I expect a full report from every pony involved in every hilarious detail on my desk by the end of the week.”

“Consider it done.”

Fritters sighed and muttered something in Konish.

“But, much as I would love to hear of Fritters’ misadventures in great detail, I’m afraid we have more urgent matters to attend to,” said Celestia, returning them to the matter at hand. “The three of you will be spending a little longer in Ponyville than originally planned. Argent?”

The captain stepped forward to take over the briefing. “First of all, it goes without saying that everything you’re about to hear is classified. As you may have guessed, it regards the human…”

Jacques was long awake, of course. As a monk, he was accustomed to rising at odd hours of the night for prayer with his brethren. True, he had no bell to wake him, and his body’s need for rest had let him sleep through Matins and Lauds, but his internal clock had awoken him in time for the prayers of Prime, the First Hour. Conscious that there might be other patients sleeping, he did not give full voice to the hymns of the Liturgy of the Hours, but he still sang them quietly from the comfort of his bed.

Once he’d finished his prayers, he took quick stock of his situation. He had been blessed with a refreshing and dreamless sleep, which he was abundantly grateful for, and, while his wounds still ached and his limbs still felt weak, he was honestly surprised by how good he felt. If pressed, he was reasonably certain that he’d be able to walk unassisted today, though he might have need of a staff or cane. I’ve always been a fast healer, but after that much blood loss I should still be bedridden for a few more days than this. These pony healers are truly impressive. He sat up and threw off his covers, satisfied that the movement was accomplished with minimal protest from his injuries. That or this new magic of mine is even more incredible than I thought. He chuckled softly to himself. I almost hope it’s the former. I’m not sure how many more upsets to my world I can handle.

In truth, he’d half expected to wake up back in the priory in France, with nothing but a wonderfully bizarre story to share with his brethren. The aches and pains had swiftly put an end to that expectation. A shame. I would have liked to regale them with this maddened tale. He felt a pang of sadness at the realization that he would never have that opportunity.

Jacques shook his head fiercely. Mustn’t complain, he reminded himself. This is your duty. And you have been blessed to find harbor with such agreeable creatures as these ponies. He looked over at his belongings, his books, priestly articles, and sword. The last item gave him pause. I was told to bring a sword for a reason, and I fear that it is unlikely that it was merely for the wolves alone. If I am to properly minister to these ponies, I must recover as soon as possible.

He looked to the floor. Standing seems as good a place as any to start. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he set his callused feet to the cold floor and braced, gradually placing more and more of his weight upon them while he stood, hands gripping the rail of the bed in case they gave out unexpectedly. He moved with caution, mindful both of the need to recover and the need to not further injure himself. Presently, he was pleased to find that he could stand, albeit somewhat shakily. “Marvelous,” he murmured aloud.

Next, illumination. It would be easier to move about the room and acquaint himself with his new home if he could but see better. Enough light trickled in through the partially closed curtains to give some illumination, but it was hardly more than a couple candles’ worth. Gripping the side table, he worked his way over to the window, intent on throwing open the curtains. Just as he was about to, however, he hesitated, glancing down at his nearly naked body. I know Medevac said that I would be considered decent in my current state. Still… he pictured himself standing before the mares in his current state. Best not to, he concluded, reaching for his spare robe.

Immediately this proved to be a challenge. He could not both hold onto the table and don his robe at the same time. In practical terms, he needed both hands free. He was not keen to trust his legs without the support of a rail or table just yet, but he was even less inclined to sit around waiting for someone to attend to him. In a sudden flash of inspiration, he realized that he needn’t be standing to don his habit. Kneeling down, he began working the black garment over his head. Once he began, it became apparent that it would not be as easy as he had anticipated. Balancing on his knees was not much more stable than balancing on his feet, and his arm movements, still sluggish from his injuries, were too jolting to let him maintain his center of gravity easily. He managed to get one arm through its sleeve and, in his optimism, tried to get his head through its hole as well. However, the robe picked that particular moment to bunch up around his neck, leaving him with most of its folds wrapped around his neck and jaw, one arm sticking heavenward, and the other arm seeking in vain to dislodge its neighbors. He struggled in vain, his mind blocking out all outside distractions as it focused on this conundrum in which he found himself. Perhaps if he simply yanked on, no, that didn’t work, well if he were to pull the other sleeve, I think that made it worse, but if he could just—

“What in Tartarus are you doing?”

Jacques froze in place. Turning his head as best as he could without falling over, he spotted Redheart standing in the doorway, a tray of food balanced on one hoof and a mildly exasperated expression on her face. Jacques wasn’t sure how long ponies lived, but if they lived as long as humans he would have been willing to bet that he was between two and three times her age. He was a veteran of a bloody war and the survivor of a tyrannical regime. He had stared death in the eye so many times that the prospect of his own demise had become nearly banal. And yet, under the bland, vaguely irritated gaze of a miniature pony half his years, he suddenly felt like a young boy, caught by his mother in the act of stealing sweets.

Blushing, he replied, “Well, it would seem,” he grunted in irritation as the folds of the robe muffled his voice, “that I am engaged in the act of making a fool of myself.”

Redheart cocked an elegant eyebrow. “And you didn’t use the call button to ask for help because…?”

Jacques glanced at the unused call button, then back at the nurse. “I didn’t want to trouble anyone?” he ventured.

Rolling her eyes and heaving a deep sigh, Redheart muttered, “Stallions!” She flicked on the light and set the tray on the end table before walking over. “Let me give you a hoof, Friar.”

“That would be greatly appreciated.”

It turned out that by ‘hoof,’ she meant ‘teeth,’ as the nurse rather unceremoniously seized the garment and pulled it off. In answer to his questioning look she explained, “I need to freshen your bandages and check your wounds anyway. No point in getting you dressed only to ask you to strip two seconds later.” She helped him back to the bed, though he was walking fairly steadily, and when he’d sat down she hopped up on the mattress to change his dressings. It was strange watching her use her hooves and mouth to apply the bandages, and at first he was a little uncomfortable having an equine muzzle so close to a wound, but her care was as gentle as any he’d received from the Hospitallers. Wondrous! Truly impressive creatures, these ponies.

As she worked, he examined his injuries more closely. Jacques couldn’t help but be amazed by the speed with which his wounds seemed to be closing. If he didn’t know any better, he would have guessed that he’d been healing for a few days or even a week. It must surely be the magic at work, though whether it is mine or the healers’ I do not know.

Redheart’s next comment seemed to imply the former. “Well that’s an interesting development.”

Good interesting, or bad interesting? he wondered. “What is?”

“Well, without a baseline of your non-magical state to compare to, I’d only be guessing as to how quickly your race usually heals, but I’m betting it’s not this fast?” He shook his head. “I thought as much.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Bear in mind that I’m largely guessing here, but I’d wager that your magic has a great deal to do with resilience or perhaps even regeneration.”

“What makes you say that?”

Redheart continued to clean and dress his wounds while she spoke. He marveled at her ability to remain intelligible while using her mouth to grip bandages and tools, though not nearly as much as he marveled at her ability to use her mouth to perform such complex functions in the first place. “All creatures have the natural healing that comes from their biology; that is to say, their bodily processes. What magic they possess tends to aid in the healing process, as well as helping them resist injury and illness in the first place, but to what extent it helps varies from race to race. Some races are very resilient but heal slowly; others are the opposite; still others have almost no magical aid to their healing or resilience whatsoever. Most common animals, for instance, fall into the camp of minimal magic. Ponies are the total opposite. Our magic puts us on the upper end of the spectrum in terms of both healing and resilience, though it still varies from race to race. Earth ponies, for instance, tend to be the fastest healers and the most resilient, with the exception of a few specific things like weather-related matters in which pegasi are by far the most durable. Unicorns, again with certain exceptions, tend to be the least resilient and slowest healers of the three, but properly trained unicorns can use spells to channel their passive natural magic to more actively heal and resist injuries.” She shifted her position on the bed to better access the wounds on his upper back. “What’s different about you is that your injuries aren’t healing at the same rate.”

Jacques blinked, not sure he was following. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” she scratched her head, “take this scratch on your arm here,” she pointed to a rather insignificant scratch on his left arm. I must have cut myself without realizing when I was rushing through the forest. “You got that from a tree branch, not the fight, and it’s healing at a rate roughly consistent with a pegasus or an earth pony. Couple more days and you won’t even know it was there. These injuries from the timber wolves, on the other hoof, look like they’ll heal in about the time it would take for a hearty earth pony or pegasus to recover from an equivalent-sized cut from a normal wolf.”

“What’s so strange about that?” asked the friar, confused. “Is that not the same speed as the cut on my arm?”

“No, it’s not,” replied Redheart around a mouthful of gauze as she finished the last of his wounds. “Because timber wolves aren’t normal wolves. They’re held together with dark magic, and that means any cut from them is much worse than a normal cut. Dark magic is like…” she broke off her work to ponder her next words, “it’s kind of like a poison, except instead of just getting into the bloodstream it gets into a creature’s magical field and bloodstream, and sometimes more besides.” Jacques shuddered at the thought. “Yeah. Nasty stuff. Point is, these wounds shouldn’t be healing this fast. Even when the dark magic is purged from the body, the injuries still generally take longer than normal to heal because the damage is more pervasive and the body’s natural defenses are weakened.”

Jacques narrowed his eyes. “So… my body is healing dark magical wounds as though they were normal injuries.”

“Yup,” replied Redheart, finishing her work and hopping off the bed. “Gotta admit, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

I’m not sure I find that reassuring. “Why do you think it’s happening this way?”

“Well, your body resists outside magic, and from what I heard of your fight it sounds like you might have a particular strength against dark magic. Your magical field had already pretty well cleaned out the dark magic by the time you got to us, and it seems to be working overtime to stitch you up as soon as possible.” She stroked her chin thoughtfully. “It’s a unique ability unlike anything I’ve seen. I don’t know where the power is being drawn from, whether or not you’re controlling it, or even how effective it is long term.”

Definitely not reassuring. “What does that mean, then?”

Redheart gave him a cheery smile. “I honestly have no idea.” Jacques gave her a sour look. “Sorry, Friar,” she giggled, not impressed with his ire. “I wish I had a better answer for you, but you’re literally one of a kind as far as I know.”

Jacques grunted, feeling a pang of homesickness. “True enough.”

“Look on the bright side,” said Redheart kindly, putting a hoof on his knee. “Your magic may be something of a mystery, but at least it’s been a very helpful mystery thus far. Well,” she amended, “except for that part where you were resisting our machines, but other than that it’s kept you alive pretty well.”

The friar smiled, her cheer banishing his darkening mood before it could properly take hold. “You are right, of course,” he said, patting her hoof. “And I truly am grateful for all the work you’ve…” he trailed off when he noticed bruising on her appendage. “What’s this?” he asked, concerned. “What happened to your hoof?”

“What happened to my— oh, this?” She blushed when she saw what he was referred to and pulled the limb back hastily, not wanting to meet his gaze. “I- it’s nothing, really. Just a mishap.”

Jacques frowned. He was sadly not unfamiliar with abused women; as both a priest and as an itinerant soldier he’d encountered all too many, and he’d found that most tended to pretend that their bruises were from ‘mishaps.’ If someone has hurt this gentle soul… his blood boiled at the thought. “Redheart, did someone hurt you?” he asked, his voice both firm and empathetic.

“Friar, really, it was just a mishap,” she insisted. “The guy was out of sorts at the time, and didn’t mean to hurt me.”

So his name is ‘Guy,’ then? But, no, these ponies do not seem to use human names. Unless perhaps things are different in this ‘Prance’ they keep making mention of. And she said it as a title, not a name. Perhaps a title or a general term for males? Or perhaps… his gaze drifted downward to study the bruise more closely, and he saw that the bruise had an odd pattern, almost like…

Fingers, he realized. He blanched. And I’m one of a kind. “Redheart,” he said, forcing her name out through his discomfort, “that bruise is from me, isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question.

Redheart stammered, not wanting to answer, then sighed. “Yes,” she admitted.

Jacques hung his head in shame. “Mon Dieu. I am so terribly sorry, little sister.”

“It’s really nothing,” she repeated. “Like I said, you were out of sorts at the time; barely coherent. You probably thought I was trying to attack you. I don’t blame you for reacting the way you did. It really is just a bruise and, woah! Hey! What are you doing?!”

Before she could stop him, Jacques had slipped off the bed and knelt down on one knee before her, taking her injured hoof in his hands. “Whatever the circumstances, I harmed a lady. Worse yet, I harmed a lady who was attempting to save my life.” He put one hand over his heart. “To all creatures in your land I have been sent to minister. Yet to you in particular I owe a debt.” He brought her hoof to his lips and kissed it. The fact that it was a hoof and not a hand gave him only the slightest pause. “Should you ever have need of my aid, by my life or my blade, you shall have it.”

Redheart’s face had turned as bright as her namesake as she stood, rigid. “Wow. Um. Okay,” she managed, her breaths coming fast. “That’s pretty heavy. Ah, thanks? Y-yes. Thank you, Friar, but that’s really not necessary—

“I insist.”

“O-okay, then,” she cleared her throat. “Neat. Well, um, if you want to start aiding me now, I would be aided if you were to get back up on the bed where I’m less worried that you’ll keel over at any moment.”

Jacques smiled. She is not accustomed to courtly expressions of gratitude, it would seem. Still, she is a commoner, so that is perhaps to be expected. “Of course, little sister,” he replied, obediently climbing back up on the bed with her hovering anxiously nearby.

“Great!” she exclaimed. “That’s one thing, and now I have to figure out what I could possibly ever need a knight to do for me, I mean, what, do I have him clean my house with that cleaver of his or chase off sleezy stallions or wingpony me on a date, I mean, what, didn’t old knights in the stories find suitors for the damsels or something, or…?” She glanced up and noticed that he was watching her. “Did I just say all that out loud?”

Years of practice let Jacques keep a straight face, but only barely. “Yes.”

Redheart turned crimson. “SAY, FRIAR, DIDN’T YOU WANT HELP GETTING DRESSED EARLIER?” she asked.

Jacques winced at the assault on his ears. “Well, yes, I suppose I di—

“SOUNDS GOOD! LET ME HELP YOU WITH THAT AND NOT SPEAK OF THAT EVER AGAIN ESPECIALLY TO MEDEVAC OR ANY OTHER STALLION!”

Especially to Medevac, eh? How interesting. Perhaps I may be of help to her sooner than she thinks. His face betrayed nothing as he congenially replied, “Of course, little sister.”

Redheart helped Jacques into his robe in silence. Verbal silence, at least. I can’t believe I just went on like that in front of a patient! And a noble no less! It’s a good thing he seems more down to earth than the Canterlot crowd. Well, not that I’d know much about that crowd, given that the only Canterlot pony I’ve spent any time with is Twilight and she’s pretty down to earth… the tangential line of thought helped her get her emotions under control. She felt the heat falling in her face as the blush faded. No big deal. Everypony loses their cool from time to time. All things considered, what was I supposed to do? Some old guy who eats timber wolves for breakfast just up and swore to come to my aid, and I get the distinct impression that that blank check could be cashed for any amount up to and including his life… how the Fell does Celestia deal with having an army of ponies swearing that to her?!

She felt her blush rising again and gave her head a hard shake. Celestia’s sake, girl, get a hold of yourself! You’re a professional, dangit! And he’d probably give his life for any random stranger, so calm the buck down! So lost was she in her thoughts that it almost came as a shock to her when she’d finished helping the friar. At least I can still help patients in my sleep, it seems. “How’s that, Friar?”

Jacques rolled his shoulders beneath the encompassing folds of his garments appreciatively. “Much better, thank you.” He gestured to the breakfast she’d brought. “I see you’ve brought my morning repast. I am not accustomed to eating much this early in the day, so I doubt I’ll finish this myself. Would you care to join me?”

Redheart was about to refuse, reflexively thinking that she had some other errand to run, but then she remembered that the hospital was quiet this morning. Relatively, at least. “Sounds good, Friar. I might have to run off if Rainbow wraps herself around a tree attempting some stunt again, but I’ll join you in the meantime.”

Jacques set the tray on the bed between them and divided up the food. “Is that a… common occurrence?”

“I’ll put it to you this way; it’s not uncommon,” chuckled Redheart as she helped herself to some toast. “Do you want to know how she almost gave me a heart attack the day you arrived?” Jacques nodded as he started in on his porridge. “It’s funny now, though it sure wasn’t at the time. I was on break up in my office, reflecting on how nice it was to have some time to myself, when all of the sudden…”

The story needed little embellishment to be amusing, and the friar was soon laughing. This, in turn, led to a few of the other more outlandish stories surrounding the Bearers. Redheart enjoyed regaling newcomers with the stories, but it was always tempered with the fear that ponies might think less of the six mares once they knew about their sometimes wild antics. For whatever reason, she didn’t feel that fear with Jacques. He seemed remarkably easy-going, and the delight he took in hearing the stories was benign and non-judgmental. The reason became apparent when he shared a few of his own tales of youthful missteps and miscalculations, most of which involved he and his younger brother attempting tricks with their horses. Granted, hearing about what horses are like in his world was… odd, but his stories are funny all the same.

“…and that stallion bucked me clean over the fence into the rosebushes on the far side, right in front of the little nun,” Jacques was saying as Redheart struggled not to choke laughing. “And, wouldn’t you know it, it was Sister Sarah again.”

“No!” exclaimed Redheart.

“Yes! I found myself lying on my back right an arm’s length deep in roses with barbs the size of daggers digging into me from every side, and she just stared down at me, not angry, not judgmental, just annoyed. I couldn’t really think of how to explain the situation, and Henri was no help as he was too busy laughing his head off, so I just said, ‘Good morning, Sister Sarah.’ And she just stared back, sighed, and said, ‘Jacques,’ as though my name somehow encapsulated every stupid moment in history, then walked away without another word.”

Redheart snorted in laughter. “That’s it? She didn’t chew you out?”

Jacques shrugged. “Perhaps she thought I’d been punished enough. Or perhaps she was seeking strong drink. I wouldn’t have blamed her. Anyway, my father found out, of course, and Henri and I helped clean around the convent for the remainder of our stay in Assisi as penance. And that’s why I still get headaches whenever I smell certain varieties of roses.”

“Well, I recommend you be careful where you eat, then. Roses are popular dining for some ponies.”

The friar winced. “Ah. My penance continues.” He mopped up the last bits of his porridge with his toast. “At least I needn’t concern myself with finding flowers for a lady love. One less thing to worry about.”

“Yeah, what did you do when you were younger?” she asked, reaching for an apple. “I imagine you had a hard time wooing fair maidens without using the most iconic of flowers.” Redheart’s eyes widened in sudden horror. Idiot! What if he left somepony—someone back home, or his wife passed away, or maybe he never found love in the first place! She set down the apple and fidgeted.“I’m sorry, Friar. I shouldn’t pry—

“No, no, it’s quite alright,” he assured her as he picked up an apple of his own. “You needn’t worry that you’ve brought up a painful memory of a deceased wife or that I’ve left my beloved behind. I never married.” He tapped the cross on his chest. “My bride is the Church, and she follows me wherever I go.”

Redheart tilted her head. “The ‘Church?’” she asked.

Jacques pursed his lips. “Yes, I forgot you ponies have no equivalent. Étrange. It is still odd for me to think that. The ‘Church’ is, well…” he scratched his head, thinking for the right words, “…think of it as the spiritual spouse of the Source, but rather than being a single individual, the Church is the gathered sum of all the souls who follow the Source; of all who have received the Fire, if you will.”

The nurse bit her lip and pondered this. Philosophy was never my strong subject. A vague memory of a lesson from an old class flitted through her mind. History, on the other hoof… “So, it’s like how in the old days ponies used to regard Princess Celestia as being a sort of mother for all ponykind?”

“Oui. This is similar. As a Friar, the Church is my spouse, and its members my children. And, as a husband lays down his life for his wife and his children, so I lay my life down for the Church.”

Redheart’s eyes widened as she tried to comprehend the enormity of treating all ponies everywhere as being her children. “Wow. That sounds hard.”

Jacques chuckled. “It can be. It can also be very rewarding.”

“But you can’t have kids of your own or raise a family,” she persisted, her curiosity overriding her reluctance to pry. “Hasn’t that ever bothered you?”

The friar shook his head. “When I was younger there were many times when it did. But consider this: my family is of every land, every tongue, every people. All are made one in God. As a Christian, which is to say a member of the Church, I already had countless brothers and sisters. And now, as a priest, I have countless sons and daughters. I have the largest and greatest of families.”

“And you’re meant to love and protect them all?”

“I try to,” he answered around a bite of apple. “God knows I fall short, but I serve in what meager ways are possible to mortal Man.”

“Wow, Friar, that’s—” Redheart let out a long breath, “that’s really something. I mean, I’m impressed by your devotion, but, I hope you don’t mind my saying, that sounds like it’d be exhausting.”

“I suppose it can be,” admitted Jacques. “There is deep heartache that comes from shepherding such a large flock when so many are lost to the wolves, despite my best efforts.” His hand gripped the unfinished apple and he stared at a point on the floor. “It’s a weighty task, and yet,” he smiled, “and yet I’d have it no other way. Just think of it! I am never without family. No matter what happens, no matter how many brothers and sisters are taken from me,” tears formed in the corners of his eyes and he repeated, “no matter how many are taken from me, I am never, ever alone.” He sat in silence for a moment, staring ahead, then cleared his throat and busily wiped his eyes. “Ah, but I am dominating the conversation. Tell me of your own life, little sister.”

Redheart was dumbstruck. How many has he seen die? How many of his friends, his family died to whatever it was that tortured him so? And how does he stay so happy?! She resolved to ask Medevac about how he coped with losing friends; maybe over a few drinks. In the meantime, she answered Jacques’ question. “Oh, I’m not that interesting, Friar. My parents are farmers from a town even more backwater than Ponyville. I grew up taking care of the farm animals, and as I got older I realized that I was even better taking care of ponies. When a nasty fever blew through town, I ended up getting my cutie mark helping our town doctor take care of the victims. He sponsored me for medical school and, long story short, I wound up in Ponyville.”

“Husband? Children?” he asked.

“Not yet. Guess I just haven’t met the right stallion yet.”

Jacques cocked an eyebrow. “In my experience, it’s less about finding the perfect mate and more about finding someone willing to spend his life working towards perfection with you.”

Redheart tilted her head. “In your experience? I thought you never married.”

“I am a priest. I officiate marriages and offer counsel both to those seeking marriage and to those struggling in their marriages. It is my job to be able to provide guidance, and my work is my life. More than that, I have seen more than sixty-five winters and lived all over the known world. One cannot help but observe many marriages in my line of work, both good and bad.” He sat back on the bed. “For instance, my parents were hardly perfect; my father could be quick to anger and my mother overly scrupulous. But they loved each other, and they loved us, so they labored to be the best they could, and they succeeded far more often than not.”

The mare quirked a smile. “So are you saying I should settle?”

“I’m saying that perfection is impossible in this life, but that in its pursuit one may find deep goodness.”

“Well said, Friar Jacques,” spoke Celestia from the door. Both human and mare jumped in shock and started to scramble to their feet and bow. She’s three times my size and literally shimmers! How did she sneak up on us?! “Please, don’t get up,” smiled Celestia as she and Argent entered the room. “I simply came by to check on the good friar’s condition and discuss his official status.”

Official business. That’s my cue. “I’ll take my leave then, Princess.”

“No need for that, my little pony,” Celestia assured her. “This is not a matter of secrecy to be kept from prying ears.”

“Ah, but the day is young,” smirked Argent, “and the nightmare of politics marches ever on.”

Celestia shot her officer a glance, then stepped forward, producing a scroll from the air in a flare of magic. Jacques gave a start as the parchment appeared; Redheart didn’t even blink. Twilight’s lived here long enough that the casual use of spatial magic doesn’t even phase me anymore. Or anyone else in town, for that matter. What does that say about us?

“I received this correspondence from Canterlot this morning in response to my letter to a certain member of my legal staff yesterday,” the princess announced, unfurling the scroll. “In short, what I was seeking was a way to formally recognize your authority as a licensed practitioner of Curatrix magic without needing to force you to take an oath of loyalty to the Crown on your second day in a new world.” She gave an amused smile. “While I would certainly welcome the opportunity to put you on formal retainer to my realm in the future, I feel that asking you to pledge your loyalty to the throne so soon would be premature.” She floated the letter over to Jacques. “This letter is the solution. You may read it for yourself, but in essence it allows me to commission you as a free agent ‘Guardian,’ or ‘Monster Hunter’ or any number of other titles listed within if you prefer, licensed to hunt down evil creatures and stomp out cults practicing the Dark Arts within Equestria’s borders. You will retain full autonomy and not be beholden unto the Crown, though we may relinquish our permission at any time. You will not have the full authority of an officer of the Crown unless explicitly delegated unto you for a specific instance by a lawful order from a legitimate authority like myself or the captain here. For your services, you will be compensated on commission according to the threats you deal with.”

Jacques took the scroll and read through it with a studious eye. “It sounds rather like being a mercenary or bounty hunter,” he remarked. “Rather an odd arrangement for a hunter of Fell abominations.”

“By modern standards, it certainly is,” agreed Celestia. “It hearkens back to a more dangerous time a millennia ago when the land was rife with such dangers and there were many freelance practitioners of Curatrix magic fighting the menaces. Rather than try to formalize the entire system, it was easier to deputize most of the outliers. The practice eventually died out for the simple reason that there weren’t enough menaces around to warrant its widespread use. In fact, this old law hasn’t been enacted in over six-hundred years.”

Redheart couldn’t hold back a whistle. The princess and captain glanced in her direction and she had to suppress the urge to hop off the bed and bow. “Sorry, Your Highness. That just sounds like an obscure law, is all. How long did it take to find?”

Argent snorted. “Probably only a few minutes. Her Royal Highness has a rather eccentric stallion who specializes in obtuse and outdated laws on her payroll for exactly this sort of situation.”

“How often does this sort of situation come up?” Redheart blurted out.

“Often enough to keep Blue Law very profitably employed,” answered Argent cryptically.

“Well, Friar?” asked Celestia, “Are these terms acceptable to you?”

Jacques nodded, finishing his third re-read of the document. “Quite, Your Highness. I am very grateful for your forbearance in allowing me time to adjust before seeking my fealty. While I can only guess at the relative value of your currency, these terms seem more than generous.”

Argent laughed. “From what I hear, Friar, the change of currency over the years means that these first bounties will work out quite in your favor.”

“These first bounties?” asked Jacques.

Celestia smiled and a bulging coin purse appeared in the air, floating over to the side table to land with an audible thunk. “Of course, Friar. Did you think I’d be so ungenerous as to not pay you for exterminating five timber wolves and saving three fillies? I’m hurt.”

Jacques’ jaw flapped open and shut. “Princess, I was simply doing what any man would do. And I wasn’t even one of these… Witch Hunters at the time. I can’t possibly accept—

“Tut tut, dear man,” chided Argent. “Are you suggesting that we let it be known that Her Royal Highness is not generous with those who serve her? The nerve of such an assertion!” Her voice sounded offended, but her smile made it clear that she was jesting. And perhaps enjoying turning Jacques’ noble sensibilities back on him a little too much, realized Redheart.

If Jacques noticed the manipulation, it didn’t change his response. With a sigh, he acquiesced. “Very well. I accept your payment with gratitude.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Friar,” beamed Celestia. “Now, I’m afraid that I must return to Canterlot. There are sensitive matters that I must attend to. However, I am not leaving you without aid. Three of my soldiers will be waiting to escort you when you leave the hospital, and they will have further information to provide you when you are ready. And, unless I miss my guess, my student will be along soon with her friends to attend to your needs and to make sure that you have everything you require to begin acclimating to your new home. We will be in regular contact, and should you have any immediate needs that my soldiers or Twilight and her friends cannot accommodate, simply have her send me a letter and I or the captain will see to it that you are taken care of.”

Jacques rose and managed to bow without his legs wobbling overly much. “You are most kind, Princess. I thank you for your hospitality.” He turned to Argent. “And it was a pleasure to meet you, Captain. I look forward to exchanging martial techniques with you in the future.”

“Count on it,” smiled Argent. “This Dog has a few tricks to show you. For now, playing with my other Dogs will have to do.”

“It was my pleasure to meet you, Friar,” said Celestia. She winked at Redheart. “Take good care of him, Nurse Redheart. I have the utmost confidence in you.”

The nurse blushed furiously and almost banged her muzzle against the floor in her haste to prostrate herself before the princess. The ruler and her officer departed. Once they’d gone, Redheart and Jacques stood in silence for a moment. The mare glanced up at the clock and noted that it was approaching seven in the morning. “Knowing Twilight, she’ll probably be along in a few minutes with a mountain of books and questions for you,” she declared. “And, unless they’ve got other work to take care of, her friends won’t be far behind.” Jacques nodded without verbal answer. Redheart glanced over at the conspicuously oversized pouch of coins sitting on the table. It looks like something a pirate might toss in his chest, she thought. The analogy caused a mischievous smile to appear on her face. “Wanna count up your loot?” she asked. Jacques chuckled and nodded.

Argent and Celestia trotted down the hall, various soldiers falling into step beside them as they made their way for the exit. “Begging your pardon, Princess, but I was wondering something.”

“Yes, Argent?”

“Well, I know that currency has changed many times over the years, meaning that the conversion rate will be rather advantageous to Jacques, but I didn’t actually take a look at the figures,” she admitted. “How much did you pay him, exactly?”

Celestia gave a knowing smile and stopped, holding up a hoof for silence. A moment later they were rewarded with the high-pitched exclamation of “Sweet holy Celestia on a stick!” echoing down the corridor behind them.

The princess grinned impishly. “That much.”

Author's Note

Antiquarian stumbled out of his office, bloodshot eyes staring at the mob in a crazed fashion. "Hah!" he taunted. "You thought you'd have to wait another, like, week or somethin for a full chapter-thingy, but hah!" He flailed a limb forward. "I went ahead and hammered the full bloody thing out in a frenzy of typing that kept me up way past time to go do the sleepy-bye stuff! So hah!"

Aura strode in wearing a bathrobe, having been wakened from her slumber by a police officer to come investigate the disturbance. Not again. "Come on boss. Let's get you home."

Heedless of her efforts, Antiquarian burst into song. "What can I say, except, you're..." he trailed off. "...you're right, I should probably sleep." With that he left.

Yeah, funny how when I have a chapter that I expected to come out fast, it was delayed a month. Now I have one that I literally today announced would be delayed, and I finish it in one installment.

I give up.

Ironic thing that I didn't notice until after I wrote this chapter: Twilight comments on how so much about that early period of Equestrian history is lost to the ages (which we can ascribe some measure of canonicity to, since it's so shrouded in mystery even in the show). Now, it is clear that Equestria, even at it's worst, still tends to be more peaceful than our world. And yet in our world, the history from our own Medieval period (as well as our Ancient period) is impressively well-preserved, thanks to the tireless efforts of Christian monks who preserved and copied every written text they could during the Fall of Rome, leading to the safeguarding of many philosophers, writers, artists, historians, and more that would have otherwise been forgotten (Plato, Aristotle, Thucydides, Xenophon, etc). In addition to preserving that which already existed, they also documented many things which hitherto had only been oral and might have been lost to time otherwise (like the mythologies and histories of the various tribes and clans which took over Roman territory). Thus, in an interesting twist, the far more tumultuous human world actually came out ahead of Equestria in terms of keeping its history intact. Perhaps the greater pressure they were under accounts for it, or perhaps it is simply the whims of chance. After all, the Library of Alexandria is thought to have been annihilated as a side-effect of a largely unrelated war. Who knows what accounts for the difference between our worlds. Whatever the case, I find it amusing.

Today's shoutout is Skyward Shoe's The Sparkle Census, a light-hearted and clever take on multiverse theory. It was one of the first stories that I deemed worthy of a 'favorite,' and is just honest good fun with a surprisingly gripping climax and a number of enjoyable twists and turns. Well worth the read.

EDIT: It should be noted that The Killer Joke was inserted as a reference to the comic The Killing Joke (which is excellent) and not the movie (which sickens me). Fans were very excited to hear about the movie, but it was so offensively bad that the hype died essentially the same day that it came out. I'm not sure I've ever seen a movie die that hard, but it deserved it. The comic (though dark) is worth reading for Batman fans. The movie is worth forgetting.

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Welcome to Ponyville (Part 1)

“Twi, I know you want to help the friar adjust to his new life an’ all,” Applejack remarked with a dubious glance at her friend, “but ain’t this all a bit much?”

“What makes you say that?” asked Twilight, her face twisted in an utter lack of comprehension.

Or maybe just twisted in strain, corrected Applejack with a glance at the literal cart full of books her friend was pulling. “Oh, nothin,’” replied the farmpony. “Just couldn’t help but notice that you packed half the apple-pickin’ library in that there cart is all.”

Twilight snorted. “Oh, please! Friar Jacques has *pant* literally traversed the universe to come here. The very fundamentals of the world are different. If anything, I’m *whoof* packing light.” Sweat dripped down her face as she dragged the overstacked cart behind her.

Applejack raised an eyebrow. “Twi, if’n this is yer definition of light, I’d hate ta see what yer definition of heavy is.”

“Twilight does have a point though, darling,” reasoned Rarity. “The poor dear was very disoriented when he first awoke, and anything to help alleviate his confusion would doubtless be welcome.”

“Exactly,” wheezed Twilight.

Applejack watched her friend heave against the mighty weight of the cart for several seconds then stepped over, waving a hoof in a cutting motion and shutting her eyes. “Fine, fine, just stop for a spell an’ let me pull instead. It’s painful to watch.”

Twilight shot her a frosty glare. “I’m in perfectly good shape, Applejack. I can get this cart there just fine.”

“Ah ain’t sayin’ yer weak, Twi, an’ Ah’m mighty impressed you’ve gotten ‘er this far unaided, but ya ain’t a farmpony an’ yer gonna strain something at this rate.” Twilight opened her mouth to object, but Applejack shut her down with a firm stare. “Don’t make me lecture you on being stubborn.”

The unicorn thought for a moment, then gave a rueful chuckle and transferred the harness over. “Fair enough. Thanks for the help.”

“No problem. Ah just couldn’t stand the sight o’ ya haulin on this here—” she took a step forward and her eyes bulged at the weight, “Criminy, Twi, didja put bricks in the bottom o’ this sucker?”

Spike chuckled. “She might as well have. I think some of these books are so old that they’re printed on stone tablets.”

Twilight looked concerned. “If it’s too heavy I can take it back and—

“No, no,” Applejack cut her off and started pulling the cart. “Ah’m perfectly capable o’ haulin this. Ain’t any heavier than a plow. Ah just wasn’t expectin’ it to weigh as much as a plow!” She shot her friend a cheeky grin. “Ah guess this explains how a little thing like you keeps in shape reading all day!”

“That and the constant adventuring and monster attacks,” deadpanned Spike.

“That too.”

They chatted amiably as they made their way across town. By the time the hospital hove into view, Applejack was enjoying the satisfaction of a hearty burn in her muscles from the workout she’d received. It wasn’t enough to strain anything, but she did make a mental note to never again use the term ‘light reading’ when Twilight was around. It just wouldn’t be proper ta lie.

A couple blocks from the hospital they collected Rainbow, who had been lazing on a cloud. While that was not an uncommon sight, the figure who sat beneath the cloud did give Applejack pause. “Hiya there, Scoots” greeted the farmpony in a neutrally cordial tone. “Quick question for ya: why have ya got a sign saying ‘Ah went in tha Everfree Forest alone without tellin’ anypony where Ah was’ around yer neck?”

Scootaloo’s gaze was flat and resigned. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Rarity gave her a sympathetic look. “I take it this is Rainbow Dash’s means of discipline?”

“Yup.”

The fashionista scoffed, but Applejack just shrugged. Public humiliation may have been a low blow, but it did tend to be effective as a means of behavior modification.

Sweetie Belle gave her friend a consoling pat on the head. “Look on the bright side; at least Featherweight’s not around to take your picture.”

“That we know of,” muttered Scootaloo.

“Well, it’d serve you right for running off like that,” chided Rainbow with unusual sternness. “You can’t just run off taking stupid risks like that!”

“Yeah,” chimed in Spike. “Taking stupid risks is her job.”

“Yeah!” agreed Rainbow. “Now come on! I’d like to get to the hospital while it’s still light.” With that, she flew off towards the hospital, forcing the others to quicken their steps to keep pace.

As they trotted, Applejack leaned towards Twilight. “D’ya think she realized Spike took a shot at ‘er?”

“Do you think she cares?”

Applejack considered this, then nodded. “Fair enough.”

When they reached the entrance, they found three REF ponies waiting for them. The first Applejack recognized as Lieutenant Song from the previous day. She was engaged in a conversation with two other soldiers.

Both were rather distinctive in Applejack’s opinion. The first was a red pegasus stallion with a shield on his back and a gladius at his side, and he was short. So short that Big MacIntosh would probably have been at about eye-level with him as a colt. Granted, Big Mac was often mistaken for a small stallion as a colt, but still. The temptation would have been to view the soldier as weak due to his stature, but Applejack wasn’t fooled. She saw a lot of muscle beneath the armor, and his barrel was stout as a tree trunk. He’s not small, she realized, he’s compact.

The other stallion was a different story altogether. In part it was his lankiness and wiry physique. But mostly it’s that he doesn’t look to be in any shape to be a soldier. With scruffy fur, disheveled mane, unshaven features, and bloodshot eyes, he looked like he’d either spent the last few days drinking nothing but coffee or the last few nights curled up with Crabapple Senior’s ‘Special Brew.’ Or both.

“Oh, my, it’s Lieutenant Song,” observed Rarity. “Such a pleasant mare. Though I don’t recognize her associates.” Her eyes narrowed. “That unicorn looks as though he could… ahem… benefit from a makeover.”

Rainbow Dash snorted. “Leave it to you to look at a professional flank-kicker and go, ‘yeah; he needs some accessories.’”

Rarity shot the pegasus a pointed glance. “I was thinking more along the lines of a shave and an armor polish. Given that he protects the princess, I’m a little shocked at the state of his appearance.”

“Actually, it probably just indicates that he’s from the Rangers originally,” observed Twilight. “You see, since the Rangers often operate in harsh terrain with minimal oversight and support, they have little standardization with their equipment, and often adopt a raffish appearance to better fit in on the frontier. Even those that transfer to other units often maintain their habits and…”

Applejack tuned Twilight out as they walked. It wasn’t that she wanted to ignore her friend; it was just that she was more interested in what the soldiers were discussing. Besides, I know plenty about the Rangers from Ma and Pa. Probably not as much as Twi, but enough to make me curious about this fella.

The soldiers appeared to be aware of their approach, but carried on as if they didn’t. When they were a couple blocks away, she began to make out their conversation. At the moment, the squat pegasus was in the process of ribbing the lanky unicorn. “I’m just saying, we’ve saved each other’s lives, what, seven? Eight times? And you didn’t feel the need to tell me about this?”

“Nine,” grated the unicorn in an accent Applejack wasn’t familiar with. “And it’s my five to your four, so you owe me if anything.”

The squat pegasus adopted a winning smile of the sort that Applebloom adopted when she was begging. “Aw, but we’re buddies, Frit. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“No.”

With a pout, the pegasus pleaded, “But Frit—"

“Uspokój się.”

Morning Song chuckled. “Careful, Marble. He’s letting his warlike race show.” The unicorn rolled his eyes and muttered something that Applejack was still too distant to hear. Then Song leaned in close with a tight-lipped smile and, in a sickly sweet, clipped tone added, “Which he’ll need if he ever withholds information like that from me again.”

He raised an eyebrow at her and chuckled. “Dawaj, Song. I don’t fear death.” Applejack chuckled at the bizarre rapport the two shared. Reminds me a little bit of P—

The unicorn’s eyes flicked to bore into Applejack’s. She stopped in her tracks. There was such focus in that gaze; an intensity that a mind addled by drink or drug could not muster, and she’d suddenly found herself to be the focus of—

The stallion blinked and the intensity was gone. He quirked a crooked smile and said to his compatriots, “But come now, our guests have arrived. Let’s table threats to my life and oblique jabs at my heritage until later, tak?”

Morning Song chortled. “Okay, but only because you asked nicely.”

Applejack swallowed and forced herself to start walking again. The Crusaders and her fellow Bearers had been too engrossed in their own conversation to notice, but Spike gave her a questioning look. The farmpony forced a reassuring smile and pressed on.

“Morning Song! Miss Morning Song!” cried the Crusaders, who rushed forward to greet the mare.

With a musical laugh, Song slipped off her helmet and crouched down to meet the fillies. “Hello, girls! How’s my favorite little trio doing?” Her eyes narrowed as she caught sight of Scootaloo. “And why are you wearing a sign that says… Rainbow Dash, could I have a word?” The smile didn’t leave her face, but it did leave her eyes.

Rainbow gulped. “Um. Sure. Why not?”

While their superior officer gave Rainbow Dash a very polite, very veiled lecture on the appropriate timing and methodology of disciplinary actions, the other two soldiers stepped forward to greet the mares and Spike. The disheveled stallion stepped up face-to-face with Applejack. She hesitated at his approach, but his grin was genial and showed no trace of whatever had startled her earlier. “The shrink’s gonna be at it a while, I think,” he remarked. “Pleasure to meet you, ladies. I’m Colour Sergeant Krucjata Włócznia.”

Ain’t that a mouthful, she stopped herself from saying.

“But you can call him ‘Fritters,’” interjected Marble with a cheeky grin.

Krucjata ‘Fritters’ shot the squat pegasus a baleful glare. “I will bury you, short stack, and I won’t even have to dig that big a hole to do it.”

“Aw,” wailed Marble in a tone that reminded Applejack of Pinkie’s pouting voice. “But, Fritters, we’re buddies!”

Fritters sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “The dwarf is Staff Sergeant Marble Slab. Pay no mind to him. He was born missing a rather vital organ.”

Apparently missing his tone, Twilight asked earnestly. “Oh? How unfortunate. What was that?”

“His brain.”

Twilight stammered over her response. “Oh, my, that’s, um…”

Rarity tutted. Spike snickered into cupped claws.

Applejack gave a loud and hearty laugh. “Hooee!” she exclaimed. “Ya’ll don’t hold back in the REF, do ya?” She winked at Marble, who seemed unbothered by the insult. “Still, Ah known plenty o’ stallions with that affliction, so Ah’m pleased to report ya can live a normal life.”

Marble wiped his brow with mock sincerity. “That’s a relief!”

“It might even help him make Lieutenant,” muttered Fritters.

“I heard that, Sergeant!” snapped Song. Fritters winced.

Applejack chuckled. “Yer in hot water there, partner.”

“Ah, what else is new?”

Seeing the stallion’s companionable nature put Applejack’s mind at ease for whatever had troubled her earlier. “Well, new friends fer one,” she said, holding her hoof out for shaking. “Ah’m Applejack.”

Rather than shaking it as expected, the stallion once more threw her for a loop by taking her hoof in his and kissing it. “Charmed,” he said with a smile and a debonair wink that was totally at odds with his appearance. He turned to Rarity. “And you, madam? The Lady Rarity I presume?”

Rarity flushed red and stammered as she held her own hoof out. “Wh-why yes, I am she, the, er, the Lady Rarity that is, h-how do you do, sirrah?” As he kissed her hoof, the fashionista shot Applejack a baffled look as Fritters’ gentility seemed to emerge from nowhere. Applejack shrugged and held up a hoof. Don’t look at me!

“He better not do that to me,” growled Spike.

As Fritters proceeded to greet Twilight and even Rainbow Dash (mid-lecture) in the same manner, Marble stepped forward with a quirky grin and held his own hoof out. “I’ll just shake if that’s all the same to you. Don’t mind his lordship over there. It’s his Konik gentility showing through. They raise all their colts to treat all mares like noble ladies. His appearance may be a disgrace to his proud warrior tradition, but at least he keeps his manners,” he quipped.

Fritters gave his fellow guard a frosty glance as he shook Spike’s claw. “My appearance is normal for a Drapieżnik. We prefer to blend in with the ilk we hunt.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t been in the Draps for five years.”

“I’m a stallion of consistency.” He ambled back over and gestured to the books. “Doing a little light reading, Miss Applejack?”

“Just ‘Applejack’ or ‘AJ’ will do fine Krugkat— Kruge Cat— Krujkataka—"

He held up a hoof and gave a dry smile. “Just ‘Fritters’ is fine. I don’t expect the Equestrian tongue to bend readily to Konish.”

She gave a rueful grin. “Fritters, then. And these books ain’t for me.” And they ain’t light! “Twi here thought that the friar could benefit from ‘em.”

The purple mare smiled. “What better way to learn about a culture than from their written word?”

“Fritters prefers to just fight ‘em,” deadpanned Marble.

The unicorn cuffed his companion on the back of the head. “Enough of your jokes. They’ll think you’re serious.”

“Marble,” called out Song. Applejack looked over and saw that the Crusaders were eagerly bouncing inside, shepherded by Rarity and a much-chastened Rainbow. With a flick of her ear Song indicated that the short pegasus should follow them. Soon it turned into a chase as the fillies ran on ahead, fueled with youthful eagerness, and the adults had to speed themselves to catch up. Turning her attention to Twilight, the lieutenant beckoned the mare after her. “The princess regrets that circumstances at the capital forced her abrupt departure, but she did leave instructions. If you’d like, I could go over them with you now.” It was phrased like a request, but Applejack got the impression that it wasn’t.

“Oh. Okay,” blinked Twilight. “Spike would you—"

“Yeah, I’ll make sure the books get in all right,” preempted the dragon. With a grateful smile, Twilight departed with Song, leaving Spike, Applejack, and Fritters.

The stallion quirked a smile and pointed to the cart. “I must inform you of my chivalric duty to get that for you.”

Applejack put on a mock offended air. “You sayin’ Ah can’t get it mahself?”

Fritters scoffed. “Perish the thought, madam. Far be it from a lowly War Dog to presume that the great Bearer of Honesty herself might require my meager assistance.” He made an elegant bow. “I simply wished for the honor of relieving you of your burdensome task.” His voice dripped with decorum.

The farmpony couldn’t help but be amused. “Well, if’n it means that much to ya,” she remarked, unhitching herself from the cart and passing the harness over, “Ah reckon Ah can let ya pull ‘er.”

“Most kind of you,” he smiled. “Now, we should probably join the—oof!” he exclaimed as he took his first step under the weight of the books. “Celestia’s flaming wrath! How many books are in this blasted thing?”

Applejack smirked. “Ya want Ah should take it back, Fritters?”

“No, no,” he replied as he began to pull the cart inside. “I’ll be fine. Now, granted, a strong earth pony such as yourself would doubtless have an easier time of it than my scrawny flank, but I am duty bound to pull it.”

“Ah don’t mind pullin.’”

“But what you fail to understand, dear Applejack, is that my male stubbornness has set in, and I am now unable to see reason.”

“Ah really don’t mind—"

“Too late. Too stubborn.”

Applejack rolled her eyes as the trio entered the hospital and made their way down the halls in the direction of Jacques’ room. “Just like Big Mac and Pa.” She shot a glance at Spike. “Is this a guy thing or somethin’?”

“Oh, most definitely,” replied the young drake. “I once spent ten minutes trying to knock a ball out of a tree with rocks rather than just taking thirty seconds to run inside for a ladder.”

Fritters nodded in approval. “Good lad.”

Applejack stared in confusion. “But why?”

“Because I decided to get it down with rocks,” replied Spike.

“And once he started, there was no stopping,” added Fritters.

“But… why?”

“It’s a guy thing,” the pair chorused.

“What, stupidity?” she demanded.

Spike raised an eyebrow. “This coming from the mare who tried to harvest the entire Sweet Apple Acres by herself from sheer stubbornness.”

“Point.”

Fritters chuckled. “It’s all right, Applejack. We’re all entitled to our bouts of foolishness. Speaking of foolishness,” he turned to Spike, “would you mind running ahead to let them know we’re coming, but that we’re delayed by the weight of this fool cart and my fool pride?”

“Sure,” said Spike obligingly. He ran off, leaving the two of them alone.

For a moment they walked side by side in silence, moving at the slow pace dictated by the weight of the cart. “I’m sorry that I startled you earlier,” said Fritters abruptly.

“Er, yer what?”

“When you were approaching the hospital, I looked in your eyes and you stopped dead in your tracks,” explained Fritters. Applejack blanched. “I’m sorry I startled you.” His eyes glanced left to meet hers. “I assure you that it was not my intent. It’s simply a side-effect of a technique of mine.”

Applejack’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What kind o’ technique?”

“The magical kind,” he replied. “Don’t worry. It’s not dangerous,” he hastened to add. “It’s Harmony magic, in fact. That or cutie mark magic.” Applejack gave him a long look. “It’s complicated. Suffice it to say I have a twin sister and some of her magic bled over to me during the pregnancy. Her specialty lies in seeing through deceptions and noticing things that other ponies miss. We always called it Zaufany Wzrok, the True Sight.”

His explanation mollified Applejack somewhat, but she still wasn’t keen on having spells she didn’t understand worked on her. On the other hoof, Ah am best friends with Twilight, so you’d think Ah’d be used to it. “What all does it do?”

Fritters squinted one eye in contemplation and tilted his head side to side. “The technical explanation is a little heady for my tastes, but it basically helps me souse out whether or not the target is under an illusion or hiding something. It’s not without its limitations, and it came with some…” he blinked several times in rapid succession, “pretty severe drawbacks, but it’s helpful for security all the same.”

Applejack frowned. “So why were ya using it on me?”

“To be fair, I used it on all of you. As to why, one word: Changelings.”

The mare was forced to nod. “Okay, fair.”

With a smirk, he reminisced. “My sister’s little gift is actually what let me save Marble the fourth time. He thought the pony behind him was Captain Argent, but I was suspicious because I knew she was deeper into the palace grounds on the day of the Invasion. So I looked closer.” He chuckled. “There was an epaulet missing from her uniform, she fell for a trick question I asked, and Changelings are not unknown in my homeland, so I knew what to do. Imagine Slab’s surprise when I speared the ‘captain’ through the heart.”

Applejack looked at his spear and sobered at the realization that, had she been an enemy in disguise, she might have found herself on the receiving end of that very weapon. “Ah can see how that’d shake him up.” Her brow furrowed as another thought occurred to her. “So, if’n ya used this ‘True Sight’ on all of us, how come Ah’m the only one that noticed.”

Fritters shrugged. “I don’t really know, in all honesty. I thought perhaps it was your connection with Harmonic magic as a Bearer, but if that was the only factor then the others would have perceived it as well. More likely it is either a natural affinity or something specific to the Element of Honesty.” He stroked his chin with one hoof. “Though if that’s the case, I wonder if it’d be possible for you to use your own Harmonic magic to replicate the effect your own way.”

Now that bears considerin,’ she thought. Woulda been mighty useful in Canterlot. “Can’t ya just teach me how you do it?”

He shook his head. “What I do is genetic. Besides,” he added with a bitter chuckle, “you really don’t want my exact ability. I make it work with my magic, but I think you’d find it detrimental to your lifestyle.”

Applejack’s brow furrowed. “An’ why is that?”

Whatever Fritters’ response might have been was cut off by a commotion at the end of the hall, a startled shriek from Rarity, and the sound a male voice bellowing at the far end of the hall. The two ponies exchanged a glance, then bolted down the hall, abandoning the cart behind them. “I’ll get back to you on that,” he replied dryly.

Jacques and Redheart sat in silence, each with their own thoughts. Jacques, for his part, was pondering the mysterious nature of Providence which had brought him on such an unusual journey. Redheart, for her part, seemed to be pondering something else entirely.

“I cannot believe she just hooved you that much money.”

The friar raised an eyebrow. “Is it truly such a gratuitous sum?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “You could buy a house and a small plot of land with that money! And probably hire a maid at least part time to clean it!”

“A rather specific example,” he teased. “Would you be interested in such a position?”

Redheart snorted. “Trust me, you don’t want to depend on me to keep your place clean. I clean wounds, not kitchens.”

“Well, all the same, I doubt I’ll be keeping most of my newfound largesse for long. I imagine that commissioning a suit of armor for one as… unique as myself will be quite expensive.”

The nurse nodded. “I won’t pretend to know anything about that, but Medevac or one of the soldiers the princess left probably would. Though I hope you intend to let your wounds heal properly before you attempt to use said armor,” she added with the touch of an edge in her voice.

He held up a placating hand. “Far be it from me to scorn the advice of a physician, especially when so much has changed about my condition.”

Redheart gave a satisfied smirk. “Good. Glad to hear you won’t be one of those curmudgeonly old stallions who needs his missus to drag him in when he’s having a heart attack because he insists that ‘he’s fine.’” Her ear twitched and she tilted her head towards the doorway. Her smirk broadened into a cheeky smile. “Though it sounds like your heart might be getting a workout in a moment, Friar. Hope you have a high tolerance for adorable.”

“Que?” he asked.

“Just wait.”

A short time later his question was answered as his human ears finally detected the approaching clatter of tiny hooves on tile. Tiny hooves… adorable… does she mean…?

The door burst open to admit three beaming fillies. Their large, lugubrious eyes darted about the room until they alighted upon the friar, at which point they lit up so brightly that Jacques could have sworn that he saw stars twinkling in their pupils. They began jumping up and down in a circle, crying out in synchronous glee, “He’s awake! He’s awake! He’s awake!”

Jacques clapped a hand to his heart and breathed heavily. Redheart’s grin was sly. “You okay there, Friar?”

“I’ll tell you when my heart begins to beat once more,” he replied.

Rainbow Dash and Rarity appeared in the doorway, the latter panting slightly, accompanied by a squat pegasus in armor. “Sweetie Belle, honestly!” exclaimed Rarity. “Must you run ahead so?”

“He’s awake, sis! He’s awake!” exclaimed the white filly with a squeak.

“We finally get ta see him!” added the yellow filly, whose bow bounced with her mane.

“Yeah! A real live monster slayer!” chimed in gravelly-voiced pegasus filly, who buzzed her wings like a hummingbird to add height to her jump.

Surely such a degree of cute is a violation of some element of the natural order. Mortals are not meant to wield such power.

Rainbow rolled her eyes and flapped over to the fillies. “Hey, squirts, here’s a thought. Instead of telling us how excited you are, howsabout you just go introduce yourselves to the guy who’s literally sitting right over there.”

The three fillies turned to look at Jacques as though seeing him again for the first time and blushed. “Oh,” squeaked the white filly. “Right.”

Jacques felt as though he ought to say something, perhaps to introduce himself or make some joke to set the children’s minds at ease as was his habit, but his mind was left thoroughly in the wake of events, overwhelmed by the pace and rendered mute by the shocking cuteness of the fillies.

In a flash, the trio zipped across the room, the first in line coming to an abrupt halt that almost tipped her over, and the other two falling in line next to her successively in the same manner as they introduced themselves.

Zip. “I’m Sweetie Belle!”

Zip. “Ah’m Applebloom!”

Zip. “I’m Scootaloo!”

“And we’re—"

Jacques realized too late that all the adults in the room had covered their ears.

“THE CUTIE MARK CRUSADERS!!!”

The friar blinked several times, praying that the ringing in his ears would not be permanent. However, it had at least served to shake him from his stupor, allowing his faculties to resume their proper functions.His lips broadened into a grin. “Hello, children!” he greeted them, his basso voice resonating through the room as his hearing returned. “I am most relieved to see that you are all well after yesterday’s ordeal. I trust you are none the worse for wear?”

Sweetie Belle took a deep breath, and this time Jacques was prepared enough to cover his ears. “OH MY GOSH HE HAS A PRENCH ACCENT!” she exclaimed with joy.

“AND LOOK AT HIS SWORD! IT’S HUGE!” shouted Scootaloo.

“HE’S LIKE A WANDERIN’ RONIN FROM THEM JAPONESE MANGAS!” Applebloom added to the cacophony.

I’m like a what from what?

“This guy’s so cool, you know what he needs, Crusaders?” asked Applebloom.

She became quieter, and yet I get the impression that my reprieve is temporary.

“A CUTIE MARK CRUSADER GROUP HUG!”

Oh dear.

The fillies crouched, ready to spring like leopards upon their prey, and Jacques braced himself for fresh pressure upon his wounds, but fortunately for him the pegasus stallion intervened. The armored pony planted himself directly between the bed and the fillies, and they simply bounced off his bulk. Despite his small size, the three fluffy impacts didn’t budge him an inch. “Woah, fillies,” he chuckled. “Simmer down there! The poor guy’s wounds probably haven’t healed yet.”

Looking abashed, the three fillies tilted their ears back, dipped their heads, and mumbled apologies in an expression of contrition so winsome that Jacques’ heart fluttered again. I must be going soft.

“No apologies necessary,” Jacques assured them. “You were simply eager.” And I was young once too. He clenched a gnarled hand. Once.

Rainbow trotted into the room and gave the stallion an approving smile. “You’re pretty fast there, Slab.”

He winked. “Thanks, Miss Dash, but I’m sure I’m nowhere near as fast as you.” Rainbow gave a cocky smirk, but before she could speak the stallion turned to address Jacques. “Staff Sergeant Marble Slab, REF, at your service.”

“Friar Jacques de Charette, Knights Hospitaller, at yours,” he replied. He examined the red pegasus a little closer, noting the soldier’s stout stature, his shield, and what appeared to be a Roman gladius. His smile is disarming and his eyes cheerful, but I imagine he’s not one who should be riled unduly. “Can I assume that you are one of the soldiers Her Highness spoke of?”

“Guilty,” he answered. “Lieutenant Song and Colour Sergeant Włócznia will be along shortly, along with the Bearers of Honesty and Magic.”

Rainbow snorted. “You can just say AJ and Twi, dude.”

‘Dude.’ What is ‘dude?’

“Applejack and Twilight, then,” said Marble. “And Twilight has brought a considerable number of books for your perusal, Friar.”

Jacques’ eyebrows shot up. She has a personal collection of books? And she’s going to let a perfect stranger read them? The student of Celestia must be quite the wealthy woman, or rather mare, indeed.

He was about to inquire further when he felt a tug at the base of his habit. “Um, excuse me? Mister Jacques?” The friar looked down to see the trio staring up at him with those unfairly expressive eyes. It didn’t help that Applebloom had been the one to speak, and that he found her accent incredibly endearing.

“Yes, child?”

“Would it be all right if we hugged you real gentle-like so we can thank ya for savin’ our lives?”

The Hospitaller’s heart melted instantly. “I don’t see why not,” he said huskily.

Beaming, the three fillies climbed up on the bed and, with the delicate touch of a mother and her newborn, enfolded him in an embrace made doubly warm by their gratitude. They nuzzled his side, burying their faces in the folds of his cassock, as a babe might in her father’s cloak. Jacques couldn’t keep a smile from his face as he felt happy tears slip into his beard. Thank you, Holy God, for the lives of these little ones. Such innocent souls… truly they are your beloved.

Hearing sniffling, he looked up from the tender moment to see Rarity blowing into a kerchief while streaks of some sort of ink or makeup ran down her cheeks. Rainbow Dash seemed keen to be looking anywhere other than the sentimental display. Marble’s features remained benign. Redheart’s face was contented; happy. “That’s precious,” she said softly. Then, with a twinkle in her eye, she added, “It’s a pity Medevac isn’t hear to see this. The big softie would probably be blubbering right now.”

Jacques chuckled softly. “There is no shame in tears, Bonne Sœur. Especially when they are earned.”

Concerned, the three fillies pulled their heads away to look up at him. “Are you crying, Mister Jacques?” asked Sweetie Belle.

“Yes, petit, but don’t fret. They are happy tears.”

“Aw,” cooed two mares from the door. Jacques looked up to see Twilight and a white earth pony mare in armor whom he did not recognize.

“Lady Twilight,” he said, dipping his head in salute. “And Lieutenant Song, I presume?”

“Indeed,” smiled the second mare, sweeping off her helmet to reveal locks of black hair with golden streaks. She had a sunny disposition and merry eyes. “First Lieutenant Morning Song of Their Royal Majesties’ Royal Expeditionary Force. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Friar. My other soldier will be along shortly.”

Jacques caught sight of movement behind her. The purple figure seemed much shorter than her, and he wondered if perhaps he was the twin of the diminutive Marble Slab. “Is that him now?”

“Nope,” answered a male voice. The speaker stepped into the open and Jacques’ blood ran cold. “I’m Spike the Dragon.”

Twilight and Morning Song stepped briskly down the hall towards Jacques’ room. Rarity and Dash had already gone ahead with the Crusaders and Marble, and the other three were still lagging behind with the precious books, which had given the two mares time to discuss the scroll that Celestia had left for the Bearer of Magic.

While Twilight had not begrudged her mentor her abrupt departure, she couldn’t exactly take comfort in the reasons for it. If security in the castle’s magical defenses has truly been compromised, then I should be there helping. I know those halls like the back of my hoof. Better in fact! I could help them isolate the disturbance! I could—

“I know you’re worried, Twilight, and that you would surely be of great help in Canterlot,” Song assured her, “but Celestia would not have asked you to remain in Ponyville if it wasn’t where you could be most helpful.”

Twilight rolled up the scroll and tucked it away for later. “Are you a mind reader, Lieutenant Song?”

“Just ‘Song’ or ‘Morning’ is fine, Twilight,” came the sunny reply. “And, no, I am not clairvoyant. Merely a humble psychologist who had time to review your file before coming to Ponyville.” She gave Twilight a pat on the shoulder. “Somepony as dedicated as you, it’s not surprising that it troubles you to be so far away from what you see as the greatest source of trouble when you feel that ponies are counting on you.” The mare leaned in to give Twilight an earnest look. “But, Twilight, believe me when I tell you that Celestia, Luna, the captain, and the EMI all know what they’re doing, and right now the best thing you can do to help them is to remain here.”

Twilight sighed, allowing her head to hang a fraction. “Intellectually I know you’re right, but…” she trailed off as Song gave her an earnest look, then heaved another sigh and straightened up. “No, you are right, no buts, and I just need to buck up and do my best.”

Song gave a winning smile. “That’s the spirit.”

The unicorn grinned and shot her a sideways glance. “You’re really good at this.”

Waving her off, the psychologist replied, “I merely help ponies to recognize the truth, a truth they often already know themselves.” She winked. “And it helps that you’re a receptive and intelligent patient.”

Scratch that. She’s reeeeally good, amended Twilight. Maybe I should ask her to psychoanalyze Pinkie Pie. That thought didn’t last long before she dismissed it out of hoof. No, it would be irresponsible of me to break a gifted psychologist.

“In any case,” she said aloud, setting aside the memory of what trying to understand one mere tidbit of Pinkie’s… Pinkiness had done to her, “the rest of the accommodations shouldn’t be a problem. I was already planning on stress testing his magic and helping him explore it once he’s recovered anyway. I mean, just think, a whole new field of untapped magic, just waiting to be discovered, begging for days of research, weeks even… months… years…”

Song glanced over. “Twilight, you’re drooling,” she pointed out mildly.

Blushing, Twilight wiped her mouth.

“Yeah, she does that,” called a young male voice from behind. Spike jogged up and fell into step behind them. “Just be glad you didn’t see her when she was first granted access to the Tempora the Crooked Wing at Celestia’s School. The janitor had to follow her around with a mop.”

Twilight flicked his nose none too gently with her tail. “Spike! Don’t tell her that story!” He snickered, nonplussed by her outburst. “And, anyway, shouldn’t you be watching the books?”

He waved her off. “Please! I left them with AJ and an REF sergeant. It’s not like they’re going to eat them or anything.” She meeped at the thought. “Besides, I wanted to meet this guy everypony keeps talking about. He sounds super cool!”

Morning Song chuckled. “Yes, well, I also look forward to meeting him. A warrior who can destroy five of those monsters at his age is someone I’d like to shake hooves with. Or shake appendages with, I suppose.”

Reaching the end of the hall they stepped into the room to find the friar being cuddled by the Crusaders. Twilight couldn’t help a coo from escaping her lips and, by the sound of things, neither could Song. They greeted each other, and the lieutenant introduced herself. Spike stepped around to meet the human as well.

And that’s when the morning took an abrupt turn.

The dragon stepped into the open and Jacques’ brain flew into a frenzy of activity as the old soldier fell back on over four decades of bitter combat experience. Most of the ponies in the room were soldiers or champions of some sort. Redheart was far enough away to be out of immediate danger and was flanked by two of the Bearers. That left the fillies and, given that the drake appeared rather young, they would probably be the first target.

Moving with speed that he hadn’t possessed since his youth, he swept the fillies up with one arm and thrust them defensively behind him while his free hand snatched the closest weapon: Marble’s gladius.

St. Michael, St. George, be my guardians against the vile wyrm of hell! There was a familiar rush of power as his limbs flexed with strength and he felt the comforting embrace of armor closing around him.

“Back, foul spawn of hell! In the Name of God, begone from here! You shall not touch these children!”

Twilight had seen many unusual things in her study of magic over the years. The frequency of such experiences had only increased since becoming the Bearer of its Element. Between her race, her special talent, and her attunement to the Element, she was able to perceive the magical energies that surrounded her at a level that most mages would envy. When observing spell matrices activating, she was usually able to understand and even copy the spell herself with a little effort. Most of the time this additional data was simply part of the background, easily fading into the scenery.

This was not one of those times.

As Jacques brandished the gladius and roared out his challenge with a thunderous voice, eliciting a shriek from Rarity and cries of shock and dismay from the fillies, Twilight was distracted by another rather jarring sight. It lasted only a split second, and she doubted that any of the others had the power and knowledge to see it, but she did: a full suit of shimmering white plate armor, encasing Jacques from head to toe. In a flash, it was beyond her vision, but she was experienced enough to know that it wasn’t necessarily gone.

Under other circumstances she would have found it to be a fascinating topic of study. As it was, she had more pressings concerns. “Woah! Hey! Friar! Put the sword down!” she ordered, stepping between Spike and the old warrior.

“Lady Sparkle, step away from the dragon!” ordered Jacques.

“Why would I step away from my friend?!”

“From your what?!”

Spike quaked behind her. “Twilight? Why is he holding… why did he call me a… tell me to…?”

“Woah, Friar! Take a chill pill, dude!”

“Friar, please calm down, your injuries—"

Applejack and Fritters sprinted into the room. “What’s going on?” demanded Fritters, hefting his spear. “Why is his sword out?!”

“What in tarnation is goin’ on here?!”

“Step back!”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong!”

“Can I have my sword back?” asked Marble mildly.

“QUIET!”

A shockwave seemed to ripple through the room. All heads turned to the source:

Morning Song.

The lieutenant’s indigo eyes blazed for a brief moment, then receded to their natural calm. The room remained tense, as Jacques’ grip on the blade did not waver, but no creature spoke. Clearing her throat, Song broke the silence. “Friar, would you please explain the nature of your concern?” she requested, her tone soothing.

Blinking in some confusion, Jacques replied. “There is a dragon behind Lady Twilight.”

“I see. And this concerns you because?”

Jacques tilted his head, his brow furrowing in incomprehension. “Because… because dragons are demons in the flesh, come to ravage any innocents who walk upon the face of…” his eyes widened, “… upon the face of my earth.” He shut his eyes with a grimace. “La vache. That’s not the case here, is it?”

Song gave a winning smile. “Fortunately so, Friar. I assure you that in this world the dragons are as much the Creator’s children as any others, and that Spike here has been a loyal citizen of Equestria and personal assistant to Twilight Sparkle for sixteen peaceful years. So, while I appreciate your vigilance, please understand that it is not necessary at this time.”

Heaving a mighty sigh as his cheeks colored, the warrior returned the sword to Marble and slumped against the bedside, running a hand through his hair and muttering something under his breath. Twilight didn’t speak Prench as readily as Rarity, but she understood enough to know that he’d referred to himself as a slang term for a donkey. “Mea maxima culpa, young Spike,” he said after a moment. “Had I but known that the dragons of your land do not share an origin with those in my own, I would not have treated you so poorly. I am ashamed of my outburst and my treatment of you, and I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

A heavy silence hung over the room. Twilight realized after a moment that her mouth was flapping open and shut as she tried and failed to process what had happened. She’d been so excited to see the heroic human again, only to have that ripped out from under her by fury at the thought that he’d try to hurt Spike, and then that had been shut down by the disproportionately calm reaction by Song and by Jacques’ own contrite response to it. She had no idea how to respond.

“Well I should hope you are sorry!” snapped Rarity, who had regained her composure enough to be outraged. “The nerve! Snapping at poor little Spikey-Wikey—"

Twilight instinctively opened her mouth to calm her irate friend, but, as it happened, Spike beat her to it. “Rarity, it’s okay,” said the dragon.

Twilight turned to see Spike, tears welling in his eyes as he tried bravely to pretend that he wasn’t crying. “Oh, Spike,” she murmured, turning to embrace him.

The little drake pushed her hooves aside, his eyes locked on Jacques. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, somehow managing to keep his voice steady. “In that other world you’re from with mostly no magic, dragons are like the Fell, right?”

“Yes,” replied Jacques.

“And your first instinct on seeing me and thinking I was a threat of that kind was to protect the fillies, even though you’re still injured.”

Jacques frowned as though the question didn’t even need asking. “Well… of course.”

Spike gave a broad grin that Twilight guessed was only partly forced. “Then, dude, we’re cool. Any guy who’s willing to fight a monster to protect my friends is okay in my book, and, hey, everypony was here to stop you from stabbing me, so bonus, right? Hehehe,” his awkward laughter trailed off.

For a moment, it seemed that the awkward silence would swell to suffocate them all, but then Jacques broke it with a murmured “Dieu merci,” before adding in a louder voice, “You are wise and gracious beyond your years, young Spike. Thank you. And I apologize to the rest of you as well, for causing any concern.”

“And for taking my sword,” interjected Marble blandly.

“Yes, and for taking your— urgk!” Jacques gripped his side, pain lancing across his features.

“Oh dear, darling!” exclaimed Rarity. “Are you all right?”

Redheart darted over and pulled the hand away, revealing a dampening area of the robe. “Son of a— you opened your stitches, you big idiot!” Her irate gaze flicked around the room, falling upon Fritters. “You!” she snapped. Fritters straightened to attention. “Medic training?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You stay. Everypony else, out. We’ll get you when we’re done.”

None of the ponies seemed eager to risk the ire of the nurse, and they filed out of the room, bidding farewell to Jacques as they went. Rarity looked somewhat downcast and said something about ‘making amends’ and ‘clean change of clothes’ before announcing that she’d be making a quick trip home. She gave Spike a peck on the cheek before she left, telling him that he was a brave boy. Fortunately, Twilight managed to catch him before he cracked his head on the floor.

“You really are brave,” she said, quietly enough that the others, now wrapped in their own conversations about the startling occurrence, wouldn’t overhear. “And I’m very proud of you. Forgiving him like that and seeing things from his point of view was both generous and mature, and I’m quite impressed.”

Spike blushed and shrugged. “Aw, it was no big deal,” he said, scuffing one foot against the floor. “I mean… it’s not like it’d be the first time I got treated different because I was a dragon…” his voice dipped sadly before he forced a smile to his face, “…but, hey, it’s the first time the guy actually had a good excuse and, once he realized he was wrong, he apologized immediately.”

Twilight’s eyes narrowed. Given what she knew of the friar, she knew Jacques wasn’t at fault here. If anything, he’d acted rather nobly given what he thought to be true. Still, she thought as she scrutinized Spike’s mask of unconcern, even though he’s hiding it, that did bother him that he got yelled at like that. It’ll take time before that goes completely away. She smiled and gave the dragon a tight hug. “Well, all the same, you showed just now noble a dragon can be.”

He flung himself gratefully into her embrace, and she felt tears dampening her coat. “Thanks, Twi. Thanks.”

Author's Note

Hey, folks! So I know it's been a while and- hey! Put down the torches! My obligatory Antiquarian vs the Angry Mob vignette isn't until Part 2! Back off!

Ahem. Anyway...

I do truly apologize for the delay. Beyond all the delays resulting from work, life, and the like, this chapter just got loooooooooong. I felt like parts needed cutting (and I still kind of do), but at the same time there's not a lot that felt like it could be cut while still giving the experience of Jacques interacting with mundane Equestrian slice-of-life things that people wanted and introducing new characters. Doesn't mean I'm happy about the delay. See Part 2 for the endorsement and my encounter with the Angry Mob.

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Welcome to Ponyville (Part 2)

“I am a proper fool,” observed Jacques glumly.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Friar,” Redheart urged as she renewed his stitches. “Why, most of this town, myself included, used to be terrified of a zebra who lived nearby because we thought she was some sort of dark pony witch.”

The soldier barked a laugh. “Am I correct in thinking that you took an extreme leap of reasoning to reach that conclusion?”

“You could say that,” she admitted ruefully. “To be fair, most of us had never even heard of zebras before, and none of us had ever seen one,” explained Redheart. “We’re a small town and pretty far north of the Zebrican Kingdom, and the zebras tend to keep to themselves. To top that off, she lives in the Everfree Forest.” She glanced up as she clarified, “The terrifying enchanted forest wherein you fought the timber wolves and where an ancient horror known as Nightmare Moon did battle with the Elements of Harmony. Twice.”

Jacques blanched. “I see.”

Redheart chuckled. “It seems silly in hindsight, but at the time ‘dark pony enchantress’ seemed a lot more plausible than ‘gifted zebra apothecary’ given what little information we had. We’re close friends now, for the record. Her potions actually helped save your life.” She finished her stitching and patted his leg. “I think you’ll find that most Equestrians are very forgiving, whatever their race. You made an honest mistake, acted the best you could based on what you knew, and took responsibility for your assumption immediately afterwards. It’ll blow over soon.”

“That is… gratifying to hear,” he replied. His robe floated over, upheld in a blood-red magic aura as the soldier prepared to help him dress. That will take some getting used to, he mused as the unicorn helped him into his garment. “And I must apologize to you, good stallion; I failed to inquire your name.”

The stallion’s answer was sardonic in the extreme. “What, you mean thinking that you saw a Fell in the flesh threw you? The nerve!” Jacques smirked. Reminds me of Andrew. And that accent… that is familiar too. Once the robe was back on the stallion held a hoof out for shaking. “Colour Sergeant Krucjata Włócznia, REF. But if that’s too much of a mouthful you can call me ‘Fritters.’ Always a pleasure to meet some creature with better facial hair than mine.”

What an… interesting thing to fixate on. He watched as Fritters turned to get Redheart’s name, kissing her hoof as a gentleman would and eliciting a blush from the mare. Twice for her today, Jacques thought with a grin. But this stallion is an odd one. Looks like a vagabond, acts like a noble, and has the moniker ‘Fritters’ of all things. Too many questions to ask. “The pleasure is mine, Colour Sergeant.” Is he the bannerman of his troop with that rank, I wonder? “Your accent is familiar. I very much doubt the name is the same in your world as in mine, but I must ask: are you, perchance, Polish?”

Fritters scratched his head. “You’re right. It must be different. My people are called the Koniks; we’re a slightly different breed from the ponies of mainland Equestria, but you’d need to be a geneticist to care about the difference.”

“I don’t even know what a ‘geneticist’ is.”

“Then you don’t need to care,” replied Fritters brightly.

There came a knock at the door. “Um, hello?” queried Twilight. “May we come back in yet?”

The two ponies looked to Jacques for confirmation. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. Here we go. “Yes, Lady Sparkle. You may.”

Twilight pushed her way into the room, a wry grin on her face. “Please, Friar, you can just call me ‘Twilight.’ Everypony does.” She and the others reentered, but Jacques was only concerned with the small purple dragon.

There was a part of his mind that still paled at the thought of sharing the room with a dragon. Six decades of lore did not readily move aside, even when the holy thaumaturges of the realm advocated for the creature. Then again, I have God-given magic in this world, so I suppose now is hardly the time for hearkening to certain conventions.

The dragon hesitated to meet his gaze, scuffing one clawed foot on the floor like a child waiting to be scolded. That cinched it for Jacques. Pushing himself up from the bed, he hobbled across the room, drawing a hiss of concern from Redheart which he roundly ignored. “Spike,” he said as gently as possible, lowering himself to one knee, “I am truly sorry for my earlier behavior.” The dragon looked up, meeting his eyes. The eyes of a dragon. Jacques tensed instinctively, but forced his shoulders to relax by biting his inner cheek and shooting off a quick prayer to God for charity. “I will be honest. It may take… time for me to properly adjust to what you are, and what you are not,” he let a rueful smile claim his features, “but please believe me when I say that I will make every effort to treat you with proper respect and to make amends for any time I fall short.” He held out his right hand, trusting his sword arm to the dragon.

Spike hesitated, then took the hand in his claw and shook it. At first his clasp was weak, but he brightened up and gave a more hearty shake after they’d traded grips for a few moments. “Thanks, Friar. No hard feelings.”

“And don’t worry, Friar,” piped up Sweetie Belle. “We’re Spike’s friends, so we’ll help you see that you’ve got nothing to worry about with him.” At that the Crusaders sprang forward to hug the little dragon, and Jacques suddenly felt like he’d eaten a month’s worth of sweets. Something about this world… it’s like every other moment is coated in honey.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s real sweet and all,” groused Redheart, pushing over a short stool behind Jacques. “Now sit before you hurt yourself.”

The friar chuckled, but did as he was bade. “Pax, Bonne Sœur. I am not infirm.”

“No, just hospitalized,” she shot back.

Rainbow snickered. “Hah! A hospitalized Hospitaller!” Applejack facehoofed.

Twilight stepped forward. “I think I owe you an apology, Friar. I should have warned you Spike was coming. I mean, I know how magic is in your world; I should have known that some creatures that are normal here would be monsters in your world, but, silly me, I didn’t think of it and so you felt threatened and—"

Jacques cut her off before she could get too worked up. “I forgive you, Lady Spa… er, Twilight.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Perhaps it would be best if I asked from now on whenever I encounter a new creature.”

She smiled. “That would probably be for the best.”

“Unless it’s attacking you,” cut in Fritters, “in which case all bets are off.”

Jacques rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Fritters. I had assumed as much.”

Marble made an offended noise. “Ah! Frit, how come he gets to call your Fritters no problem, but every time I introduce you as Fritters you threaten my life?!”

Fritters shrugged. “I don’t know. Because you’re short?”

“That’s hurtful.”

Morning Song cleared her throat. “Before my Dogs set too bad of an example for the fillies, perhaps we should consider plans for the rest of the day. Nurse Redheart? I’d like a quick word about his ongoing care; I was just speaking with Miss Applejack while we waited to be let back in, and the Friar will be staying at the Acres starting today while he recovers, under your direction, of course. We also need to discuss care for two Lunar Guards who will be transferred here soon for some much-needed recuperation. I’ve already spoken to Medevac about it, but I’d be remiss if I left you in the dark.”

Redheart blinked. “Oh, um, of course, Lieutenant.” She followed the soldier to a secluded corner of the room.

Jacques turned to Applejack. “’Today?’’” he repeated.

“Eeyup,” replied the farmer, resting a foreleg on his knee. “Mah big brother’ll be by shortly with a cart to take you back to the Acres.” She shot a teasing glance at Fritters. “An’ he’s plenty strong enough to pull that cart o’ books Twilight brought over, so yer off the hook with yer masculinity still intact.”

Fritters wiped his forehead with mock relief. “Bogu dzięki!”

“Boy, and I was already to take his stallion card,” sighed Marble.

“Dream on, shorty.”

As they fell to quibbling, much to the amusement of Applejack, Dash, and the young ones, Jacques noticed the absence of a certain alabaster mare. Recalling her outburst earlier, he winced. “Twilight? Is Lady Rarity displeased with me?”

“Huh? Why would she…?” queried the unicorn. “Oh, I get it, because she isn’t here and earlier she was angry with— no, Friar. You’ve got nothing to worry about. From the sound of things she probably left to get something for you. Generosity, remember? She’ll be along.” Twilight gave a sly grin. “But I’d be willing to bet it’s nothing compared to what I brought for you.”

Jacques smiled warmly. Ah, yes, the ‘cart of books.’ So wonderful to see a young mind so passionate about something. Why—

The thought didn’t finish, because three innocent little words had been rattling around in his head for quite some time finally made their presence known, resulting in his jaw falling slack and his eyes bugging out. Wordlessly he gripped Applejack’s shoulder and turned the mare to face him. “Forgive my intrusion, Applejack,” he said as calmly as he could manage, “but, earlier, what exactly did you mean by ‘cart of books?’”

It had seemed an innocent statement at the time, a harmless remark. Perhaps it was her own familiarity with Twilight’s infatuation with books. Perhaps it was that it never occurred to her that another being might have a love of them that would exceed her friend’s. Certain concepts did seem impossible, after all.

And yet, here she was, watching in awe as the friar sagged against the steadily flapping Marble for support as he stammered in broken Prench and Ponish for what felt like an hour. “Je ne comprends— it does not make any— je ne peux pas— I cannot— ouf!”

“D’ya think we broke him?” she muttered to Rainbow Dash.

The pegasus snorted. “Figures. We meet an alien and he’s Twilight 2.0.”

Jacques pointed an accusing finger at the cart and shouted in heavily accented Ponish, “This is a literal bloody cart of books! And you just left it out here! Unguarded! All these manuscripts, this wealth of information, priceless tomes of knowledge, copied for painstaking years by scribes, and it’s a cart of books! Je ne comprends—

He launched off into another rant in Prench. Redheart heaved a massive sigh and Applejack patted her on the shoulder. “Just another day in Ponyville.”

Fritters looked on in amusement. “If that’s so, I like this posting already.”

Twilight stepped forward to calm the man. “Friar, please, it’s not that big of a deal. These books are mostly after-market reprints. Sure, it’d be a little expensive to replace them, but it’s not like it would set back the budget that… much… why are you looking at me like that?”

The friar’s gaze was like the intensity of the sun, or Rainbow during cider season. “‘Reprints?’” he asked.

“Um… yes? Like, you know, second runs of printing. You know? With a printing press?”

Jacques blinked. “What is a ‘printing press?’”

“Well, it’s an invention that enables us to…” Twilight’s eye twitched.

“Uh oh,” gulped Rainbow, folding her ears flat. Applejack and Redheart followed suit, and Song imitated them.

“Why ‘uh oh?’” asked Fritters. “What’s—"

“IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT A PRINTING PRESS IS, HOW DO YOU MAKE BOOKS READILY AVAILABLE TO ALL CREATURES?!”

“Oh,” winced Fritters, massaging his ears.

“OH, SWEET CELESTIA, YOU POOR MAN!”

She flung herself to his side and hugged his legs, sobbing against his robe.

Jacques swayed unsteadily on his feet, even with Marble’s support. “Wait, you mean to say that anyone can afford books as readily as lords? Without… needing scribes… to copy… years…?”

Redheart turned with a grumble. “I’m going to go get the crash cart now.”

“Fer Jacques or Twilight?” asked Applejack.

“Yes.”

Happily, Redheart did not need to make use of her crash cart, but she kept it close all the same. They managed to escort a rather dazed Jacques and Twilight to the front, where they were met by Big MacIntosh with the promised cart.

The big stallion unhitched himself and went straight up to Jacques, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to find the words. None came, but tears sprang to his eyes and he held out a hoof for shaking. Jacques took the hoof with a smile. Neither spoke, but it seemed to Redheart that they said plenty. After that, Big Mac helped the friar into the cart while the other ponies loaded his belongings and medicine.

Once he was situated, the man turned to address Redheart and Medevac, the latter of whom had taken a break to come see him off. “Words cannot express my gratitude to you, my friends,” said the friar. “Simply know that I am forever indebted to you, and that you shall always find a friend in me.” At that he made a cross sign in the air with one hand, reciting, “Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius et Spiritus Sanctus.”

Redheart’s knowledge of Latin didn’t extend beyond medical terminology, but she appreciated the sentiment all the same. “Take care of yourself, Friar. If we’re going to come and visit, I’d rather it be for tea rather than a medical emergency.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” quipped Medevac. “Seriously though, take it easy for a few days. And for pity’s sake take your medicine! Don’t be that guy.”

Jacques chuckled. “I shall keep that in mind. Adieu, my friends.”

The two nurses stood waving until the cart passed out of sight, then turned to go back inside. “Well, this has been a memorable couple days,” remarked Medevac, holding the door open for her. “Ponyville am I right?”

“Certainly not what I envisioned at medical school,” she replied. “But I wouldn’t trade this town for the world.” They retrieved the crash cart and headed deeper into the hospital. “And it would be hard to imagine a more pleasant patient.”

“Yeah, it’s not every day you get adopted as somecreature’s sister,” teased Medevac. “Plus, it’s nice to have another soldier to talk shop with around here. I’ve heard most of the town vets’ stories a thousand times by now, and I’m looking forward to some new material.”

“And a chance for a new audience, I suppose?” she quipped as they pushed their way into the equipment room with the cart.

“That too,” he admitted.

She helped him push the cart back to its place against the wall. “Well, you could always tell me more of your stories one of these evenings over…” she trailed off, realizing that she’d been about to ask him out for drinks. Why did I hesitate? We grab drinks together all the time.

Before she could finish her sentence, Medevac came to her rescue. “Over drinks some time? Sure. How does tonight sound?”

Like much too short notice. But, again, why? We’re friends. Friends grab drinks.

“Red?”

“I—"

“She can’t go tonight, silly. You’re both busy!”

Redheart shrieked and stumbled back at the sight of Pinkie Pie hanging out of a ceiling tile.

“Mother of Pearl, Pinkie Pie!” shouted Medevac.

Pinkie giggled. “I’m not the mother of somepony named ‘Pearl,’ Medevac. Sheesh, I don’t even have a coltfriend yet, much less a husband! And even if I had a kid I don’t think I’d name my filly ‘Pearl.’ I mean, it’s a great name for another pony, but ‘Pearl Pie’ just doesn’t really roll of the tongue, you know? Besides, I don’t think a pearl pie would taste very good, unless maybe you were a clam, but clams don’t really eat pearls, and who knows if they even like them, which would really be sad if they had things that weren’t tasty in their mouths all the time and—"

“Pinkie!” interrupted Redheart.

“Yeah-huh?” she asked.

“Do you need something?” gritted the nurse.

“Oh yeah! Silly me! I came by to give you these!” Her forelegs stretched to impossible lengths to give each of them a hoof-made invitation that looked to be stylized to resemble a castle. “Make sure to get there plenty early! I already spoke with your boss about the schedules, and he said that you could both have the rest of the day off because it was a slow day and you were here all night and you both always ended the year with more vacation days than anypony could shake a stick at it, so it’s okie-dokie-lokie! Bye now!”

With that she was gone, the ceiling tile slotted back into place, leaving only the invitations and the heart palpitations to indicate that she’d come.

The two nurses stared in silence at the tile for a moment before exchanging a glance particular to those who’d spent at least a few years living in close proximity with Pinkie Pie. Then he smirked. “Want me to fire up the crash cart?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

Jacques’ admiration for the fabled strength of earth ponies increased by a factor of ten upon observing the aptly named Big MacIntosh pull him, the wagon, his possessions, and the cart of (he felt a shudder of awe) books without apparent effort. He’s too short for me to be able to easily ride at my height, and yet no horse I know could have borne such weight so readily in my homeland. At one point the fillies clambered up onto the seat with him. The draft pony didn’t seem to notice. These ponies may be handsome creatures, but they are not to be trifled with. Which begs the question what form this emerging threat will take. Fellow ponies dabbling in the Dark Arts? Ancient horrors like this ‘Nightmare Moon’ Redheart mentioned? He wanted to dive into research immediately, to read the wealth of books in Twilight’s library… his heart quickened at the thought of so much knowledge at his fingertips…

Which in turn reminded him of Redheart’s severe remonstration to Twilight when the mare had offered to show him her full collection: “Oh, no! He’s not going anywhere near that library until he’s acclimated! You’ll give him a heart attack! If he so much as sets a foot in that library before he’s adjusted, you’re gonna have to learn to walk with two legs!”

Given their relative social statuses, Jacques imagined their exchange was akin to a yeoman peasant lecturing a Peer of the Realm, but Twilight had bowed meekly and acquiesced. They seem to hold little regard for rank. It is fortunate that my parents taught me to regard wisdom before class, else I might be scandalized instead of merely shocked.

Dawn had come and passed, and there were an ever-increasing number of ponies milling about. Most stopped to stare at the odd little cavalcade, but none approached. Twilight made a remark to the effect that the majority were simply becoming accustomed to such oddities, which implied worrying things about the town. Still, there were a number of ponies that looked skittish or outright fearful. Three mares selling flowers took off running the moment they saw him. I don’t think I look that threatening.

Rainbow Dash seemed perturbed by their actions. “Again? Really?” she shouted after them. “He’s literally sitting next to fillies!” Grumbling, she addressed Jacques.“Don’t mind them, Friar. They always bolt when they see new creatures.”

“Naw,” interjected Marble. “They just saw the Colour Sergeant’s face.”

“Six feet down, Slab. Six. Feet. Down.”

Jacques ignored them and addressed the rainbow-maned mare. “I understand. After all, I reacted in similar fashion this morning. And most people don’t wish to meet a man with a bloodied surcoat.”

“And for that, I have a solution,” sang a sophisticated soprano. Jacques turned to see Rarity approaching. “Apologies for darting off earlier, darling. I had intended to make only a quick run to my shop, but along the way I encountered Pinkie Pie and… well… Pinkie Pie.”

Well, the Pink One is a Trickster entity of some variety. “No need to apologize. I imagine creatures like her can be quite… distracting.”

Rarity arched an eyebrow at the remark but didn’t pass comment. “In any case, she passed along a few little errands that she would be ever so grateful if you all could help with. Girls? A moment?” The other Bearers trotted over and Rarity gestured to the fillies. “You too, little ponies. Now, let’s see, Fluttershy could use a hoof with food preparation and would like to borrow some of your expertise, Twilight. Pinkie provided me with a list of books and ingredients you’ll need. Spike, I believe your dragonfire would expedite the process.”

“Um… okay,” replied the purple unicorn. “Wait, why does Fluttershy need my help?

“You’ll see.”

“Anything for you, Rarity,” gushed the dragon. Jacques raised an eyebrow. Oh dear. The poor lad has it bad. He blinked. Wait, he’s a dragon and she’s a pony. How in the world does…?

The first two trotted off and Rarity addressed the others. “Applejack? If you and the fillies would lend Pinkie a hoof at the Acres, it would not go amiss.”

Applejack frowned. “What all’s she doin’ to the Acres?”

“Mustn’t tell, darling, but rest assured, Grannie gave her approval.” Mollified by this, Applejack departed, whistling for the fillies to follow. They did after bidding Jacques an enthusiastic farewell with yet another synchronized moment of adorable smiles and well wishes. If my heart doesn’t give out by the end of the day, it will be a miracle. “And, finally, Rainbow Dash, if you would be so kind as to distribute these invitations to the following musicians—"

Rainbow scoffed. “What am I, a messenger bird? Why not get a mailpony to do it?”

"—to a half dozen ponies, some of whom live several hours travel away and must all be notified within the next hour if they’re to arrive in time.”

“Ah. Say no more!” She took the letters, turned in the air, and made a pose akin to a human sprinter about to start a race. “Watch close, Friar,” she said with a wink. “If you blink you’ll miss it.”

Jacques smirked. He’d already come to the conclusion that Lady Dash had something of an inflated ego, but it was nothing he hadn’t encountered before as a soldier. “I look forward to it.”

“Good! Because you’re about to see my patented—"

“Hold it!” interrupted Song sharply. “Miss Dash, are you about to perform your signature Sonic Rainboom?”

The pegasus huffed. “Well, it was gonna be a surprise but—"

“A surprise is exactly what I’m afraid of,” replied the lieutenant. “He doesn’t have magic in his world, remember? For the sake of his mental health, and possibly physical health, I’d ask that you be considerate enough to at least inform him before performing a feat that’s nigh impossible even by pony standards. And, in fact, maybe do it a couple miles out.”

Rainbow didn’t seem bothered by the remonstrance. “Heh! Figures that my awesomeness is enough to break some dude’s brain.” She turned to Jacques, a cheeky smile on her face. “Hey, Friar, I’m about to break the sound barrier through sheer force of radicalness.”

He tilted his head. “What is a ‘sound barr—’”

In a streak of rainbow light she was gone before he could blink, suddenly hundreds of feet away as she climbed into the sky with speed greater than that of a diving hawk. Jacques gaped as she became a distant speck in mere moments. Unconsciously he slipped into French. “”

“Brace yourself, Friar,” put in Song mildly. “It’s about to get bright and loud.”

As soon as she finished speaking, her prediction came true in a spectacular fashion. A thunderous boom rippled through the countryside, and Jacques’ eyes bulged as a ring of dazzling color exploded across the sky, sending a wave of wind that rippled his clothes even at this distance.

“Dang,” exclaimed Fritters. “She puts on quite a show, doesn’t she?”

It took Jacques time to find his voice. When he did, it was a whisper. “”

Rarity had to admit that she took particular pleasure in observing another creature when he or she saw the Sonic Rainboom for the first time. Seeing the experience fresh in the eyes of another let her appreciate it freshly herself. After all, it would be an injustice to become blasé to art, especially an art once performed to save my life. “Yes, our Rainbow Dash is quite the gifted mare, wouldn’t you say?” she observed aloud.

Jacques held up a hand to the sky, then let if fall slack. “Words fail.”

“Eeyup,” concurred Big MacIntosh.

They sat in silence for a moment until the colors faded. Then Rarity began trotting off, beckoning the others to follow. “Now come along, darlings. Let’s get the good friar out of his mussied garments before lunch, shall we?”

“Lunch?” asked Fritters, his eyes narrowing. “Aren’t we just going to the Acres?” Big MacIntosh nodded in agreement; it was news to him too.

“Oh pish tosh, darling! There are four newcomers in town and Pinkie Pie is involved. Surely you did not expect things to be quite so bland.”

Blinking, Fritters turned to Song in mute query. The senior soldier shrugged as she trotted up to walk by Rarity. “She’s right. I imagine some festivities are in all of our futures down at the Acres.” She glanced over her shoulder to see that Jacques was still distracted before asking in a lowered tone, “Though what exactly should we be prepared for? I don’t think it’s wise to expose Jacques to too many oddities in one day.”

“Now, now, Lieutenant,” chortled Rarity coyly, “a lady never tattles.” Song frowned and Rarity rested a hoof on her shoulder as she added in a more serious voice, “But I assure you that you will enjoy yourselves. And I saw enough of her preparations to know that it will be rather more muted than her usual soirées. Nothing more shocking than, well, Pinkie Pie.”

Morning Song raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite the qualifier there, Rarity. Though,” she admitted, “I suppose if he’ll be living in Ponyville it’s an inevitable shock, so perhaps it’s best to get it out of the way. Rip off the bandaid, so to speak.”

Rarity nodded. “My thoughts exactly, darling.”

“When are the ‘festivities,’ Miss Belle?” asked Marble, from his place farther back in the impromptu caravan.

“Oh, please, darling, call me ‘Rarity.’ As for the time, we shall need to keep ourselves busy until four.”

Marble’s eyebrows shot up. “Four? It’s not even nine! Besides lunch, what are we supposed to do? Even Fritters won’t eat for that long.”

The scruffy stallion smirked. “Challenge accepted.”

Song glared at him. “No.”

Rarity smirked. “Don’t trouble yourselves, darlings. We shall be quite occupied until then. Big Mac? I know you have to spend a little time at the market today, so once you’ve delivered the good friar I’d ask that you leave the cart and return around one for lunch.”

“Um… eeyup?” replied the stallion.

Hm. Two words… sort of. I’m impressed. Now if only he would start speaking Prench… Around that time they reached Carousel Boutique. With a proud smile, Rarity trotted up to the entrance. “As to how the rest of us shall be passing the time, it will be quite simple, darlings,” she said, throwing the door open. “We shall be creating art!”

She was greeted with silence as all the males present, sans Big Mac, stood in mute incomprehension. Song simply flashed a knowing smile.

Marble blinked. “…meaning…?”

“Clothes, Slab,” clarified Song. “She makes clothes.”

“Not just clothes, darling. I create art!” She pointed at Jacques. “And today, I shall create art for you!”

“Me?” he demanded.

“Yes! Just think of it! An entirely new line of fashion, never before conceived by mare or stallion! Just think of the possibilities!”

Jacques swallowed. Eager anticipation no doubt. “Ah, Madam Rarity, I couldn’t possibly impose…”

“Nonsense!” she exclaimed. “It’s the least I can do after I snapped at you earlier, and in front of the very sister you saved, no less!”

He opened his hands pleadingly. “I am but a simple friar, Madam, I cannot—"

“Ah, ah! I won’t take no for an answer darling! It may take a few hours, but you shall have the finest of attire when you leave!”

Jacques sat back in his seat, befuddled. Big Mac unhitched himself from the cart and reached up to pat the friar’s leg before departing. What was that little exchange all about?

“Whelp,” interrupted Fritters, “I’m out.” He turned and strode off after Big Mac. “I’m gonna go see if the Big Red One needs a hoof.”

Rarity tutted, having anticipated this. Stallions don’t tend to like waiting for other stallions to have their outfitting done. “Fret not, darling. It won’t just be the friar receiving my talents. I could hardly let you depart without giving you the benefits of my talents first.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he called back.

That rocked Rarity back on her hooves. She opened her mouth in outrage. Why that scruffy-looking little… and he was so polite earlier… how could he just brush me off—

Song cut off her thoughts before they could fully coalesce, trotting up with a wan smile. “Don’t mind him, Rarity. He’s a crusty soul who makes a point of looking the way he does.”

“M-makes a point of it?” she exclaimed, horrified. “But… but why?”

The other mare shrugged. “It’s…complicated. He is, by his own admission, a touch bent.”

“I on the other hoof, will happily take you up on your offer,” announced Marble, stepping forward. “They don’t exactly have a ‘Stallion’s Squat and Buff’ store in Canterlot.”

Song shook her head. “It’s a good thing Fritters isn’t here to hear you say that.”

Yes, good riddance to— she chopped off the uncharitable thought with a mental rebuke. That’s hardly fair to him, Rarity. My, you’ve been snippy today. “Come along, darlings! We begin!”

What Rarity had meant by ‘we begin,’ as it turned out, was to send Jacques into the bathroom to get cleaned up. The hospital staff had cleaned him whilst he was still unconscious, but Rarity had offered her washroom that he might freshen up and change into a simple cloth robe that the couturier had apparently made during her absence earlier that morning. She collected his habit so that the blood might be washed out. Marble assisted him while the two mares chatted in the other room. Jacques found the diminutive stallion to be an easygoing and jocular conversationalist. If he was bothered by helping an old man freshen himself up, he didn’t show it.

For his part, Jacques was more than a little impressed by the merchantmare’s establishment. Resembling a mighty lord’s pavilion from the outside and a lavish mansion from within, he’d met many a man who would have happily stabbed his father for such luxury. Fortunately, my hostess doesn’t seem the type. If anything, it’s her generosity that’s overbearing.

Returning to the main room, he found only Song, though he could hear Rarity singing to herself in the next room. Song hummed along and he wondered if it were a popular local tune. It sounded to be something about the ‘art of the suit,’ but he couldn’t be sure. When he sat down, Song leaned over to him with an apologetic smile. “I hope you’ll pardon Rarity’s insistence upon outfitting you. To her, the perception of any creature in need, particularly one to whom she feels she owes a debt, is nothing less than an obligation to assist. It’s also how she expresses gratitude. It would be easier to convince Twilight not to loan you books, though only marginally.”

“Oh? An insight born of long friendship I take it?”

Song shook her head. “Nothing like that. We only just met today, though her reputation does precede her, and I’ve read her file.” Jacques cocked an eyebrow. “I have known ponies like her before, and it’s not hard for somepony with my training to read her.”

He tilted his head. “What training is that?”

“Psychology.” Seeing his confusion, she explained. “In short, psychologists help treat their patients’ mental and emotional ailments and traumas and give them the tools to cope with their struggles.”

The friar pondered this. “A noble profession, to be sure. In truth, it sounds not altogether different from being a spiritual advisor. Is this a common trade within your soldiery?”

Song pursed her lips, and he sensed a story behind her hesitation. “Not exactly. There are psychologists in the Armed Forces, of course, but my own case is somewhat… unique.”

Before she could go on, Rarity returned, bearing with her Jacques’ now cleaned robe and several swatches of fabric. “Now then, darling, I am just bursting with ideas for you! Putting aside even the prospect of three-piece suits, capes, doublets, and the like, I have a goodly number of sketches drawn up for different variants on the robe. I think you’ll find that they not only look fabulous, but that they’re more comfortable to wear than…” she flicked his robe with a hoof and cleared her throat, “this particular material.”

At her magic’s command a flurry of pages flew to him, each bearing a different and increasingly exotic vision of a robe and its accoutrements. While Jacques had never had that deep an appreciation for the intricacies of fashion, even he could recognize the common themes of his garb and possessions, including the Hospitaller Cross, chorded belt, rosary, and even the fleur de lis (which he found particularly fascinating, as it implied yet another parallel between their worlds). While it was plain that Rarity did not fully comprehend the religious significanceof many of the articles used, her skill at tying them in was undeniable. He bit his lip. Which is only going to make what I have to say harder.

“…and on this pattern,” she was describing, “you’ll notice how the cross itself is comprised of… what’s wrong, darling?”

Jacques sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lady Rarity, while I do greatly appreciate the effort that you have gone to on my behalf, and while I admire your craft, I fear that there is a misunderstanding regarding the significance of my attire.” He gestured for her to float his garment over. Taking it from the air, he gestured to the pattern. “This habit, this robe, is not a fashion choice. It is the visible pledge of my vocation, of my office. I am a priest; a chaplain; a monk. These are not roles I retire from at the end of the day; they are the essence of my being, my purpose. While I might don a heavier cloak and hood for warmth or exchange it for a surcoat when wearing armor, I cannot simply go about attired as I wish. To do so would be akin to…” he groped for the proper analogy, “… akin to…”

“To denying one’s cutie mark?” ventured Morning Song.

The friar recalled his conversation with Medevac. “Yes. A most wise insight, Lieutenant.” He turned back to Rarity. “As for the coarse fabric, even that is deliberate.”

The unicorn sputtered. “W-whatever for?”

“Mortification,” he replied. “The flesh is weak, and easily swayed by pleasures and luxuries. While not evil in their own right, to overindulge in them is to invite calamity. By mastering the flesh, making it submit to a Higher Purpose, I am freed from any earthly constraints that might keep me from my duties as preacher, confessor, and soldier.”

To Jacques’ eyes it seemed that Rarity paled somewhat. “That seems… rather devoted of you.”

He gave a crooked smile. “I never said it was easy, Lady Rarity. But, in truth, I find it easier to be detached from great pleasures if I am disciplined in being detached from little ones.” Gesturing to Marble and Song he added, “I’m sure that any soldier could tell you of the importance of such subordination of the flesh.”

Marble gave a flat nod. “Oh, yes. We bid farewell to creature comforts every time Captain Argent orders us to eat Trottingham food.” Song gave a snort of guilty amusement.

Rarity sighed, looking crestfallen, and began gathering up the pages. “Well, I suppose I can’t very well ask you to deny your special talent, so to speak. It was… an interesting thought experiment if nothing else. I’ll just have to repay you… some other way.”

Jacques winced. While he felt no need of repayment, it was plain that Rarity would be deeply troubled if she could not give him a gift to show her gratitude. But how? I doubt it would satisfy her simply to make a half dozen habits for me, as useful as that may be. If only I had need of—

He caught sight of one design, a multi-layered robe that, by some well-fated chance, resembled priestly vestments worn at a High Mass. Before she could take it away, he pulled it from the air. “Un moment, s'il vous plaît,” he said. Rarity looked up hopefully as he scanned the drawing. It’s not as though I will fail to celebrate the mass. And I could always wear a hair shirt underneath the vestments… he broke into a grin. “If you’ll take the input of a tired old monk, I believe I may have a commission for you.”

Rarity beamed.

By the time Big MacIntosh and Fritters returned to collect them for lunch, Rarity had designed vestments for each season of the liturgical year while simultaneously manufacturing several plain habits for Jacques and taking the measurements of Marble and Morning Song. In the course of the process, she’d slipped into a trancelike state that reminded Jacques of a pious monk lost in his contemplation of Scripture. Flipping back and forth between English and French, she sketched and sewed and pondered aloud her designs with the fervor of an abbot. He was at once impressed and mildly alarmed. Fortunately, Song and Marble had kept him engaged in conversation to prevent the experience from becoming too bizarre for him.

Now the six of them sat in front of a tavern of some sort at a table resembling a giant toadstool, ordering lunch from a smartly-dressed stallion with twirling mustachios. Such was Jacques’ bemusement that the flower-laced menu struck him as more unusual than both the table and the maître-de.

After requesting that none of them order roses (and setting them to laugh upon explanation), Jacques became aware that they were being observed by a pair of mares sitting at a nearby table. In truth, most of the patrons seem interested in my presence, but these two in particular won’t stop staring. Casting periodic glances back, he was able to get a good look at them: a pale green unicorn with two-tone green and white mane and a cream-coated earth pony mare with blue and pink mane. The green one in particular maintained a steady gaze. At one point they made eye contact, and Jacques felt like fresh blood-stock being scrutinized by a discerning buyer. Which is an ironic comparison on more than one level.

Apparently the mare took his eye contact as an excuse to come over, accompanied by the other mare. As they approached, all three of the soldiers subtly shifted their positions so as to be ready to attack in an instant if needed. Jacques noted that.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said the green mare hurriedly, “but my friend and I were having a little disagreement that we were hoping you could settle.”

The earth pony huffed. “It’s not a disagreement, Lyra. You’re just wrong.”

Lyra snorted. “We’ll see.” Her eyes narrowed as she examined Jacques. He swallowed involuntarily. Do these ponies have any state between endearing and unsettling? “The question is, are you a magical hybrid, or a unique creature from beyond the borders of Equestria?”

Jacques blinked. Is the first one a common option? “Erm… the latter.”

The unicorn gave a toothy grin, turned to the earth pony, pointed, and shouted, “Hah! In your face, Bon Bon! I knew he was a—” she turned to Jacques. “What are you, again?”

“A… human?”

“A human!” she cackled. “Which means you’re selling sweets at my next musical showcase, and not the other way around. Nyah!” The other mare scowled as Lyra continued to cackle. “Well, Mister Human, much as I’d love to learn about a race that isn’t covered in the textbooks, I’ve got a gig to prepare for. Later!” and with that she trotted off. The other mare followed, muttering something about ‘crazy friends’ and ‘short-sheeting her flatmate’s bed.’

Once they’d gone, Jacques turned to Rarity and simply asked, “Que?”

Rarity smiled. “Ponyville, darling. You’ll get used to it.”

The remainder of the afternoon passed in a pleasant if less memorable fashion. Big Mac pulled the cart while Rarity showed the friar and the REF ponies around town. They saw most of the landmarks, but for some reason didn’t go near the library. Big Mac was a little put out by that, as he always enjoyed seeing the magnificent blend of earth magic and pony lore, but he wasn’t one to complain. Jacques inquired after the tree himself, making a remark about its elven quality and speculating that a powerful wizard lived there. Not all that far off, Friar, thought the farmer. To Mac’s surprise, Rarity avoided answering any questions about the library directly. He guessed there was a story behind that, but refrained from asking, reasoning that it wasn’t his business.

Eventually they wound their way out of the town proper and into a vast orchard that seemed to stretch over every hill and dale as far as he could see. “Tell me, MacIntosh,” said Jacques, “is this your family’s acreage?”

“Eeyup,” replied the stoic farmpony, letting a hint of pride creep into his voice.

“Impressive. How many workers do you have to tend the crops?”

“Four.”

Jacques made a strangled sound. Big Mac turned, concerned that perhaps the old man had had a heart attack, only to see him staring with bulging eyes. “Four?”

Reassured that the friar wasn’t having some sort of cardiac arrest he resumed his forward gaze. “Well, s’really more like three. Grannie ain’t as young as she once was and Applebloom’s still a little’un.”

Jacques was silent for a moment, then spoke in whispered Prench, “” Big Mac allowed himself a small grin.

When they reached the homestead proper, they were greeted by three fillies wearing what looked like costumes from a Hearths Warming play and apple-eating grins. Big Mac frowned slightly. They better not o’ been playin’ dressup when there’s work ta be done. “Ain’t ya’ll supposed ta be helpin?” he asked.

“We are!” Applebloom assured him. “We’re yer escort!”

“I feel safer already,” deadpanned Fritters.

Sweetie Belle bowed deeply, and the other two followed suit. “If messieurs and madams would please follow us, the festivities await.” Giggling to each other they trotted off towards the barn.

Big Mac looked to Rarity and cocked an eyebrow. The mare nodded encouragingly, and he obediently followed the fillies.

When they reached the front of the barn, they were met by Grannie Smith herself. The matriarch of the Apple Family waited until Big Mac had helped Jacques out of the cart and over to the door. Then she approached. “Ah ain’t much for highfalutin speeches,” the venerable mare began, “but after what ya’ll did fer Applebloom,” tears sprang to her eyes, “fer mah little Applebloom… if’n ya ever… if’n ya ever need anything…” her emotions choked her off as she held out a hoof towards the friar.

Visibly moved, the man lowered himself to one knee to receive her. He made to kiss her hoof, but Grannie, with surprising speed, managed to embrace him tightly instead. Big Mac had to look away before his own tears turned into a torrent. After a moment, Song tapped him on the shoulder, gave him a sympathetic smile, and mouthed, “They’re done.”

Looking back, Big Mac saw Grannie shaking the man’s hand. “If’n ya ever need anything, ya don’t even have ta ask. The whole Apple Family will move heaven an’ earth for ya!”

Jacques gave a gentle smile. “Grand-mère Smith, in opening your home and your hearts to me, you have already done more than enough.”

Grannie showed her dentures in a broad grin. “Well, ain’t you a gentlecolt than?” She sniffed and wiped her eyes dry. “But enough o’ this sentimentin!” She kicked open the doors. “Let’s get ta celebratin!”

Big Mac peered into the barn, attempting to brace himself for the unexpected.

It was not enough.

“This is really something,” remarked Redheart.

“What is?” asked Medevac around a mouthful of some sort of potato dumpling. He appeared to be only half-listening as he watched Fritters perform a trick with his spear that involved snagging food from unsuspecting passersby, much to the amusement of the Crusaders.

She looked at him like he was an idiot. “This!” she exclaimed, gesturing around the barn. “All of this! I mean, how does anypony get a full band of medieval reenactors for the music, recruit two local ponies and a dragon to cook a full period meal from textbooks alone with fish and chicken dishes for the omnivore, contrive to get every member of the hospital staff who worked on Jacques time off so they could attend, and redecorate the entire barn to look like a medieval tavern, lock, stock, and literal barrels,” she gestured to the slew of barrels, casks, firkins, and kegs that lined the back wall, “all in a single afternoon!”

Medevac shrugged. “Pinkie Pie.”

“At what point are we going to decide that isn’t a satisfactory answer?”

They were interrupted by a loud cheer from across the barn. Fritters, it seemed, had challenged Big Mac to a competition of some sort. Redheart couldn’t be sure what all it entailed, but between the sight of knives, axes, short blades, pitchforks, and Fritters’ spear being stockpiled and the target being fashioned by Rainbow Dash, she could make a fair guess. Soon most of the barn was gathering, including Jacques, who appeared keen to try his hand, injuries or no. Sighing, she remarked, “Should we even bother trying to put a stop to this?”

“We could,” replied Medevac. A mischievous grin gripped his features and he pulled out a knife from beneath his jacket. “Or I could show you why I’m so good with a scalpel!”

Redheart rolled her eyes, but couldn’t suppress as smile as she followed him over.

The celebration lasted for several hours, and Jacques couldn’t keep a smile off his face as he thanked God for the benevolent Trickster who had gone so out of her way to make him feel at home. It was truly remarkable how familiar everything felt; the food; the drink; the music. Had it not been for the pastel ponies, he would have sworn he was back in Europe.

Best of all was the company. Surrounded by such warmth and youthful energy as he had not felt in such a degree for many years, his age slipped away and allowed him to simply enjoy being alive. Whether discussing culture with Rarity, exchanging war stories with the soldiers, explaining theology to Twilight, watching the Crusaders, teasing Redheart, or any number of other merry pastimes, joyous tears were never far from his eyes.

All things must pass in due time, however, and so the evening sun set behind the horizon, bringing the festivities to a close. One by one the guests trickled out, bidding Jacques and the Apples a fond farewell. Soon, only Morning Song remained. The other soldiers had temporary accommodations in town for the time being, but Song had arranged to stay in one of the guest rooms at the farm. Allegedly it was to help Jacques adjust, but it was plain that all the adults present knew that wasn’t the whole story. An unusual bodyguard, he pondered as the gentle soldier bid him goodnight, but I won’t make the mistake of assuming she is incapable.

The Apples showed Jacques to his room. It was far larger than what he’d lived in at the Priory, larger even than his room at his father’s castle. Grannie Smith had apologized for the rustic nature of the room, but Jacques had insisted that it was quite lordly by his standards. “My bed for the last few decades was little more than a board,” he’d said, “and before that it was often the hard dirt of the campaign trail. This is more than enough.” By some miracle, the bed was long enough for him, if only just. Had it not been, he would have slept on the floor without complaint. After showing him the adjoining washroom and helping him put away his belongings, they departed, Applejack carrying the dozing Applebloom on her back.

Now alone, Jacques took a moment to rest in a high-backed chair and collect his thoughts. It proved to be a difficult task. Far too much had happened in the last few days to readily lend itself to understanding. He chuckled softly. “Long may it be before this all ceases to seem dreamlike,” remarked the old man.

Still, he was a creature of habit and piety, and even the jarring new world in which he found himself could not change that. Rising from the overstuffed chair, he made his way carefully across the room to his satchel and took out the articles of the mass. Setting the altar stone on a nearby dresser, he knelt down and began the service. As the minutes ticked by, he found himself sagging forward as his eyelids threatened to shutter themselves. Undaunted, he pressed on. By the time he finished the mass, he realized that he no longer had the strength to stand and make his way to bed. With a rueful laugh, he reasoned that he may as well pray the last Office of the day in the hopes that his strength would return by the time he’d finished.

It wasn’t too long a prayer, after all…

Applejack yawned as she walked back from the kitchen. She’d found it difficult to sleep. Her mind was active, as if there were something that needed doing. The warm milk that she’d gone to fetch hadn’t helped much, which left her wandering aimlessly.

In truth, she was worried. Worried for what this new danger could be, these Shades that even Celestia seemed to dread. She tried to assure herself that they’d been beaten once without the Elements of Harmony, but in the quiet of the night that seemed to be cold comfort. So many died in that war, and even the princesses couldn’t stop that. What if the Shades come here? What if they attack the farm? What if—!?

She heard a thunk sound from the room to her right. The room where Jacques was staying. Her hoof reached for the door, but she hesitated. I can’t just barge in without knockin! This is Ma and… the thought trailed off and she sighed. Ain’t their room anymore, and the friar might have hurt himself. She pushed her way into the room as quietly as possible, biting her lip in fear that the old man had fallen out of bed and cracked his head.

When she saw what had really happened, she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

Kneeling in front of one of the dressers, with a flat stone, a chalice, a plate, and his strange cross symbol set atop it, was Jacques. His arms had fallen to his sides, and his head fallen onto the dresser as he snored into the hardwood, unconscious of the uncomfortable posture he’d assumed.

Stepping lightly so as not to startle him awake, Applejack edged her way over to him and reached out a hoof to tap his elbow. “Friar,” she whispered.

At her touch, the man jolted awake, almost striking her with an errant hand as he swayed. Ducking under the swing she caught his sleeve in her teeth so that he didn’t topple over.

Shaking his head into some measure of wakefulness, he peered at her in confusion. “Madam l’Applejack?”

So that’s mah name in Fancy, huh? Ah ain’t impressed. “Let’s get you to a proper bed, Friar.”

With an owlish blink he took stock of his situation before nodding. She tucked her head under his arm and pulled him around to the edge of the bed, where she helped push him up. He flopped onto the plush mattress and almost immediately passed out again, scarcely stirring as she tucked him in. He nestled deeply into the embrace of the bed, his lined face becoming eased. With a maternal smile, she turned to leave.

“Merci, madam,” breathed the man behind her.

The mare’s smile broadened as she looked back at him. Unconscious and still polite. Maybe chivalry ain’t dead after all. Her eyes fell upon his sword, leaning up against the nightstand. He’s pushin’ seventy, an’ still swingin’ that thing like he means business. A true knight, like in the storybooks Ma used to read us. At the thought, the threat of the Shades seemed paltry by comparison. If’n an old codger like him can do it, so can we. With a confident nod, she departed, suddenly feeling the appeal of a good night’s sleep.

To the unassuming eye, the manor house was rather unremarkable: one of many fine alabaster homes in the Pearl District of Canterlot, the quarter colloquially called Lord’s Row. There were plenty of homes in the same quarter that were more opulent, and plenty that were less. Set off from the main road by a long drive, a stone retaining wall, and thick shrubbery, it could easily have been dismissed as the home of some faded aristocrat, withdrawing increasingly from the world.

The stallion known as Quartermaster approached the black iron gates with the deliberate stride of a pony unaccustomed to having things stand in his way. When he reached the gate, he did not slow; he simply struck the ground with his hoof. The gate swung open at his command.

He strode through the thick hedges of the manicured front lawn, past elegant statues and burbling fountains, not bothering to regard the obvious wealth that surrounded him. Halfway across the lawn, he paused, one ear flicking slightly. “If you’re going to strike, do so,” he commanded, his basso voice cutting through the silence with the subtlety of thunder, “but you had best kill me with the first blow, Kuro.”

A thin, off-white unicorn stallion emerged from the shadows with a scowl on his face. His black mane was slicked back in a manner that revealed his pronounced widow’s peak, and his lime green eyes gleamed in the darkness. The angle of his horn and the nature of his tunic suggested an eastern heritage. The looseness of his katana and wakizashi in their scabbards suggested violent intent. “One of these days you will slow down, ‘Quartermaster.’”

“And on that day I will crush your foolish head like a grape,” replied the larger stallion matter-of-factly. Kuro snarled and his swords rattled in their scabbards. Quartermaster watched impassively, knowing full well what the outcome of a confrontation would be.

Apparently Kuro knew it too, because he looked away with a snort. “One day, when the Master does not have use for you anymore.”

Quartermaster didn’t bother to correct him. “Where are the other Children?”

Kuro leaned against a nearby statue and flicked an ear towards the house. “Inkling is in her usual haunt. As for the others, who can say?”

Frowning at the stallion’s lack of care, Quartermaster resumed his journey inside. “I shall require some of your Blades to keep an eye on matters with the Vox.”

The unicorn gave a mocking laugh. “Having trouble keeping a lid on a herd of sniveling revolutionaries, are we? Has the mighty Kiln fallen so far?”

Kiln, whom some knew as Quartermaster, stopped. One eye flicked to Kuro. “I require your obedience, Kuro Ken. Not your tongue.”

“And why should my Blades assist you in some menial task?”

Kiln didn’t answer for a moment. Then he sighed and strode back over. Kuro gave a leering smile and opened his mouth to deliver another jibe.

Before the words could leave his mouth Kiln’s hoof blurred past him, striking the statue the unicorn was leaning on with a mildly forceful tap. Kuro collapsed to the ground as the statue disintegrated under him. He tried to stand, but found Kiln’s other forehoof resting lightly on his head.

Kuro swallowed.

“Your Blades, little Ken?” asked Kiln, his voice mild. “Don’t presume to think you own anything that has not been given to you,” he patted the stallion on the head, “or that it cannot be taken away.” Without another word, Kiln walked inside.

He strode unchallenged through the halls of the manor. When other ponies interrupted their work to bow as he passed, he acknowledged them with the barest hint of a nod. The journey took him to the cellar and through several secure doors before finally reaching his destination. A small wooden door painted midnight blue awaited him, and he pushed it open and entered without knocking.

The room was almost utterly black within, the sole illumination being what could creep through the door around his massive frame. But even this did little to penetrate the darkness, which seemed to encroach upon the light with malicious purpose.

Which, of course, it did.

“Entering without bothering to knock,” purred a dark, salacious voice from within. “I’m hurt, Kiln. Have you no manners for me?”

Kiln kept his eyes forward, not even attempting to see in the blackness. “What purpose would that serve? You already knew I was coming.”

“True.” The mare’s reply seemed to echo in his mind. “But then, I suppose I don’t have the best record for how I receive…” as he watched, the shadows moved closer, “…guests.”

The stallion rolled his eyes. “I’ve had quite enough delays tonight thanks to the Youngest. I don’t have time for your games, Inkling.”

“Aw,” pouted the voice as tendrils of darkness reached out to coalesce at his hooves, wrapping around him like a morning mist. “You used to be so much more fun, Kiln.”

Kiln sighed. “Has the Master given any new instructions?”

The mist rose and wrapped around him, becoming more solid and sinuous with every passing moment. “Why? Getting anxious?”

“Irritated,” he replied. “I don’t doubt that the revolutionaries are a useful tool, but I find them tiresome.”

“Want me to help?” inquired Inkling eagerly.

“I doubt the Master wants desiccated corpses floating in the moat,” replied Kiln dryly. “And if he has left you no further instructions, then I will take my leave.” He pivoted and exited the room, the shadows melting away as he strode through them.

“Bye bye, Kilny! Send me a new playmate soon!”

Kiln gave a ghost of a smile. “Fear not. If all goes as planned, you’ll have your fill of visitors soon enough.”

Author's Note

Antiquarian yawned as he pushed aside his work and leaned back in his chair. Sighing as he rubbed his temples. He couldn't find the energy to look up as Aura knocked on his door. "What is it, Aura?"

"A representative from the Angry Mob to see you, sir."

That got his attention. "Just one?" he mumbled, rising and coming to the door, his curiosity overriding his caution. Which will no doubt be on my tombstone. He opened the door and, sure enough, there stood a single stallion holding a pitchfork.

The stallion doffed his cap. "Good day, sir. I'm Tar."

And his brother is Feather, no doubt. "Nice to meet you," replied Antiquarian. "Are you, ah..." he looked over the stallion's shoulder and saw an empty hall, "the only one here? I wasn't aware you lot did singletons."

"Well, normally we wouldn't, but with new episodes airing we're split between many riots."

"Ah." Antiquarian cleared his throat awkwardly as the two stared at each other. "Are you... um... here about the chapter delay, I assume?"

"No, actually." Antiquarian's eyebrows shot up. "I mean, we're peeved about that, pardon my language, Miss Aura, but our spies informed us that you had family in town for two weeks and a month's worth of work to catch up on." That's an unsettling revelation. "Besides, you did give us two chapters."

"So I did," replied Antiquarian. Tar nodded. Silence. "Tar, why are you here?"

"Lyra."

Antiquarian blinked. "Lyra."

"Lyra."

"... You do realize she isn't canonically described as being obsessed with humans, right?"

"You do realize that the fandom doesn't care?"

Antiquarian sighed. "Yes, I suppose I do. Listen, you seem a decent chap, and I've had a rather long day. I don't suppose you'd give me a five minute head start?"

Tar considered this. "That seems fair."

"Thank you." Antiquarian turned to leave, then added, "You know, this is so much more civilized when it's just one of you, which I suppose is why you go around in Mobs in the first place, to prevent rational thought from-"

"Clock is ticking, sir," interrupted Aura.

"Right. Thank you!"

Anyhoo, see the last chapter for comments on this one. Housekeeping for the future, we'll be getting into more of the meat of the story now. Stuff's actually going to start happening. Still plenty of slice-of-life, but things will now be ramping up to the full-blown action.

However, it will be a somewhat slow ramp because life is busy for me right now (not bad, actually very good, just busy), so if I don't update for a bit don't be concerned. I'm not giving up on the story. Thank you for your patience!

This update's shoutout is "Paint it Black" by horizon. It's about ponies with jobs much more trying than mine being made even more trying by hyper-commercialization. You brave souls who work the Black Friday sales... you have my respect and my apology... my apology for the unwashed masses inflicted upon you. On their behalf I beg your forgiveness.

Happy reading!

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Voices in the Morning

Imagine, if you will, the experience of spending the better part of five decades sleeping on surfaces ranging from light cots that were little better than planks to stone slabs to rot-covered dungeon floors. Imagine further that, in that time, the softest surface upon which you had slept was the sands of the desert, but that your sleep had often been restless under such conditions because of the fear of attack in the night.

Now imagine that, after all that time, you found yourself sleeping on a mattress large enough for a king and plush enough to cushion a fall from a castle wall. To say that the experience would be unusual would, at that point, be redundant.

All of which is to say that Jacques found it difficult to get out of bed in the morning. Not so much because he did not want to get up, but rather because his sleep-addled mind found it challenging to position his still weak limbs in such a way as to extricate himself from the distressingly cozy embrace of the mattress and blankets. By the time he actually swung his legs over the side of the bed, he felt like he’d just fought a wrestling match with a cuddly bear.

Defeated by a mattress, he thought with a smirk. What an ignominious end that would have been. He could not complain about the rest he’d received, however. His body felt far better than it had the day before, and his thoughts were the clearest they’d been since arriving in this strange land. Glancing out the window and realizing that the sun had not risen yet, he considered going back to bed, but rejected the idea out of hand. I must return to the discipline of the Liturgy of the Hours; without my brethren around to keep me regimented, extra care must be taken. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. I suppose I could invite folk from amongst the ponies to join me, but… no, he decided, recalling an experience praying alongside an Eastern Rite Catholic. To do so would be akin to the confusion of that poor Maronite multiplied a hundred-fold.

Based on the light of the sun that had just begun to invade through the curtains, he guessed that he’d already passed the early hour of Lauds, but not yet Prime. Lacking the sound of a bell to mark the time, he decided to simply pray from one directly to the next, with Mass between, trusting that God valued his piety over his precision under the circumstances.

Considering that he did not want to risk Redheart’s ire by walking around too much first thing in the morning, he cast his gaze about searching for a suitable implement with which to support himself. To his surprise, he found an implement quite well-suited to the purpose: a walking stick. Cut from a stout wood that he could not identify and beautifully polished, it was too perfectly sized to have belonged to any of the Apples. Meaning that one of them must have cut it for me yesterday and left it in here for me; I simply did not notice. How profoundly considerate of them.

Rising to make his way over to his impromptu altar, he faintly recalled falling asleep on his knees. It wouldn’t be the first time. But then, how did I get to bed? His mind conjured up faint images of his sister Jeanette easing him off the floor. Which seems highly unlikely for a number of reasons, he chuckled. The thought did shed some light on the incident, however, as Jeanette, God rest her soul, had been blonde. This suggested that Applejack had been the one to come to his aid last night.

Putting aside his speculations for now, he once more knelt to say his prayers, making a quick entreaty to God that he have the strength to rise afterwards. Without the need to homilize or serve a long communion line, the mass was short, and even Lauds and Prime were made brief by his solitude. As at the hospital, he sang the hymns under his breath as the dawn brightened outside.

As he finished his final hymn, he became aware of another voice raised in song. The voice was female, rich in emotion and haunting in beauty. The words were soft, and he doubted that he would have even heard but for the utter silence of the morning. With slow reverence for the angelic quality of the singer, he let the sound guide him to the source, taking him across the room to the window. He pulled aside the curtains with caution, lest he alarm whoever was singing.

Outside, seated on a patch of grass several yards away from the house, was Morning Song. The mare was watching the sun as it crept over the clouds. She had dispensed with her armor, and the rays of dawn transformed her white coat to a pale golden hue. From his angle he could see that her eyes were closed as she raised her voice unto the heavens.

The music was mesmerizing, almost hypnotic, and he found himself sitting on the windowsill to listen.

The minstrel boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him;

His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him;

As she sang her voice rose in triumphant, hastening, defiant crescendo, the repetition to which she built sounding like a warcry in spite of the muted tones with which she sang.

"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard,

"Though all the world betrays thee,

One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!

Shall praise thee!

Shall praise thee!"

The triumphant notes hung in the air, and for a moment, Jacques thought that the song had concluded.

Then the next verse came, soft and slow, and full of grief, her voice almost breaking with emotion on the third word.

The Minstrel fell, but the tyrant's chain

Could not bring that proud soul under;

Jacques felt a tug at his heart as he returned to the last moments of his tortured brethren. Tears formed in his eyes as he felt afresh the painful honor of witnessing their defiance. As though sensing his distress, tears ran from her eyes as well.

The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder.

Just as it seemed that the lament would be overcome with grief, a deep, swelling note of somber triumph rose from her soul, lifting the song from the dead unto what the dead had died for.

And said "No chains shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free

They shall never sound in slavery!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free

They shall never sound in slavery!"

Such was the beauty and emotion of the moment that Jacques sat in stunned silence for a moment, unable to even wipe the evidence of passion from his eyes. When he regained his composure, he wasted no time seizing his walking stick and heading downstairs.

While he was eager to make his way outside, he was not so foolish as to force himself at a pace that would earn him a painful trip to the floor. As such, he had plenty of time to take stock of the fine craftsmanship of the Apple home. Or ‘craftponyship’ I suppose. That will take some getting used to. Among other things he noticed a wall clock, the small hand of which lay between five and six; assuming that it functioned the same as the hospital clocks had, that meant that it was not even time for Prime yet. Well, Lord knows I tried to be punctual.

The trip also gave him time to consider Morning Song. Based on what Medevac had told him of the ponies’ so-called ‘special talents’ and this morning’s performance, he would have assumed that her special talent lay in singing. Yet she told me yesterday that she is a ‘psychologist’ by training and avocation. And now she is a soldier. What manner of soldier is she if her talent is music and her profession the mind?

Eventually winding his way outdoors to where he’d seen Song, he had one of his questions answered. Still armorless, Morning Song was running herself through what he recognized as unarmed combat drills, throwing punches, strikes, and kicks in the formulaic dance of a practiced martial routine. Ah. A warrior bard. Naturally.

Taking a moment to rest before crossing the distance between them, he observed the mare’s technique. It was a peculiar hybrid of the bucks, kicks, headbutts, and trampling techniques that warhorses were wont to use and moves that resembled something more akin to boxing or grappling. With bewildering swiftness she switched between fighting on all fours to fighting on her hind legs. Most of these latter stances were eerily human, some resembling techniques with which he was familiar while others had a more acrobatic and flowing style than what he’d learned in the West.

After a time, she paused in the middle of her exercises, panting slightly from the exertion. She addressed him without turning to look. “You’re up awfully early for a man half dead, Friar,” she observed. Glancing over, she gave a cheery smile. “No need to stand on ceremony. Come on over and sit down. I’ll grab you a seat.” She trotted over to the nearby barn to fetch a crate.

Making his way across the grass, he replied, “I didn’t wish to disturb your training. I knew many knights who could become quite… irritable when their practice of arms was interrupted.”

Song chuckled as she pushed the crate over for him to rest on. “Yes, well, I think you’ll find that I have a very high threshold for annoyance. Which is why I haven’t busted Krucjata down to buck private.”

Jacques smirked as he sat. “Yes, he does seem quite, shall we say, un excentrique. Though a good soldier, I’d imagine.”

“Very good,” replied Song, sitting on her haunches in front of him. “He might look like a beggar, but he’s one of the most bloody-minded stallions I’ve ever met. Which, in my profession, is saying something.”

In your profession… which one I wonder? he pondered, still not sure what to make of the pleasant mare. He decided he needed to know more. “I heard your singing this morning.”

She winced. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No need to apologize,” he said hastily. “I was already awake for my morning worship and, even had I not been, there are far more unpleasant awakenings than your angelic voice.”

Song blushed slightly. “That’s kind of you to say, Friar, though if you want I’ll take greater care to move farther away from the house in case you want to sleep. I only picked that side of the house to watch the sunrise and because the Apples all sleep on the far side of the house; I assumed human ears weren’t as sensitive as ours.”

“They likely aren’t, but I’m glad I heard you. It was…” he thought back to the experience and felt his throat tighten with emotion. “It was truly exceptional. Quite moving indeed. Is it…” he hesitated to broach the topic, but reasoned that he needed to learn about the soldiers he might well end up fighting alongside. “Is it a song of your own creation?” Based off your own losses, he didn’t add.

She shook her head. “No. The song is from an old war, one even older than the Reign of the Royal Sisters.” He nodded, recalling some of the brief history of the land that Twilight had taught him the night before. “Back when the Three Tribes were still at odds with each other, most of the earth pony realms were subjugated by the pegasi and unicorns. But the earth ponies of the warrior clans to the north continued to fight, in spite of famine, fire, and massacre. ‘The Minstrel Boy’ was a song of defiance against tyranny. After the Unification, it remained popular amongst the soldiery and eventually became incorporated into the united military forces of Equestria.”

“An admirable thing that your three peoples have all come to adopt a song which once spoke in defiance of two thirds of your number. You seem a rather forgiving people.”

The pony chortled. “Well, we’ve had over a thousand years to get over our pettiness, but we try.”

Jacques nodded, thoughtful. Song has answered his spoken question, but given more of a history lesson than an answer to his deeper inquiries. Deciding to be more direct, he changed tack. “Morning Song, I hope you’ll forgive my lack of understanding, but I am a little curious about your own story.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “You want to know why and how a pony whose special talent appears to be singing ended up as a War Dog of Celestia.”

The friar frowned, suddenly concerned. “Are you certain you are not a mind-reader?”

Song laughed. “I promise you I’m not. I’ve just heard that question more times than I can count. It wasn’t hard to guess.” She stroked her chin. “As to the ‘how,’ special talents aren’t as narrow as they often first appear. Many, including ponies, tend to assume that they only represent a single specific ability, but they’re often more conceptual. For instance, my talent isn’t singing by itself. It’s tied to what singing accomplishes.”

Jacques’ brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”

Song tilted her head to the side and her jaw twisted in such a way as to suggest that she was chewing on her inner cheek. After a moment’s pondering, she asked, “Friar, what is music?”

He blinked. “I’m… sorry?”

“What is music?” she repeated. “Is it merely melodies created with instruments and voices, or is it something… more?”

Jacques sat back and considered this. He recalled the emotions that had coursed through him as she sang of the minstrel; the comradery of a ballad on the campaign trail; the mixed grief and consolation of a funeral dirge; the tenderness of a mother’s lullaby; the revelry of a tavern song; the ecstasy of the Divine Praises. And so I begin to see. “It is more,” he replied at length. “Much more. Passion and love and sorrow and joy; life and beauty given form in the very air.”

Song quirked a smile. “You have a bit of a poet in you, Friar Jacques.” He spread his hands modestly. “But you’re right; music is so much more than mere sound.” She rose and fetched a bundle that she’d stashed nearby. Opening it, she began pulling out her armor one piece at a time, spreading them out on the grass between them. “Life and beauty, as you said.” She pulled out a rag and a flask of polish and began cleaning her kit. “And what is life without both joy and sorrow, birth and death?” Her hooves went about maintaining her armor with mindless precision, but though her polishing was thorough he could see that her eyes weren’t tracking what she was doing. She may as well be blindfolded. “Ever since I got my cutie mark, I’ve learned each and every day that music is so much more than we often make it out to be.” She looked up and gave a smile that was at once somber and content. “So too am I.”

The old man stroked his beard in thought. True enough, young warrior. “Yes, Medevac explained to me that the true nature of one’s special talent can prove multi-faceted. Yet I still confess some difficulty in wrapping my head around it.” He waved a hand through the air. “Ah well. Perhaps it is something only time shall cure.”

His remark elicited a long pause in Song’s work as her gaze narrowed in contemplation. After a moment, she resumed her work, remarking, “I could tell you the story of how I got my cutie mark, if that would help.”

Her offer gave him pause. It was less what she said, and more the long silence that had preceded it. “I wouldn’t want to pry,” he said carefully. “I know the princess asked you to help me learn about this world, but I wouldn’t dare take undue advantage of that fact. If such things are private matters amongst ponies, there is no need to share it with a man you scarcely know.”

Song gave a half-smile. “That’s kind of you to say, Friar, but I wouldn’t have made the offer if I wasn’t comfortable. And, yes, I happen to be an anomaly amongst most ponies in that I’m fairly private about mine but,” she winked at him, “I feel I have a good enough measure of you to tell the tale.”

Casual though her tone was, Jacques was not fooled. This was not a matter she brought up lightly, whatever she said. “Well,” he said with a humble dip of his head, “thank you for trusting me with your confidence.”

Retaining her half-smile, she began her story, eyes on her armor as she continued to work. “Most ponies get their cutie marks when they’re around Applebloom’s age, just shy of adolescence, if not younger. She and her friends are actually on the late side of the average, but still within the expected range.” Setting the completed helmet aside, she moved on to the peytral. “This was not the case with me. I was nearly an adult when I got my mark.” She glanced up. “Am I correct in guessing that human children and youths have the capacity to be quite cruel when they set their minds to it?”

Jacques recalled many moments of his youth that he was not proud of. “Quite.”

“Well, ponies are no different. Any filly or colt whose mark comes in a little late is bound to get teased and bullied. If your mark’s still not there when you’re getting ready for university… well…” she gave a mirthless chuckle. “Let’s just say that after I learned to fight back against the physical bullying, their verbal abuse became more creative.” Song paused her polishing to contemplate the grass, a wry twist in her lips. “I suppose in hindsight I’m thankful for the bullying, as it taught me to fight back against more than one kind of attack, quite a useful skill given…” she gestured to her armor. “Still, at the time I was in a pretty low place. My family and friends were nothing but supportive, of course, but, well,” once more she glanced up with a grin, “sometimes we can just get in such a funk that we sort of forget all the good things, can’t we.”

It wasn’t a question. Jacques nodded soberly. “The dark night of the soul,” he replied, “when no comfort seems to pass through, even when the comfort is truthfully there.”

“Precisely. That’s where I was to a T.” Jacques had no idea what that expression meant, but was able to guess from the context. “Anyway,” she set aside the peytral to move on to the flanchard, “one day I needed to clear my head. My favorite thinking spot was down by the river, where this big stone bridge crosses over the water; there’s an inlet underneath the bridge where you can sit in the shade and just…” Song swept a hoof out to paint the scene, “watch the water pass you by.” The mare paused her cleaning, letting the memory wash over her. “I always loved that spot. Logs and debris would often get caught under there, marring the current, but the river always flowed on until they were washed away. Sometimes it’d take days, weeks, even months and years, but in time all yielded to the water. It helped me remember that my problems were like these logjams; they might mar the entire river for years, but in the end are washed away like all the rest.”

A beautiful sentiment, thought Jacques.

“Well, this particular day I apparently felt like singing. To tell you the truth, I can’t even remember what song it was. Knowing how I was feeling it was probably something about weathering storms or triumph through tragedy, but it could have been a drinking song for all I can recall.” Chuckling, Song moved on to cleaning the crupper. “Whatever the case, when I finished the song and looked down, I had my cutie mark.”

Jacques raised an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” shrugged Song. “I couldn’t make any sense of it at the time. I was rather annoyed, to be honest. I’d sung under that bridge hundreds of times before that and it never appeared. But, there it was. So, naturally, I celebrated. Held a party, invited everypony I could think of, the whole shebang. When I went off to college I pursued a career in music, performed locally in choirs, bands, and solo shows… it was a good life,” she smiled fondly at the recollection. “I made a decent living and it always brought me joy to see how my music had the power to move hearts. And yet, in spite of all that, I felt empty. Well,” she amended, “not entirely empty; just that something was missing.”

The crupper now sparkled in the rising sun, but Song did not pick up the next piece of armor. “Then, one day, I found out what.” Her tone was so soft that Jacques almost didn’t hear it. “I’d just finished a show at a restaurant when a stallion came up to me. He was gaunt, with a stooped back, like he’d been carrying a heavy burden for too long. He asked if he could have a moment of my time. I didn’t have anywhere else to be, so I went over to his booth. At first I couldn’t really tell what he wanted, though he complimented my singing a number of times, but then he…” she shook her head and Jacques could have sworn he saw moisture in her eyes, “… he broke down sobbing. And he told me a story.” Her eyes met his, and now Jacques was sure that they were tears. “You see, Friar, many years before there had been a tragedy down by that river that I loved. I young filly had been out playing with her father. They were playing hide-and-seek and, after a while, he couldn’t find her.” She dabbed at one eye with a hoof. “It was days before they finally found her… washed up by the side of the river.”

“God have mercy,” murmured Jacques, horrified.

“Her father was wracked with grief, of course,” she continued. “It was an accident. Horrible as it was, it was only an accident, but try telling that to a father. It seems that one day he felt that it was just too much for him, so he went down to the bridge and stood on the edge, high above the raging waters that sweep all things away.”

Jacques’ heart ached for the poor father. To have lost so much… even any sense of hope… that poor soul.

“He was ready to jump, but,” Song sucked a breath in, “it seems that just then he heard a voice, a filly just turning to marehood, singing beneath the bridge.” The friar’s eyes widened. “He couldn’t bring himself to jump in front of her, so he waited. And listened. And, by the time the singing ended, he’d stepped back down from the ledge.”

Letting out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in, Jacques exclaimed, “Laudate Dominum! Praise God!”

Song let out a long sigh and stared off at defocus. “It was incredible, the fact that I happened to be under the bridge just then; that I happened to be a depressed blank flank who needed to sing to cope with the bullying; and then, years later, after counselling and support helped him get his life together, he happened to be eating lunch at the spot I was performing so he could show me my purpose in life. It’s the sort of thing that really makes you believe the stuff they teach you about things happening for a reason.” She shook her head, as though still unable to process it all. “Incredible.”

“Providential,” added Jacques. She nodded. “So, this is what set you on the path to being a, how you say, psychologist?”

“More or less,” said Song. “I changed the course of my studies from music to psychology and signed on for another few years to get my Master’s Degree and open a practice. Of course, my family isn’t exactly wealthy, so I went through the Reserve Officer’s Training Corps to pay for my schooling, which left me with a Second Lieutenant’s Commission in the Reserves and,” she chuckled, “also set in motion the chain of events that would lead to me wearing this uniform. More strange happenstance, I suppose.”

“The Hand of Providence was at work, no doubt,” replied Jacques, “but how exactly do you mean in this case, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Song resumed cleaning her armor, this time working on the guards which covered not only her hooves but, now that he noticed, her pasterns and cannons as well. And with a rather heavy metal at that. I do not recall the other soldiers having guards that covered that much. The friar could only speculate as to the reasons for the difference but, as Song had begun speaking once more, he resolved to ask another time. “I opened a practice relatively close to the borders, in a region where our neighbors aren’t exactly the kindest.” She scrubbed at the guard with a vigor approaching harshness. “I spent most of my days helping war veterans, civilians, and refugees suffering from trauma. As time went on and my name became known to the REF, more and more difficult cases were sent to me because of my expertise.” The guard was now clean, as far as Jacques could tell, but, apparently, she still saw some imperfection in its surface, as the scrubbing did not slow. “Most of these new patients, a few other species but mostly ponies, had been trafficked.” She spared the briefest glance in his direction. “Slaves.”

Jacques felt the familiar chill of righteous outrage stiffen his back. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” she grimaced. “I… I did what I could to help them patch up their psyches and move on with their lives.” Her polishing halted, and she stared at the guard for a moment with the scrutiny of one seeking to root out the stain of imperfection before setting it down and picking up the next one. “Some fared better than others, but I think I helped them all to some extent.” She fell silent after that, and remained that way for some time as she continued her work. Jacques was loathe to upset her, and said nothing. As she cleaned the fourth hoof guard, her story resumed abruptly. “It was around that time that I met Argent. She knew my work and trusted me. The captain and her command were trying to crack down on a particularly vicious slave ring. All slavers are a particular kind of deplorable, but this lot was, as Argent put it, ‘especially wretched’.” Song smiled, but it was without warmth. “She’s always had a way with insults. Anyway, one pony that Argent rescued knew something about where the slavers would strike next, but she was too traumatized to speak to the soldiers because… well…” she swallowed, “anyway, I spoke her tongue and I didn’t look like a soldier so I talked to her and… and I…” she blinked several times, then turned to him with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Friar, but I may become quite angry if I talk about what I learned that day, and I think it would be best if I told you another time.”

Jacques held up a reassuring hand. “Pray, do not apologize!” he exclaimed. “The peddling of flesh is a damnable offense, and I do not wish to grieve you by asking after something that is not my business!”

Song gave him a sunny smile. “That’s most kind of you, Friar.” Finishing the last piece of her armor, she began repacking her bundle. “At any rate, that was when something woke up in me, the same as it did when I met that father years before.” Her smile remained, but there was steel in her blue eyes. “I realized that it wasn’t enough for me to just patch them up when they came to me. I needed to keep them from getting hurt in the first place. It wasn’t enough to be a healer. I needed to be a soldier.” She smirked. “Something that a Hospitaller can appreciate, I’m sure.”

The monk waggled a hand from side to side. “In truth, I was always a poor healer,” he admitted. The two shared a chuckle.

Putting aside her bundle, Song struck one hoof against the ground. “Well, there you have it, Friar. The tale of the singing psychologist soldier. A regular Renaissance Mare, if I do say so myself.”

The term ‘Renaissance Mare’ went clear over Jacques’ head, but that didn’t surprise him at this point. “Well, I must say that you’ve risen far in my estimation, Lieutenant Song,” he remarked earnestly. “Many times you have answered the call to love and compassion, so naturally that you do it without realizing. We should all be so lucky as that stallion on the bridge to have such a mare as you in our lives.”

She shrugged modestly. “I just listen, really. Ninety-percent of a patient’s recovery is about them realizing just how strong they can be in the midst of their weakness. I just provide the tools they need to find that strength.”

“An important ten percent,” he replied. “The greatest impediment to holiness is the belief that it is impossible. What nobler profession, then, than a physician who removes the blindness in another’s eyes?” Song nodded, but didn’t meet his gaze. Sensing that she was uncomfortable receiving such praise, he decided to change topics. “Well, thank you for telling me your story. I now feel that I have a better understanding of how cutie marks work. Though I am also curious about your martial tactics, as well as the formation of your military. Would it be alright if I asked about that?”

“Of course, Friar. We are allies and friends, after all.”

Friends, he repeated to himself, smiling. Indeed.

One of her ears twitched towards the homestead. “It sounds like the Apples are up. Why don’t we discuss broad military principles over breakfast, and then I can demonstrate our actual fighting techniques when Marble and Krucjata show up for combat practice?”

“I think that sounds like a marvelous idea, Lieutenant,” he answered, levering himself up with his walking stick and gesturing towards the house. “Ladies first.” His polite gesture was almost ruined when one of his legs threatened to buckle.

She raised an eyebrow. “Ordinarily I’d thank you graciously, but why don’t I walk beside you in case that happens again?”

He chuckled and did as he was bade. “I suppose that would be wise. Thank you.”

Dagger wasn’t sure what roused him from his pleasant dreams, but whatever sense urged him to wakefulness brought with it an instinctive discretion. The russet-coated pegasus did not stir as he lay in his cot, but kept his breathing even and unhurried, as though he were still asleep. He could tell by the slight light upon his eyelids that the only illumination in the dormitory was that of the solitary lamp that hung at the center of the room. Far more important, however, his ears detected other ponies nearby; far closer than they should have been. Beneath his folded wings, his inner feathers shuffled the blades hidden there, readying them for use should the need arise.

He maintained his breathing.

The other ponies had drawn closer now. An ordinary pony would likely not have been able to tell, but Dagger’s senses had expanded since coming to the Temple. Had they been ordinary ponies approaching, he would have been able to tell just from their breathing how many there were and where they stood, even their approximate builds. Of course, it wasn’t ordinary ponies who surrounded his bed, so that made matters trickier.

He maintained his breathing.

They were all around him, at least three for certain but probably five if history were any indication. Not a one of them said a word, but he knew they were there. The air shifted by his head, and he fought the urge to tense as a muzzle leaned uncomfortably close to his ear.

Still he maintained his breathing.

With a sigh, the muzzle whispered in his ear. “Come now, Meat. We all know you’re awake.”

Dagger exploded from the bed, his hoof striking the speaker square in the jaw and sending him crashing into the next bed over. His silver eyes took in the scene at a glance.

As expected, his usual tormenters had arrived in force. Two unicorns were at his back - a pure black mare named Silhouette and a pale blue and white stallion from the Far East named Sai. To his right was fellow pegasus Thorn, a dark green stallion with crimson mane, and to his left a cream and black earth pony stallion known ominously as Guillotine. Directly in front of him was Falx, a tall, handsome-faced unicorn with purple coat, brown mane, and a rapidly developing bruise on his face.

Falx’s glare was murderous, but his cohorts had frozen in momentary shock. Dagger exploited this advantage ruthlessly.

Rather than taking immediately to the air, as they doubtless expected him to do, he dove low and fast for the weakest link: Thorn. The pegasus could be a ferocious combatant when he had room to maneuver, but he couldn’t take a hit like the others could. So Dagger hit him first. Before the small pegasus could properly react, Dagger was upon him, snapping a sharp kick to his left wing. There was an audible crunch followed by a squeal of pain as the bones snapped. That squeal was cut short as Dagger drove a hoof into Thorn’s ribs, forcing him back onto his hindlegs, and then there was another crunch and squeal as the larger pegasus shattered Thorn’s right rear metatarsal bone.

Not pausing to examine his hoofwork, Dagger took to the air, launching off the crippled Thorn’s head and driving it groundward in a parting strike as he flew for the exit. Instinctively he swerved, and it was well that he did, for a flung sai hissed past his wing and embedded itself in the far wall. Twisting his neck, he saw the weapon’s namesake lining up for another attack. Unsheathing his wingblades, he deflected the second sai with ease. Just as he was about to congratulate himself, though, a heavy blow from behind knocked him from the air. Hitting the floor, he rolled to the side just in time to avoid a sword being shoved into the hardwood where his leg had been.

Silhouette stepped forward, yanking her arming sword from the floor and menacing him with it, her eyes cold. Smoke trailed from her body, and Dagger cursed, realizing that the room’s poor lighting had allowed her to shadowstep between him and the door without him noticing. “Now, now,” she chided, her tone bespeaking refinement. “Can’t have you running off without learning your lesson, can we, Meat?”

“Especially after what you did to poor Thorn,” rumbled Guillotine, whose Prench accent was almost lost in the guttural basso that seemed to fight its way out of his belly with great difficulty.

Thorn whimpered pitifully.

Falx trotted past the little green pegasus with a snort of contempt. “Serves him right for letting his guard down like that.”

Dagger knew he was in trouble. Before, his only chance had been escape. Now, his only chance was that he could split his attackers up. Make just Falx my enemy, and I might be able to take him. So, with a sneer, he said, “Sort of like when I clocked you, eh, pretty boy?”

The tall unicorn stopped. He blinked several times, as though having difficulty processing what Dagger had just said. Then he pulled out his hooked sword and remarked, “You know, Meat, until you said that, I was considering letting you keep your wings.”

Well, that backfired, thought Dagger.

Further thought was cut off by the jet-black smoke that leapt from Falx’s horn and eyes like flames, and Dagger sprung to his hooves and snapped his blades into a tight defensive posture. In a blur, Falx crossed the room, his shadowstep bringing him to Dagger’s side with inequine speed. The pegasus snapped his guard into position with not a second to spare as the sword crashed against his defenses. He shifted the weight of the block to one wing and attempted to fling one blade with the other, but Falx saw the attack coming and drew a short hook with his magic, catching the strike and turning it aside. Wielding both his weapons with his magic, the unicorn advanced mercilessly, using the heavy falx blade to hack away at Dagger’s defenses while the small hook alternated between shielding the unicorn and attempting to catch one of Dagger’s limbs.

The pegasus was forced back steadily. His wingblades had much shorter reach than Falx’s cleaver, and the confined space combined with the speed of his attacker meant that flying wasn’t an option. The hook kept the daggers he flung from striking, and every blade he threw meant one fewer to stand up to his foe’s relentless hacking.

Which was why he changed tactics. The next time Falx’s hook flew out to snatch his wing, Dagger caught it on one of his blades and wrenched it from the unicorn’s grip, sending it flying across the room to bounce off the unfortunate Thorn’s head and elicit a loud curse from the little pegasus. As Falx was briefly distracted by the audacity of the move, Dagger thrust for his side. Blade met flesh and only Falx’s quick use of shadowstep saved him from a crippling injury. His rapid dart took him around Dagger, and the pegasus could do little but brace himself as a sharp kick from behind sent him sprawling across the dormitory floor. He rolled with the impact and saw Falx striding towards him, eyes smoldering with black hate. “You impudent little—”

The unicorn was forced to bring up his blade to deflect the two daggers flung at his head. The move spared him death, but one blade still scoured a gash along his cheek. Dagger allowed himself a cocky grin as he sprung to his hooves, flexing his blades. “Sorry, Falx, did I cut you off?”

Falx’s eye twitched. “You will bleed now,” he declared flatly. “Sil. Guil.”

Dagger’s eyes widened as he realized he’d overplayed his hand. He shifted to a defensive posture. Oh shi—

Guillotine might have been as tall as the average Solar Guard, and was considerable bulkier, but Dagger had to admit something. That fat bucker is fast. No sooner had the words left Falx’s lips than the earth pony moved, shadowstepping in a straight line for Dagger. His mastery of the Dark Art was not so impressive as to avoid splintering the furniture in his path, but that didn’t matter much to Dagger as the flat of Guillotine’s axe met the side of his head and sent him flying.

He didn’t fly far, as his torso met the pommel of Silhouette’s sword and he was smashed to the ground. To say that the wind was knocked out of him would have been an understatement. He gasped for air like a pony half drowned as he stared at the ceiling.

“Sai,” said Falx mildly.

Lying on his back as he was, Dagger had a magnificent view of Sai appearing above his head in a puff of smoke, hindlegs down. This is really gonna—

“Hrraugh!” he retched as Sai drove his hooves into his stomach. He tried to strike at the unicorn with his blades, but the pain slowed him down and his attack was easily blocked.

Then Guillotine and Silhouette stomped their hooves onto his wings. He screamed in agony as they pinned him, but was powerless to do anything else. With slow contempt Falx crossed the distance to him, dabbing at the blood on his cheek with a kerchief. “You are a singularly troublesome stallion, you know that?” he asked. “How they let a magicless runt like you into the Temple is beyond me.”

Dagger coughed and tasted blood. “Well, we can’t all have our heads as perfectly up our flanks as you, Falx. Sorry to bring the standard down.”

Why did I say that?

His captors seemed equally befuddled. “Dagger,” said Guillotine, “you are really stupid, mon ami.”

Might as well hang for gold as for copper. “And you’re a fat sack of horseapples, Guil. Tell me something I don’t know.”

Falx took that challenge as being addressed to him. “How about the fact that I can remove your wings in such a way that you’ll feel each blood vessel be severed individually,” he offered.

Dagger swallowed, but forced a defiant grin on his lips all the same. “Well, technically I didn’t know that, but it also doesn’t surprise me, so we’ll call that one a grey area. Care to try again?”

“I have one,” offered a new voice. “How about you release my brother or I’ll air out your brain.” Falx froze as a pony wrapped in a flowing black mantle seemed to materialize from thin air behind him, a stiletto firmly pressed to his temple. “Seriously, Falx. I’m not screwing around here,” said the pony conversationally. “I’ll kill you and sleep well.”

Dagger let out a pained chuckle as Falx’s lackies stared in shock. “What took you so long, bro? You missed all the fun.”

“Shaddup, stupid,” replied his brother lovingly. “Well, Falx? What’s it going to be?”

Falx gritted his teeth. “This doesn’t concern you, Cloak.”

Cloak’s face was obscured beneath the hood, but Dagger could tell that his brother gave a long and disbelieving blink. “I- I kinda think it does concern me, Falx. What with him being my brother and all.”

“You tell him, bro!”

“Shaddup, stupid.”

“Weakness has no place amongst us!” hissed Falx. “Your pathetic brother cannot even shadowstep! What kind of a Blade would he make?”

In spite of himself, Dagger looked away in shame.

“The kind that was apparently whupping your flank until your entourage stepped in,” replied Cloak blithely. A whimper echoed from the other side of the room. “Oh, and he kicked the snot out of Thorn too. Now, my hoof is getting tired, Falx, so if you’re gonna make a decision…” He pressed the stiletto hard enough to draw blood.

“All right! All right!” hissed Falx. With a last, hate-filled glare at Dagger, he addressed his minions. “Let him go.”

Reluctantly, the other ponies released Dagger. He bit down his pain and forced himself to his hooves, grinning with a confidence he couldn’t feel. “Good workout, gents.” He looked at Sai and Guillotine. “And ladies. I’m not sexist.” Sai spat something back in his own tongue.

“Much better,” said Cloak, still not relaxing his hold on Falx. “Now, why don’t you idiots go and collect poor Thorn. The boss wants us all upstairs and I don’t think the little pissant can walk.”

“The First Blade has summoned us?” demanded Silhouette with reverence. “Why?”

“Didn’t you know?” exclaimed Cloak with mock astonishment. “Our cause has succeeded! We rule the world! All the nations are bowing at our hooves, and we’re gonna have a parade! How in Tartarus should I know? Just get out of my sight while I’m still in a good mood!” With little choice but to obey, Falx’s cronies collected their brutalized comrade and withdrew. Once they were gone, Cloak leaned in close to Falx’s ear. “Now, you should know, the only reason I’m not killing you is because I think Kuro Ken would be peeved at me. If you ever pull something like this again, I think I’ll just deliver you to Mistress Inkling’s tender mercies, eh?”

“You’re a fool, Cloak,” snarled Falx.

“And I got the drop on you, so what’s that make you?” With a shove he propelled the other unicorn towards the door. “Piss off.”

Now released, Falx glowered at Dagger, his eyes promising that this wouldn’t be their last encounter, whatever Cloak said. Dagger winked at him and blew a kiss. A guttural snarl rose in Falx’s throat, but he left without a word.

Once he was gone, Dagger sagged against his brother and let out a pained cough. “Cutting it a little close, aren’t we brother?”

“Sorry,” came the contrite response. “I didn’t catch wind of it until I realized Falx and his stooges weren’t amongst the other Initiates at the service. I figured your lazy flank was oversleeping and was on my way to investigate, but His Edginess waylaid me.”

Dagger chuckled, then hissed in pain. “Don’t make me laugh. I think my ribs are cracked.” He started limping towards the exit, his brother keeping slow pace beside him. “Any idea what His Edginess wants with us?”

“Not a clue,” replied Cloak, dabbing at the blood on his brother’s face with his mantle. “But one thing’s for sure.”

“What’s that?”

“Anywhere’s better than here.”

Author's Note

Whoof. Okay. This chapter did not come out the way I expected hardly at all.

The opening went more or less as planned right up until it got to Song delving a little more into her history. Originally it was not quite that... serious. The slave trade thing was already there, sure, but not the rest. I think it's because my playlist lately has included Nickelback's Lullaby, Skillet's Would it Matter, Linkin Park... just Linkin Park (especially One More Light), Peter Hollen's tribute to Chester, and Emerson Drive's Moments. Why am I listening to all these? Well, it's a subject that's been on my mind lately. As someone who has grappled with depression and at one point was suicidal, I feel that it's my obligation to both draw attention to the importance of caring for our mental health and to reach out to help those who are going through the same dark journey that I've been on. I want to tell you something as someone who's been there and found the way out: If you or a loved one is depressed or suicidal, please reach out. You are worth saving! You are beautiful and unique and it would be a tragedy if your story ended before it's fully been told. Life is pain, yes, but it is so much more than that, and even in pain there can be beauty. Look at my pain - I use it to reach out to others with empathy and love! What could be more beautiful than loving others! Please, reach out! There are centers staffed by people who professionally take calls from strangers! That's right, strangers who want to talk to strangers because they don't need to know you to know you're worth saving! Can you honestly tell me that doesn't demonstrate your worth? If even a stranger can want to do a job like that for you, then surely you must mean more than you think! I'm placing here a link to the US Suicide Prevention Hotline and here a link to a list of international services. You are worth saving!

Edit: Friar Jacques and Morning Song present strategies for dealing with depression and emotional pain in this helpful PSA. To help offset the heavy subject matter, it is written with a bit of comedy in the style of Red vs Blue PSAs, but the advice within it is backed by some of the most successful therapists I know (and, in my work, I know plenty).

On a lighter note, the beatdown section.

...that sounded bad...

Anyway, that scene caught me totally off-guard. I was planning on introducing Cloak and Dagger, of course, but it was going to be a test in front of Kuro Ken and Kiln. Dagger would lack the ability to shadowstep, but on top of that Cloak would have been a lackluster fighter and both would have come across as weak, but scrappy. That is not what happened here. This entire scene, both of their flank-kicking moments, and every single one of the other Initiates were completely spur-of-the-moment writing yesterday. After several failed attempts to write this section, I pounded it out in its entirety yesterday and edited it today. So, if it's a little rough, that's why. But I'm pleased with how it came together.

The hardest part was naming Falx, quite honestly.

Shoutout this week is a two-parter: The Flower Mare and The Flower Mare: Unbroken by Flammenwerfer. Outstanding stories about a soldier dealing with depression, suicide, and the life that comes after. Both stories are somber, but there are moments of levity, and they end on an ultimately life-affirming and triumphant note. Depression isn't the end. Loss isn't the end. Life and Love are always before us. The tale of the Flower Mare captures that perfectly.

Happy reading!

Edit: Whoops! I forgot to note that 'The Minstrel Boy' is an actual song. It's Irish, not surprisingly, and required little tweaking to fit this story. It dates back to one of their many wars to overcome foreign enslavement.

Edit to the Edit: The use of the term 'enslavement' was deliberate. There was a lengthy period in history where it was more profitable to sell Irishmen than Africans; this was during the Triangle Trade. Their slavery was of a different variety than the enslavement of Africans, but still deplorable and unique in its own way (Cromwell-type leaders carried out deliberate purges, for one). Check out the books Imagined Communities by Benedict Anderson or The Invention of the White Race by Theodore Allen for context. This is not to say that I have any hostility towards the English. All cultures and peoples have evil things in their history; all have heroes and virtues as well (the slave trade was ended by Englishmen before any others - check out William Wilberforce and his compatriots). I strive to be brutally honest as a historian, but one reader helpfully pointed out to me that, out of context, this could sound strident how I worded it. It was not my intent to conflate two different circumstances which, while bearing some similarities, are unique. Thank you, Dozy Dreamer, for holding me to my words and messaging me for clarification respectfully.

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...And You Should Accept It...

Canterlot Castle, Royal Infirmary

Argent wasn’t overly fond of hospitals. It wasn’t that she disliked doctors or disapproved of their work; quite the opposite. She owed her life and, more importantly, the lives of many of her soldiers to the staff of such establishments. No, her antipathy towards hospitals was their association with the soldiers who hadn’t made it, and with those who’d survived, but whose bodies would never be whole again.

All the same, her memories of the Royal Infirmary were more palatable than most. After all, it’s not as though I had to write any letters to family after the Battle of Canterlot. One good thing about the bugs; they prefer their opponents alive. It also didn’t hurt her mood that her escort was a Solar Guard whom she’d shared that battlefield with. “So then, Comet, you’ve suffered no long-term side-effects from the burnout?”

“No, ma’am,” replied Lance Corporal Comet. “In fact, the doc says my magical reserves have actually come back stronger since the battle. Said it was like a broken bone healing stronger… or something.” He gave a nervous laugh. “Sorry, ma’am, I’m afraid most of what he said went over my head.”

“Think nothing of it, Lance.” She leaned over conspiratorially. “Between you and me and the wall, my eyes glaze over whenever the quacks get technical.” Comet’s answering laugh was more natural. “All the same,” she said a touch more censoriously, “you should count yourself fortunate to have avoided permanent damage for all the casting you performed after your reserves gave out. It would be a shame if a such a capable enlisted pony as yourself was benched for an avoidable injury.”

Comet swallowed. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been much more regimented about my casting since then.”

“Good,” she said gravely. Once she was certain he was suitably cowed, she allowed her grin to return. “Still, though, I’m glad the Powers That Be have seen fit to promote you. T’would have been an injustice not to.”

Even through the glamour enchantment of the Solar Guard she could see him flush. “Thank you, ma’am. That… well, that means a lot, coming from you.” He chewed the inside of his lip, seeming to mull something over, before speaking further. “Ma’am, how’s the lieutenant, if you don’t mind my asking?

She waved his concern off. “Not at all, Comet. I’m pleased to hear you asking after him. He’s doing quite well at art school. He’s even got a marefriend, from the sounds of it.” Saying out loud how her old comrade was thriving helped make the bitter pill of losing one of her best soldiers easier to swallow.

“Good to hear, ma’am,” smiled the lance corporal.

“Though he’d probably ask that you call him ‘Spearhead.’ He is retired, after all.”

Comet chuckled and rubbed the back of his head. “Sorry, ma’am. I guess it’s just hard to imagine the stallion who saved my life as an art student.”

“Well, Spear always did have his head in the clouds,” she remarked as they drew up outside the room she was seeking. “Ah. I see you haven’t led me astray. Well done, Lance. I’m sure you’ll make officer in no time with that sort of pathfinding,” she quipped.

“If I were a more senior NCO and you were less lethal, I might make a joke about officers and pathfinding ability, but I value having my head attached to my body,” he remarked with a rueful smile.

Argent chortled. “Well, I’d hate to see a good joke go to waste; why don’t you pop by the uni and tell it to Spearhead. He’ll laugh at anything.”

“I might just do that, ma’am. Will there be anything else?”

“Thank you, Comet, no. You’re dismissed.” They exchanged salutes and the stallion departed. Solid soldier, she thought. Trustworthy too. I’d try to recruit him if I wasn’t so sure he’s needed here. The thought brought a frown to her features. I don’t want to believe that a soldier of any Branch would betray the Crown, but then… she thought back to the traffickers four years ago with a grimace, I know all too well the grim possibility. With a fatalistic shrug she returned to the matter at hoof and knocked on the door. Ah, well, duty calls.

“Who is it?” called out a male voice from within.

“Captain Argent Sabre.”

Startled words were exchanged inside and hooves rapidly clopped over to open the door. Private Ironhide of the Lunar Guard stood in the opening. Without his armor, the mark on his flank, an iron chain shirt, was plainly visible. The lack of the armor’s glamour enchantment also revealed his natural colors, which, it just so happened, were the grey coat, white mane, and golden-brown eyes of the Lunar Guard. Oh, I’ll bet the recruiters loved him.

The unicorn stallion saluted. “Ma’am. A pleasure to see you. Please come in.”

“Thank you, Private.” She returned the salute and entered. On the bed was Private Oaken. Unlike Ironhide, Oaken’s coloration was different without his armor: brown coat with dark brown mane and forest green eyes. His cutie mark was a coat-of-arms – a grey shield bearing the symbol of a towering tree of brown and green. Of course, most of his body is still swathed in bandages, so it’s mere good fortune that I can see his mark at all. “At ease, Trooper,” she said as the stallion started to pull himself up. “I may be a hard taskmistress, but I’m not so cold as to force an infirm stallion to rise to attention.”

Oaken still sat up straighter. “Ma’am,” he said formally.

She acknowledged him with a hum, then shut the door behind her and motioned for Ironhide to go stand beside his friend. Still regarding her quizzically, Ironhide obeyed. “How are you gentlecolts feeling?” she asked.

Oaken nudged his friend. “Age before beauty.”

Rolling his eyes, Ironhide gestured to his wound. “Just a scratch, ma’am. If it weren’t for the dark magic, it’d be healed by now. Doc said I’d have the stitches out in a few days.”

“Good. Private Oaken?”

The brawny earth pony shrugged. “I’ll be fit to fight in a few days, ma’am. Don’t you worry.”

And, in your case, that may even be true. Not that it matters either way. “Oh, I don’t think so, Private. In fact, I think you’ll be needing a rather lengthy recovery.”

Ironhide said nothing, but raised an eyebrow at the emphasis she put on ‘lengthy.’ Oaken merely looked horrified. “But the doc said I’d be fit for light duty in a week,” he protested.

Argent gave a coy smile. “Ah, but what the doctor says means little to me. You see, in my professional opinion, you both require extended medical leave. Perhaps at a hospital in a peaceful locale more conducive to recovery.” Both stallions were now staring with cocked eyebrows and deep confusion. “I was thinking perhaps Ponyville. Pleasant villagers in a sleepy community, pretty young mares of high standing, and a fascinating visitor who I’m sure would love to pick your brains about the incident in the Great Hall.”

She watched their eyes as both stallions translated what she’d just said. Small, undefended town; ponies of interest: the Bearers of the Elements of Harmony; a foreigner who may be of use regarding the attack the other night. Ironhide seemed to grasp her meaning faster, but Oaken’s eyes lit with understanding before long. That boded well for their usefulness long-term. Though how both these stallions missed OCS is beyond me.

“I see…” said Ironhide slowly. “And, I assume, certain arrangements would be made for our stay?”

“Your extended stay,” clarified Argent. “And they are already arranged, I assure you. Good stallions, your mission, should you choose to accept it…”

Close Watch ducked her head into Query’s office. The colonel was seated at his desk, massaging his forehead with one hoof while he frowned at a report. He didn’t look up at her presence. Knocking twice on the doorframe to alert him, she asked, “Got a minute, Ernie?”

Earnest Query looked up at her over the top of his glasses. A tired smile came to the heavyset stallion’s weathered features and he beckoned her inside. “For you, Close, I’ve got an hour.” Nodding appreciatively, she entered, shutting the door behind her and crossing to his desk. She didn’t take a seat; it was her preference to think on her feet. Query took a draw of his coffee and then sat back in his chair to rest more comfortably. “Wow me,” he ordered.

She held up a file folder. “I have a new chief suspect.”

Query’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow. That was fast. Is there a reason we haven’t grabbed him yet?”

“Because, at the moment, it’s just a theory,” she explained, passing him a file bearing the picture of a light blue unicorn stallion with gold hair and red eyes. His mark was a basic control glyph for magical wards. “Meet Specialist First Class Bound Glyph of the Royal Corps of Engineers. Graduated in the top third of his class from Fort Lemon Wood four years ago. Special Talent, not surprisingly, is control glyphs for stationary glyph spells, especially those related to wards and traps. He served one tour with the 111th Engineers and a tour with the 96th before qualifying for MOD training. He then served a tour as part of a four-pony squad doing Magical Ordinance Disposal.”

Query skimmed the file while she spoke. “Where was he posted?”

“The 225th.” The colonel winced. Close didn’t blame him. Two years ago, the 225th had been part of a peacekeeping force sent to Maretonia in the midst of the bloody Maretonian Civil War to set up safe zones for non-combatants and to assist the Duke’s Loyalist forces in dismantling the fiendishly clever traps that the Insurrectionists employed. The Insurrectionists had not hesitated to use dark magic against the Loyalists, both soldiers and civilians, and even Equestria’s superior knowledge of magic had not been enough to prepare many of its MOD specialists for what they encountered in the field.

Casualties had been high.

“He finished one tour before transferring to Canterlot to serve in the Solar Guard as a ward and magical counter-measure specialist. He has the expertise to create and maintain the anti-teleportation wards on the palace grounds, which was why he was picked for the position. Specialist Glyph has a decorated career, no history of illicit behavior even before the military, and a combat record many soldiers twice his age would kill for.”

Query flipped through the whole file once she’d finished. It didn’t take long; the file wasn’t that large. “Okay, Close, what am I missing?”

“That’s just it, sir. You aren’t missing anything. The file is.”

The colonel raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”

She tapped the file with a hoof. “Note the unit assignments. Most soldiers tend to serve with one particular unit for several years before transferring. But in four years, Glyph has served in four different units. Now, usually, if something like this happens there’s a well-documented reason for it. Either the soldier in question had a skillset which was in high demand or he was promoted out of his position, or there was a disciplinary or interpersonal problem that necessitated the transfer. But, when I checked the paperwork, there’s no significant reason for the transfer, other than that he requested it. On top of which, the Maretonian Civil War wasn’t yet concluded when he transferred and, while his squad stayed on, he didn’t. Those MOD ponies are a tight-knit bunch. Unless there was something in the file about combat fatigue, which there isn’t, I have a hard time believing he just casually traded units in the middle of a war.”

Query chewed his lip thoughtfully. “That’s odd, I’ll grant you, but hardly conclusive.” He quirked a smile. “Though I imagine you’re not done.”

“Not hardly. Look at the file itself.” With a quizzical look, Query did as he was bade. “Note how worn the folder is, and how loosely the documents fit inside. It’s been distended as though at one point it was full of paperwork, but the files inside are sparse at best. Also, note the clip holding the pages together. It’s brand new and is almost too large for it. But the pages themselves, at least the ones prior to his transfer to the Solars, all have a sharp indent in them from a clip that was barely able to hold the documents together.” Query nodded as though he was beginning to see what she was driving at, but waiting until she was finished before speaking. “The last time I saw a file like this, sir, it was one where we’d needed to redact most of the contents for the public record because we were sending Sergeant Wire undercover with that smuggling ring. I had to forge a fresh file for him because it was obvious, to me at least, that what we’d left in the folder was the skeleton of a much larger file. Glyph’s file reminds me of Wire’s, Ernie. Perhaps I’m jumping at ghosts, but I want to know why.”

Query grimaced and ran a hoof over his balding head. “Much as I’d like to dismiss this as a lot of conjecture, I can’t. Besides your annoying habit of being right,” he quirked a quick smile, “the fact of the matter is that these Shades are ghosts, so if we need to be a little jumpy then so be it. And the best place to start would probably be his old squad.”

“That’s what I thought too, sir,” she said, pulling out another file and passing it over. “Unfortunately, that won’t be happening.”

The colonel read the new document, then let out a deep sigh. “All three of ‘em, eh?”

“And Glyph’s replacement,” she noted. “If it’s any consolation, the explosion was so powerful that they probably didn’t suffer.”

“Small consolation,” grimaced Query. “And not a little inconvenient for us now. We can try running down his COs and squadmates from the 111th and the 96th, but enough time has passed that a lot of ponies may have retired, transferred, or been promoted. It will take time and horsepower to do it.”

Close nodded. “In the meantime, there’s one other lead that I would like to follow. The case officer who signed off on his transfer to the Solar Guard would have needed to do a thorough background check and interview of Glyph, and probably should have ordered an in-depth psyche-eval as well, given his combat experience.”

“Which he didn’t,” interjected Query.

“Which he didn’t. All the same, he may have insight into Glyph that we don’t. And, to be quite blunt, if somepony did clean Glyph’s record, he would have been well-placed to do so.”

“Agreed,” grunted Query. “Making it either a buck-up or a traitor that you get to interview.” He chuckled humorlessly. “Either way, I’d like to watch you have a run at him. Who’s the lucky stallion?”

“Captain Well Met,” she replied. Query’s face darkened. “He’s retired now, living in Haystings… what’s wrong?”

Query hoofed over the report he’d been reading when she entered. “He’s a little more than retired I’m afraid.”

Her brow furrowing, Close picked up the report with her magic and glanced it over. It appeared to be a letter from the Detective Chief Superintendent of Haystings, a stallion named ‘Foil.’ In plain text it related—

“He’s dead?” she exclaimed.

“Afraid so,” grimaced Query. “Apparently he lost his balance and took a tumble down the stairs. Not surprising, really. He was getting on in his years.” His tone was sarcastic.

“You suspect foul play?”

“Darn right I do. So does DCS Foil. He’s been keeping tabs on Met because it seems that the old boy got gabby in his old age; not a good fit for a former intelligence officer. Foil was going out to check on Met as a favor to me when he found the body. The crime scene looks pretty clear cut, but ‘accident’ just felt off to Foil, so he’s digging into the matter quietly.” Now it was Close’s turn to frown. “If you’re worried about trustworthiness, don’t be. Foil’s an old war buddy of mine, and honest enough to take over for Applejack if she retires.”

“It’s not that, Ernie. It just occurs to me if this is some sort of Shade plot and they killed Met to shut him up, then your friend will be in over his head.”

“Foil can take care of himself,” Query assured her. “And, to be frank, we need him to look into this.” He ran a hoof over his scalp. “As for us, I’ll start running down leads with any soldiers from Glyph’s old units that I can find. I suggest you take a look at his civilian life.”

Close nodded. “Yes, sir. In fact,” she flipped through the file and pointed to a footnote in the stallion’s academic record, “I think I already have a fair idea where to start.”

It had been some time since Kiln had journeyed to the Temple of Kusari. His work had kept him away, but he always appreciated the opportunity to enjoy the Far Eastern architecture of the place: simple dark wood paneling, floors, and ceilings, with rice paper walls and doors. Subtle flourishes were carved into the support beams, and lanterns were tastefully integrated in such a way as not to interfere with the open simplicity of the design. Before coming under new management, the Temple had been a martial school created by the greatJaponese monk and swordpony Aka Ken. The old monk’s skill with a blade had been legendary and his tastes, blessedly, had been understated. Kiln admired his utilitarian sensibilities, even if he personally preferred a different aesthetic. It was a shame that he had not passed his stoicism on to his son.

But then, if Little Ken had absorbed all his father’s teachings, he would have fought us rather than joining us. It wouldn’t have saved Aka’s life, but I very much doubt the old warrior would have let us take the place intact if his son hadn’t killed him.

The stallion in question paced back and forth, muttering vicious maledictions under his breath while Kiln stood impassively. The hulking earth pony found Kuro Ken’s harried motions to be an unwelcome distraction from the spartan quality of the chamber, but Kiln was patient, and had learned through long practice to tune the unicorn out.

The six Blades who stood behind Kiln emulated him rather than Ken in their motionless stances. He was heartened by their discipline, though he hoped that none of them would make the mistake of interpreting Ken’s unquiet mind as an opportunity to supplant him. At least, not until they are truly capable of besting him. Kiln would certainly have preferred a more stoic pony as First Blade, but he did not wish to lose promising assassins to a premature attempt. After all, Kuro Ken’s instability might have been a liability in a fight with somepony like Kiln, but weakness was relative.

As if to drive his point home, the rice paper doors which led down to the dormitory slid open to admit five Blade Initiates. Three of them looked to be hale of body. The other two…

It looks like Little Ken’s star pupils bit off a little more than they could chew, reflected Kiln. Kuro Ken spit a vicious oath in his own tongue and stepped forward, no doubt to lambast them. But even as he stepped, Kiln arrested his movement with a rumbling word.

“Interesting.”

Kuro Ken turned to glare, but the hulking pony ignored him, instead studying the Initiates to glean what had transpired.

The Initiates froze when they saw Kiln, and two, the brutalized pegasus and the heavyset earth pony, flatly gaped. The midnight black mare’s eyes almost twinkled, and the bloodied purple unicorn looked back and forth between Kiln and Ken, as though unsure whom to defer to. The final pony, the pale one with Far Eastern features, looked to the First Blade for his cues. With the exception of the female, each pony carried a palpable air of guilt, deception, and suspicion. The first was directed at Ken, while the latter two were aimed at Kiln.

He took note of all that he saw in them.

“Interesting,” repeated the hulking stallion. He gave the slightest tilt of his head, and the five answered his wordless summons, moving to stand at attention in a line. The little pegasus had trouble standing up, but none of the other ponies dared help him. And none came through the door after the five.

Kiln’s eyes narrowed. He’d reviewed the rest of the Blade Initiates earlier that morning, which meant that there should be seven before him right now. Have they killed their fellows? If so, I wonder if they shall break the silence by admitting it or stand strong in their decision. Two more figures appeared in the doorway. Kiln felt a pang of disappointment in the five. Or perhaps they simply did not succeed. Though these other two…

The russet-red pegasus with silver-grey mane and tail looked like he’d been through the wringer but, based on the smug look on his face, he felt that he’d come out ahead. His companion, whose silver-grey muzzle and hooves were the only features visible under his encompassing black cloak, looked neutral, but Kiln could detect the concern that lay beneath the façade.

But concern for what? Or for whom? It bore investigation.

Like the others, both newcomers froze when they saw him, but they recovered quickly and took their place in line, glancing at Kuro Ken and the other Blades merely to note their positions before adopting expressions of studied non-reaction. Significantly, they did not look to anypony besides themselves for cues.

Flicking his gaze over at Kuro Ken, Kiln noted that the First Blade was glaring balefully at the seven ponies, the first five with anger, but the last two with hate.

Kiln allowed himself a small smile. “Very interesting indeed.”

Inwardly, Cloak was screaming. He was grateful that his hood concealed his eyes, but he was painfully aware that that didn’t necessarily mean much against Kiln. But what in Tartarus is one of the Children of Shadow doing here?! Especially the Eldest Son!

He didn’t know, and he didn’t dare ask. The Temple’s High Acolyte had given no indication of the visit, and none of the Acolytes usually entrusted with operating the Shadowgate had been summoned. But then, the Grand Shade wouldn’t need them to open the portal, would he?

Kiln’s eyes swept over him, and Cloak’s innards knotted. We are being tested. Shadows only know why, but we must not be found wanting.

Cloak took his place in line with as much detachment as he could muster and hoped that Dagger’s recent run-in with the First Blade’s favored five would not reflect poorly on him.

Silence fell upon the room, giving no clue as to the secret thoughts that each pony must have held. For his part, Cloak was madly war-gaming to determine what purpose the visit must have. We seven are the only ponies of Initiate rank here, which means that the rest either weren’t desired, will be seen another time, or have already been seen. The fact that the Acolytes were taking Initiates in and out throughout the morning service indicates the latter. It was only Blade Initiates coming and going, meaning this likely only concerns us. The fact that the six Acolytes up there are all Blades only seems to confirm this. Carefully he observed the Grand Shade and First Blade with his peripherals. Which only leaves the question: is this test an opportunity, or a threat?

Kuro Ken stepped forward and addressed them with his customary sneer. “The Grand Shade has graced us with his presence this morning,” he said in a tone that suggested he considered it anything but a grace, “with a task from the Master himself.” There was an audible gasp all down the line of Initiates, only iron discipline keeping them from speaking. Cloak and Dagger exchanged a meaningful glance. Opportunity. “He will select the strongest from amongst you to serve the glory of the Shades!” He glanced meaningfully at Falx. “I think we all know whom he shall deem worthy, but—”

Kiln brushed past the First Blade and walked to the far end of the line. Kuro Ken fumed, but shut his mouth. It was all Cloak could do to keep a smirk off his face.

The Grand Shade approached each Initiate in turn, examining them with those horribly wide eyes.

First to face his presence was Sai. Kiln simply stared at him for a moment, then abruptly asked, “Your first kill was as a colt, was it not?” Sai’s answer was a sadistic smile and a nod. “Over a grave matter or something more… trivial?”

Sai licked his lips. “Trivial,” he said with relish.

“Of course it was,” replied Kiln, deadpan, before leaving the confused Sai behind without a backwards glance. He came to stand before Guillotine. The Prench stallion was large, almost as large as Kiln, but the Grand Shade still seemed to dwarf him. And, somehow, I don’t think it’s just Guil’s corpulence. “You are a powerful combatant,” Kiln said to him. Guillotine smiled. “But I suspect you are not the subtlest of your number, is that correct?”

Guillotine dipped his head reluctantly. “Oui, seigneur.”

“No matter,” declared Kiln. “I shall have another use for you.”

Next in line was Falx. The unicorn received Kiln with his head held high, anticipation evident on his features. The Grand Shade studied him more closely than the other two, then cast a glance back at Kuro Ken.

“My most promising student,” supplied Kuro Ken with pride. “He already fights like a full Blade, and has taken my lessons better than any other.”

Kiln looked back to Falx, his expression neutral. “Yes, I can see that,” he remarked. Then he moved on.

If Cloak could have had any one wish at that moment, it would have been that he could have framed pictures of both Ken’s and Falx’s faces right then. Judging by the smirk that Dagger failed to suppress, his brother felt the same way.

Thorn was the fourth pony to be examined by Kiln. The battered pegasus struggled to stand upright and it was a small miracle that he didn’t keel over. Kiln simply raised an eyebrow and said, “No.”

He took a longer time in his review of Silhouette. Cloak could taste the jet-black pony’s reverent excitement at Kiln’s attention. The Grand Shade’s scrutiny lasted longer for her than it had for any of the others, with Kiln occasionally glancing away from her to look at Kuro Ken and Falx. Eventually, he said with a slight smile, “You…” Silhouette tensed with anticipation, “… are being held back from your full potential.”

Cloak would never have considered using the word ‘pout’ to describe to Silhouette’s mood until that moment. The brief delight he took in her crushed dreams, however, was overshadowed by who the next pony in line was.

Dagger bore Kiln’s gaze with respectable patience. As with Silhouette and Falx, Kiln cast many glances at others as he examined Dagger, though this time he looked at everypony; including Cloak. “Tell me,” he said to Dagger at length, “why did these five attack you?”

Falx emitted a hiss of air, but was wise enough not to interrupt.

“They consider me their inferior,” replied Dagger evenly.

“And why do they think that?”

Dagger winced, hesitating in his reply, but before he would speak Kuro Ken spoke for him. “Because he is a failure of an Initiate,” proclaimed the First Blade haughtily. “He cannot even manage to perform a shad—"

Kiln twisted a hoof and shot a look at Kuro Ken. The air in the room shifted and Cloak felt the pressure change in his ears. For an instant, none dared breath. “I asked the Initiate, First Blade,” said Kiln with deceptive softness. Kuro Ken’s eyes were filled with hate as he matched Kiln’s gaze, but he stepped back in silence. Kiln returned his attention to Dagger. “Please, continue.”

Dagger had the grace to swallow, his body tense. “I cannot shadowstep, my lord,” he admitted.

Much to everypony’s surprise, Kiln chuckled, his lips opening into a toothy grin. Cloak was not put at ease by the gesture. “Indeed?” laughed Kiln. “Is that not considered rather essential to being a Blade?”

“It is, my lord,” replied Dagger with a shameful hang of his head.

Kiln continued to chuckle. “And yet you held your own against five other Initiates,” he glanced at Thorn and Silhouette, “some more powerful than others, until the arrival of…” his gaze drifted over to Cloak, and his smile broadened as Cloak’s stomach turned to ice, “… twins?”

Cloak instinctively bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

“And what is your malformation, pray tell? Is your magic as weak as your brothers?”

“N-no, my lord,” replied Cloak, cursing his weakness. “My special talent is shadowmancy, and my mastery of the Arts is unequalled by any of my peers.” The other Initiates glared at him, but they were unable to contradict him. “However, I am not the martial equal of my brother.”

“Indeed, it seems that none of you are,” agreed Kiln, who seemed almost cheery for some reason. “Which has no doubt forced you to delve ever deeper into the realm of the mind to compensate for this weakness, just as it has forced your brother to be bloody-minded and clever.” His quiet chuckle rumbled in Cloak’s bones. “Quite the dogged pair, you are. Tell me,” he said, addressing them both, “what drives your conviction?”

Cloak’s eyes widened, his memory returning to that fateful night. The storm. The fire. The blood. The rain-soaked ditch. The fear in his brother’s eyes, the tramp of hoof and talon, the flash of wings, the death. How could he ever convey that night to the Grand Shade? How could he possibly answer—?

“We will never be powerless again,” gritted Dagger. Cloak almost jumped in shock as his brother’s voice startled him from his reverie. Dagger’s grey eyes were cold as he stared openly, defiantly at Kiln.

Kiln met his gaze, his smile now triumphant. “Finally,” he breathed, his voice scarcely a whisper. “Finally, ponies who understand real power.” Turning to Kuro Ken, he declared in his normal tone, “These two shall suit the Master’s purposes.”

Cloak couldn’t keep his jaw from dropping.

“What?!” exploded Kuro Ken. “You can’t possibly be serious! These two—”

“—have the mindset I require,” replied Kiln mildly. “But fret not, Kuro Ken. You and the rest of your whelps will be busy soon enough.”

Kuro Ken sputtered incoherently for a moment, then began swearing in his native tongue, as well as a smattering of others. Cloak was fairly certain that he heard an unflattering remark about his heritage in Germane. Kiln simply strode for the exit. The six Blade Acolytes followed him without verbal command. Cloak felt a nudge at his side and saw his brother motioning to him that they should too. Shaking off his stupor, he trotted after the Grand Shade. He could feel the murderous glares of those they left behind boring into him. That will be trouble for us down the road.

He glanced at Dagger to say as much, but the pegasus looked positively gleeful. “Did you see the look on Falx’s face when we were picked instead of him?” his brother whispered once they’d entered the winding corridor to the Shadowgate.

“I was a little distracted by the First Blade’s display,” said Cloak dryly. “You know we’ll have to watch our flanks doubly now. Moving up like this will make enemies.”

Dagger shrugged, not slackening his pace or his good humor. “Moving up always makes enemies. And it’s not like they didn’t already want to kill us.”

“Touché.”

After navigating the winding corridor, passing several traps, guards, and false paths, they finally reached their destination.

Unlike the rest of the Temple, the Gate Room was hewn from stone, rough cut and jagged, a cave the size of a modest house with a raised platform at the center. The Shadowgate itself topped the platform, an obsidian circle carved with dark sigils and matrices.

Kiln stepped up to the platform and touched a hoof to the sigil. There was another pressure shift in the room, and the gate swarmed to life with an inequine wail, its twisting darkness snarling and shrieking like the funeral of a banshee. Kiln stepped through without a glance back, knowing that they would follow. One by one, the Blade Acolytes followed.

Once they were alone, Dagger shot Cloak a triumphant smirk. “Looks like it’s coming together, eh, brother?”

Cloak smiled. He often chided his brother for overconfidence, but even he was not immune to the thrill of what was finally happening. “One day we’ll sit at the top, brother.” His thoughts snapped back to that rain-soaked ditch. “We’ll get the power we deserve, one way or another.”

“Darn right,” smiled Dagger. Together they stepped forward. The darkness tugged at them, shrieking gleefully as it claimed their flesh and sucked them through the gate to the future they’d sought.

Author's Note

Edit: in the last chapter, I referred to Kuro Ken as 'Blademaster.' This error has been corrected. 'First Blade' is the correct moniker for him.

Antiquarian came to the window of his house, coffee clutched in his magical aura as he pulled aside the drapes to glare at the mob. "It's only been a month!" he shouted.

The mob stared back.

"And I managed that despite a million other upheavals with my actual work!"

Silence greeted him.

"Don't you people have jobs?!"

One by one, the crowd melted away, leaving only a single pegasus filly, sitting in the street, staring up at the disheveled writer. She mimicked a hand with one wing, pointing two feathers to her eyes, then to Antiquarian, before backing away slowly into darkness.

Antiquarian closed the blinds with a grumble. "It ain't even Tuesday."

Whoof! Okay, this chapter fought me. It just would not come out the way I wanted it too. And it's made extra frustrating by the fact that it's not even that long of a chapter. But, that's the way it is sometimes. Writing is a fickle thing.

Lance Corporal Comet was a Private in my short story The Tip of the Spear. Reading it is not required to understand his character, but the story is only about the length of one chapter in this story. Spearhead is the featured figure in that tale (we briefly met him in season 7) and it was the debut of Argent Sabre and First Sergeant Brick. I suppose you could call it contextual reading.

We'll get back to Jacques next chapter, have him learn some things, and probably see Morning Song and her "minions" strut their stuff. We've now started the slow burn to when everything eventually goes sideways in a spectacular fashion, so keep your eyes peeled for hints as to how our merry bunch of heroes will respond to it all.

Shoutout of the chapter goes to 8686's To Be Evil. Yes, I know I give 8686 a lot of shoutouts but... what can I say? The stories are great, a lot of them don't get the traffic they deserve, and a story centering on a villain just felt appropriate this time around.

Happy reading!

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First Lessons (Part 1)

Jacques and Song entered the Apple homestead to find Big MacIntosh busy at the griddle. The stoic pony acknowledged them with a polite nod before returning to his work. A short while later Applejack entered to help him, exchanging actual vocal pleasantries. Jacques’ and Song’s offers of help were politely declined, so Song decided to expand on the history of the Equestrian military. She began with how, after the unification of the Tribes, each race had agreed to allow a portion of their armed forces to be requisitioned by the Crown for dealing with threats to Equestria. Once Celestia and Luna assumed power after the near-collapse of the state, they took increasing steps to unify the disparate Tribes and their armies, often prompted by the threat of a tyrant like Sombra or the Mad King of the Hunt.

When Song got to explaining the original Nightmare Night, she hesitated. Sensing that something was amiss, he decided to prompt her. “So, am I correct in assuming that Luna’s fall to Nightmare Moon is what necessitated the restructuring of your military.”

Song blinked. “I… well, yes.”

Jacques chuckled. “Madam Song, I recognize that our armies are structured quite differently, but is it so surprising that I’d infer from the context?”

“No, no, it’s not that,” came the hasty reply. “It’s just that… you seem rather unfazed by the knowledge that Princess Luna became Nightmare Moon.”

The friar nodded. “Twilight told me last night.” The mare blinked again. “What’s wrong?”

“That… that doesn’t concern you at all? As an Adjurist?”

He shrugged. “Why would it? Through the Elements of Harmony, Princess Luna was freed from any Dark taint. No further adjuration is needed. My services are not required at this time.”

“Well, no, I suppose they aren’t, I just…” she bit her lip, “it’s not exactly heavily publicized even amongst ponies that one of our rulers once succumbed to Shadow. I suppose I’m just surprised that you’re so… casual about it.”

Jacques laughed. “Morning Song, did you see my Bible upstairs?”

“Your holy text? Yes.”

“Well, the Bible is divided into two sections of Sacred Scriptures: the Old and New Testaments. Of the twenty-odd books of the New, most were written by a man named Saint Paul. Besides writing most of the New Testament, he was also the most prolific of all the early preachers by a considerable margin. He is arguably the greatest evangelist of the Christians.” Jacques grinned and leaned forward. “And do you know what he did before he became a great Christian preacher?”

“No. What?”

“He slaughtered Christians.”

Somehow the white mare managed to blanch. “I see.”

Jacques chuckled. “Indeed. And, unlike your princess, he did not have the influence of mind-altering Dark magic to reduce his moral culpability. He was in full control. If God can make him one of his greatest saints, then I must confess that the deathless, failed coup d’etat of Nightmare Moon seems rather mundane by comparison.” He tapped his chin. “Though I admit the near brush with eternal night and the resultant thousand-year banishment is… significant.”

Song quirked a half smile. “I suppose that’s… one way of looking at it. Well,” she cleared her throat, “after the defeat of Nightmare Moon, with other kingdoms eying the perceived weakness of Equestria, Celestia and her advisors decided to unify the disparate armies of the Tribes into the Earth Unicorn Pegasi Guard, more commonly called the EUP. Over the years this evolved into different specialized—"

“G’mornin’ Friar Jacques!” cried Applebloom as she swept into the room, bouncing with the enviable energy of youth. “G’mornin’ Miss Song! Applejack! Big Mac!”

“Applebloom!” chided Applejack. “You know better than ta interrupt ponies!”

The filly’s ears drooped, leading Jacques to question how parents managed to discipline their children when they looked that precious. “Mah bad, sis. Sorry, Friar. Sorry, Miss Song.”

Song laughed musically. “You’re forgiven my little filly. Come sit with us…” the filly zipped over and sat next to Jacques before the mare could finish, “… I was just explaining the history of the EUP to the good friar.”

“Ooh! Ooh!” clamored the filly. “Can Ah help? Ah been learnin’ mah history real good!”

“Sure,” smiled the soldier.

The bright-eyed Applebloom turned her attention to Jacques. “Wait right here! Imma get mah book ta show ya pictures!” In a flash she was gone.

Song cast a glance at Jacques. “I don’t even know what I’d do with that kind of energy anymore.”

Jacques arched an eyebrow. “Wait till you get to be my age.”

“Touché.”

Further commentary was cut off by Applebloom’s return. She tossed her book on the table, causing Jacques to wince at the casual mistreatment of the binding, then leapt up beside it so as to turn the pages with her muzzle with a precision that still boggled his mind. “Ya’ll ready ta learn, Friar?”

As I shall ever be. He nodded.

Applebloom sucked in a double-lungful of air, and Jacques braced himself for a lecture verging on Pinkie Pie levels of mania. He was pleasantly surprised when Applebloom spoke in the rehearsed tone of a storyteller speaking from a script.

“When most ponies think o’ the EUP Guard, they picture the troopers o’ the First Royal Infantry: the Solar and Lunar Guards.” She flipped to the appropriate picture for visual reference. “With their iconic golden and cobalt armors, enchanted with glamor spells to make homah-jenus their coats and manes,” it took him a moment to translate her accent to ‘homogenous,’ but he was still impressed she knew the word, “the Royals are the most recognizable of Their Royal Majesties’ Armed Forces. Charged with the protection o’ the princesses an’ the safeguarding o’ the capital, the Solar and Lunar Guards are the line which separates order from anarchy.”

Jacques glanced over to see that Song was looking on with a smile on her face. Applebloom swiftly reclaimed his attention with her animated gestures and admittedly well-timed dramatic pauses.

“But, in truth, the soldiers of Equestria are far more diverse than that, in both color and function. Every branch is unique in its role, diversifyin’ their specialties ta tackle any threat Equestria faces.”

By now Applejack was looking on, confusion on her face. Applebloom continued flipping to new pictures.

“The Wonderbolts, with their blue and gold, are the most famous of the Equestrian Air Corps, noted fer their aerial precision an’ superior acrobatics. But while they are the first and the most famous squadron, they ain’t the only one in the EAC anymore. The blue-uniformed ‘sky jockeys’ o’ the EAC are a broad collection of fliers and gunship crews, most of whom ply a lonely trade along the borders of Equestria, fightin’ pirates and patrollin’ the wastes fer any sign o’ trouble.”

Both the elder Apple siblings had left off cooking to come and stare as Applebloom carried on with the dramatic low tones of a bard relating a tale around the campfire.

“The seas below are ruled by the dark blue and red of the Equestrian Navy and the black of the Royal Marines. They are the defenders of the coasts, the watchers of the seas, and the bane o’ slave traders everywhere.”

At some point Grannie entered and added her own squint to the other Apples’ scrutiny.

“Dominatin’ the ground outside the capital and the inner reaches of Equestria are the steel-grey armored stallions and mares of the Equestrian Royal Army, each specialized unit o’ which bears its own unique coloration: ultramarine fer the General Infantry, olive drab fer the Auxiliaries, pale green and crimson fer the Fusiliers, dark forest green fer the Rangers, and red and gold fer the REF. The uniforms are as different as their roles, ranging from the conventional tactics o’ the General Infantry ta the more secretive special operations o’ the Rangers, but the underlyin’ purpose of all is—"

Grannie couldn’t contain herself any longer. “Now where in tarnation did ya’ll learn to talk so fancy ‘bout all this?” she demanded.

Applebloom jumped. Apparently, she hadn’t noticed her family’s observation. “Oh! Um, well, Ah’ve got a presentation on it in a week.” She rubbed one foreleg with the other meekly. “What d’yall think?”

Applejack blinked, then gave a broad grin and ruffled her sister’s mane. “Ah think yer gonna get top marks for sure. Right Big MacIntosh?”

“Eeyup,” smiled the stallion.

Grannie Smith patted Applebloom’s cheek. “Always knew ya had a good head on yer shoulders, little’un. Glad yer fahnally takin’ an interest in yer history.” Further praise was interrupted by a loud rumble from Grannie’s stomach. “Speakin’ of history, Ah’m gonna be history if’n we don’t eat now! Ah’m hankerin’ fer pancakes something fierce!”

Breakfast with the Apples was a simple affair of pancakes and eggs with fresh fruit on the side. It was a filling breakfast well-suited to workers. Jacques was grateful to have produce whose quality he had no reason to be suspicious of, and the eggs and cakes were satisfyingly filling. However, the sweetness of the syrup was such that after a single taste even the smell of it threatened him with a mild headache. And I am reminded of Pinkie Pie for some reason.

While the breakfast was in full swing, conversation was reduced to the level of idle chit-chat as they went about the serious business of eating. Accustomed to an ascetic life, Jacques earned more than one admonition to ‘dig in,’ to the point that he realized they’d be offended if he didn’t. Thank God Methuselah saw fit to grant a broad dispensation to my eating disciplines. The memory of the kindly old man left him blinking to clear his eyes.

“Applebloom, I must apologize,” he said, as much to distract himself as anything else, “I believe I forgot to thank you for your lesson and commend your skill as a storyteller.”

Applebloom beamed. “Thanks, Friar!”

“Indeed,” agreed Song, winking at the filly. “Keep this up and I’ll just have to recruit you to teach classes at the War College.”

The filly sat up eagerly. “D’ya reckon Ah could get mah cutie mark in teaching?”

“Well, I suppose it’s possible, but there’s no need to worry so much about—”

Her remonstration came too late. “AHGOTTATELLSWEETIEBELLEANDSCOOTALOO-RIGHTNOW!” She sped for the door in a red and yellow blur, shouting something which was either a farewell or a recipe for German sausages; Jacques couldn’t be sure.

Just as she passed the threshold, she was wrenched to an abrupt stop by a voice that rang with the authority of a Knight Commander.

“Hold it right there, missy!” ordered Applejack.

Applebloom froze and turned, her eyes already welling up to pitiful proportions. “Aw, but sis—"

“But nothin!” snapped Applejack. “Ya know yer grounded fer runnin’ off inta Everfree without tellin’ nopony, an’ there ain’t gonna be no Crusadin’ until yer ungrounded. Ain’t that right, Big Mac?”

“Eeyup,” confirmed the stallion in a basso even deeper than usual.

Seeing that her siblings were intractable, the filly turned her gaze to each of the other creatures in the room.

Grannie proved to be part of a unified front of Elder Apples. “Ah don’t know what yer lookin’ at me for, young’un. In mah opinion yah got off too easy! Of all the gall darn foolhardy things a pony could do, why, when Ah was yer age yer great Granpappy woulda torn a strip off ya in a blizzard an’ ya woulda been thankful for the dirt…” she trailed off, muttering dire pronouncements.

Having exhausted domestic options, Applebloom turned to foreign aid. Song chuckled at the look the filly gave her, but held up one hoof in refusal. “Sorry, Applebloom. I’m not one to step into a family matter. And, if I did, you may not like the side I picked.”

Jacques’ reply was even more blunt, in spite of the filly’s dangerous levels of cuteness. “Honor thine elders, young Apple,” he said with a frown. “It is noble to submit to all righteous authority, and your good family has only your best interests at heart. The…” he trailed off when he realized that he couldn’t say ‘womanly,’ “…the mature thing to do is to accept your penance graciously so that your integrity might be proven.”

Applebloom scuffed a hoof on the floorboards. “Fine,” she said sourly.

The friar’s frown deepened at her rebellion. Was I ever that troublesome? His conscience helpfully reminded him of his own youth. All right, I was worse. Different tactic, then. “Applebloom, come here.” Perhaps caught off-guard by the command in his tone, she obediently trotted over. Jacques bent down so as to more easily look her in the eye. “Young filly, you and your friends call yourselves ‘Crusaders,’ do you not?”

“Yeah?” she replied.

“Well, I will let you in on a little secret,” he said, his frown softening into a conspiratorial grin. “I am a Crusader too.” Applebloom’s eyes bulged. He tapped the cross on his chest. “In fact, I am part of a knightly order of thousands of Crusaders, noble warriors sworn to protect pilgrims and safeguard Christendom. Now, your own Crusade may be different from my own, but I do know one thing.” He tapped her forehead. “A true Crusader follows the orders of her commander, even if she doesn’t like them.” Leaning back, he folded his arms, becoming stern once more. “Now, are you a real Crusader?”

“Yes, Friar! Ah am!” she said eagerly.

“Are you really?” he pressed.

“Ah am! Ah am!”

He nodded. “Then prove it to me by following the orders of your commanders,” he gestured to the elder Apples. “Only in conducting yourself with honor can you consider yourself a true Crusader.”

Applebloom blinked. “O-okay, Friar. Ah will.” With that she marched over and presented herself to the other Apples, who were staring with blank looks. “What chores need doin’ that a noble Crusader such as mahself could help with.”

Applejack blinked several times, exchanging a mystified glance with Grannie and Big MacIntosh before responding. “Um… Big Mac, you got some chores in the south field, aincha?”

“Er… eeyup,” he said slowly.

We almost got two words out of him, thought Jacques with some amusement.

“Well then,” said Applebloom with abnormal formality. “Let us be off to do that then.”

“…eeyup,” agreed Big MacIntosh, who rose to head out to the barn, giving a belated parting nod on his way out.

Applebloom bowed gravely to the other occupants of the room. “Grannie. Applejack. Esteemed guests.” Then she followed her brother out.

Once the door shut behind her, silence filled the room. I can’t tell if she was over-acting or dead serious at the end there, reflected Jacques.

“What in the hay was all that about?” demanded Grannie.

Jacques blushed. “Forgive me, Grand-mère Smith. I did not mean to overstep my bounds.”

“Not that! That was fine!” she assured him. “Anything ta get ‘bloom a’movin. Ah meant what was up with her at the end there?”

“Ah guess the friar made an impression?” ventured Applejack.

Song laughed heartily. “I’ll say he did. That was quite the clever move, playing the Crusader card.” She put her hooves together and made a mock bow. “Teach me, sensei!”

Jacques cocked his head. “Que?”

“I’ll explain some other time.”

Once breakfast was concluded, Grannie took their guests into the living room to regale them with stories about the founding of Ponyville. Applejack stayed in the kitchen to clear the table, preserve the leftovers, and wash the dishes, pots, and pans.

Ordinarily such a task would have fallen to Grannie or Applebloom, but Applejack didn’t mind. The philosophy she lived her life by was that any job worth doing was worth her time. Her Pa had always taught her that there was no honest work that she was too good for. And so she allowed herself to become lost in the mindless task of applying soap and elbow grease to the implements of breakfast as she reflected.

Jacques had demonstrated a remarkable ease in dealing with Applebloom, as had Song the other day, which boded well for their continued residence at the Acres. The fact that both of them were staying there, however, brought to mind the fact that Song was there for security more than to ‘help Jacques adjust’ as the official story noted. That in turn reminded her of the reason for such security, which itself led to speculation as to the danger of—

“Whatcha doin’ there, AJ?” asked a male voice directly in her ear.

Applejack spat out a word that would have resulted in her mouth being washed out with soap if Grannie had been in the room and instinctively swung the spatula she was holding. It connected with the smirking stallion’s face with speed that would have earned Rainbow Dash’s attention and made a loud thwacking sound akin to a paddle from a slapstick show. Though the spatula was relatively lightweight, Applejack most certainly was not, and even the meager mass of the wooden instrument conveyed enough of her displeasure to send her verbal assailant stumbling backwards to nearly crash into the table. The farmpony dropped the spatula in favor of her bare hoof and was about to give the intruder a serious thrashing when her eyes caught up to her instincts and identified her target. The scruffy brown unicorn was recognizable even without his armor. “Fritters?” she demanded incredulously.

“Ojejku,” groaned the Konik, rubbing his face with a hoof. “Good thing I didn’t come in when you were cleaning the skillet, or I’d be getting Jacques’ bunk at the hospital.”

Applejack stared in shock, her heart still pounding like the percussion section of a band. “Land’s sakes, Fritters! Ya shouldn’t sneak up on ponies like that!”

He massaged his jaw ruefully, not seeming terribly perturbed by her anger. “So I’ve noticed.”

The irate mare opened her mouth to lambast him further, but the sight of him in obvious pain cooled her temper somewhat. Ah didn’t think Ah’d hit ‘im that hard, she thought, feeling slightly embarrassed at her outburst. She wet a towel with cold water and trotted across the room. “Here. Move yer hoof.”

Fritters made half-vocalized grumbles of protest, but didn’t fight that hard to push her away. Pulling his hoof aside, she saw that her strike had left a rather red welt on his face. She dabbed at it with her towel. “Sorry ‘bout that. But it serves ya right fer scarin’ the daylights outta me,” she added a touch crossly.

“Yeah, I didn’t really think that one through,” he admitted. “Though, I gotta say, you’ve got one heck of a backhoof.”

She winced. “Yeah, well, runnin’ a farm’ll do that.” Glancing at the door, she noticed that it was closed. And if he’d come from the other room, Ah’d have seen him. “Where the hay did you come from?!”

“Morning Song said my name three times and I manifested in the mirror through the dark magic that sustains my life force,” he deadpanned.

Despite herself, Applejack laughed. “Don’t let the friar hear ya talk like that. He’s liable ta get that sword o’ his an’ start loppin’ off parts ya’d miss later.” Fritters chuckled. More soberly she asked, “Seriously, though, how’d ya get in?”

“The door,” he answered simply. “With the water running it wasn’t hard to do so quietly.”

Applejack left off ministering to his swollen cheek to cock her head. “But that thing squeaks like the dickens.” Does he have a cat burglar cutie mark or something? She checked, but saw only a gleaming spear with a red pennant streaming from the shaft.

Fritters’ horn flared red and the door swung open silently. “Not with a little magical assistance it doesn’t.” The glow faded and it swung shut with its usual creak. “Before the joining the REF, I was a Drapieżnik, so it comes naturally to me.”

Applejack’s nose wrinkled at the odd word. “What in the hay is a Drahpezneck?”

“A particularly specialized unit of the Konik Armed Forces,” he answered, ignoring her butchering of the pronunciation. “We can be used for hard and fast infantry and small unit engagements, but much of what we do falls into the more… unconventional warfare. Recon, sabotage, infiltration, that sort of thing.” He shrugged. “A lot of my job specifically was tracking high profile targets in hostile territory and carrying out raids on enemy compounds. That’s why I got picked for Argent’s unit a few years back. Well, that and my Equestrian upbringing.”

“So… like Equestrian Rangers then?”

“Well yes in fact we…” he blinked and stared. “Yes, almost exactly like that.” His eyes narrowed. “Not exactly common for civilians to be familiar with them.”

“Mah folks knew a lot o’ Rangers back in the day,” she replied with a shrug, turning back to the dishes. “An’ Applebloom just gave us a school report on ‘em this morning, so Ah guess it was fresh.” She resumed washing glancing over her shoulder at him. “So, what brings you out here?”

“Training,” he replied, coming over and leaning against the counter. His horn lit up and he started drying the dishes as she finished with them. “Marble and I have already done runs, pushups, etcetera, and now it’s time for sparring.” While he dried, he started glancing over at the leftovers from breakfast. “We’ll get started as soon as Marble finds a suitable spot on the Acreage.” He broke off watching what he was doing to stare at the food. “Song cleared it with Grannie last night, by the way; we try not to be inconsiderate guests.”

“Good ta hear,” the mare chuckled. “Ah’d hate ta have ta sling yer sorry tail over the fence.” She expected some sort of witty rejoinder, but instead Fritters just stared at the food, towel rubbing away at the already dry pot in his grasp. “Feelin’ a mite peckish, are we?”

Fritters turned back to face her and she saw that he was drooling. “Um, Applejack, I hate to impose, but might I…?”

Applejack smirked. “Well, yer too distracted ta work an’ Ah need mah dryer back, so fill yer boots.”

The stallion needed no second urging. He set to with the vigor of a pack of starving hyenas or, more ravenous still, a group of teenaged colts. Applejack tried to focus on her cleaning, but she found herself trailing off her labors, leaving the water running uselessly as she stared with a mixture of awe and horror at the spectacle.

“Don’t they feed ya’ll in the Army?”

It took a moment for Fritters to respond, as his eyes appeared to have glazed over with happiness. “One, so-called Army ‘food’ is seldom anything of the sort. Two, even when I get good food I never get enough. And, three, it’s psychotic to turn down a free meal, especially when it’s cooked with love by the talented hooves of a beautiful mare such as yourself.”

The mare in question turned back to the dishes with a roll of her eyes. “Such a charmer,” she snarked. “Ah’ll have you know Big MacIntosh did most of the cooking.”

“Well, perhaps I’ll absorb some of his inequine strength by eating it then.”

Applejack chuckled. “Aincha practicing with Song and Marble after this? Yer gonna make yerself sick eatin’ all that before sparring.”

“Trust me,” he said, gulping down food between phrases. “I’m gonna need this to keep me going. My mighty physique demands a mighty repast.”

He struck a heroic pose, but without his armor he just looked thin and scraggly, with visible ribs and scruffy fur; hardly a threatening sight. The obvious self-mockery in his gaze didn’t exactly help either.

Raising an eyebrow, Applejack lightly slugged his foreleg. It couldn’t possibly have hurt, but all the same Fritters put on a big show of clutching the injured limb and blubbering piteously. “Owie!” he exclaimed with the nasally voice of a child. “You broked’ed it!” he pouted.

Applejack snickered. “Big tough stallion, eh?”

“Big tough stallion my flank!” he snorted. “Do I look big and tough to you? No! I look pitiable! Pitiable I say!” Her snicker turned to a chuckle and grew from there. “You should just look at me and pity me. Lots of ponies do. They just look and say, ‘wow, that Fritters guy looks really pitiable!’” Applejack was laughing too hard to keep working. “I’m so pitiable that Pinkie Pie comes to me about running pity parties, because I’m the expert in being pitiable and, say, you know, maybe it’s just because I’m a foreigner, but you don’t have to say ‘pitiable’ that many times before it stops sounding like a word. I mean, ‘pitiable,’ ‘pitiable’ – see, right there! That’s, what, two times in a row and it already doesn’t sound like a word! I can’t even say ‘pitiable’ without getting distracted, Applejack, that’s how pitiable I am!”

The mare was now sagging against the counter, laughing so hard she felt like her belly would burst. “S-Stop! Please!”

“Never!” he cackled. “I shall have my revenge for your egregious assault upon my person, and the first step is to make you laugh! Yes, laugh until you can laugh no more! Mwahahahahahaaaa!”

“What in tarnation is goin’ on in here?!” demanded Grannie Smith from the door. Instantly, Applejack and Fritters froze, their levity arrested by the arrival of the irate matriarch.

“Busted,” hissed Fritters as they turned to face Grannie, both looking like guilty youngsters caught stealing cookies. The elder mare was flanked by Jacques and Morning Song.

The friar wore a look of bemusement. Song’s seemingly indifferent features, meanwhile, just screamed, “Yup. Same horseapples as always,” which Applejack felt explained quite a lot.

The lieutenant stepped into the room and gave her subordinate a look of long suffering. “Krucjata, would you care to explain yourself?”

Fritters snapped a precise salute. “Ma’am! I beg to inform you that I am retaliating with mirthological warfare against an unprovoked act of aggression by this farm mare,” he barked with deliberate emotionlessness. “She struck me with a war spatula and I suffered egregious bodily harm in the form of a boo boo on my cheek. It was horrible. She called me nasty names, and I felt so threatened and uncomfortable, and I think I need a stuffed animal and a blankie, and I intend to file a complaint with the morale officer and take sick leave, and I might even cry.”

Applejack had to bite her lip to keep from bursting out laughing again.

Song blinked. “Why are you like this?” she asked softly.

Applejack couldn’t help herself. “Because he’s pitiable,” she volunteered.

Fritters emitted a snork sound, but managed not to break his deadpan.

The lieutenant shot Applejack a matronly glance. “Don’t encourage him.” Song covered her eyes with a hoof and heaved a deep sigh. “Fritters, how many cups of coffee have you had this morning?”

Fritters dropped out of his parade ground stance and considered the question. “Okay, firstly,” he said after a moment, “since when have I needed coffee to be a pain in the flank?”

The alabaster mare didn’t lower her hoof for a moment. When she did, the resigned expression had returned. “Point. Continue.”

“Secondly, how many cups are in one of those big vats they have at the continental breakfasts?”

It was subtle, but Applejack could have sworn she saw one of Song’s eyes twitch. “You know, Fritters,” the lieutenant said quietly, conversationally, “one of these days you’re going to spout off some smart-aleck remark in front of the wrong creature, and they’re going to kick your sorry flank straight back to Konikland, and then I’m going to have to deal with the mountain of paperwork from the international incident that you will doubtless have caused. How does that make you feel?”

He tapped one hoof to his chin. “Accomplished?” he ventured at length.

Another eye twitch. Song let out a long breath, shut her eyes, and pointed. “Outside. Now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. He turned with military precision, then slouched outside like a vagrant, winking at Applejack as he left. “You can beat me up more later.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she quipped.

Once he was gone, Applejack turned to see Song standing there, staring after Fritters with a look that suggested that her impressive patience might have limits after all. “Applejack,” she said without turning to look, “I’d appreciate it if you gave me a hoof getting into my battle kit.”

“Um… sure. Why?”

“Because I intend to knock the pitiable right out of him,” replied the mare matter-of-factly. Applejack swallowed and opened her mouth to clarify, but Song beat her to it. “Sorry, you meant why do I need your help.” She shook her head as though to clear it. “I don’t, it just goes faster and my armor tends to sit more comfortably if I have help getting it on.” She gave a rueful smile. “Unicorns are spoiled.”

“Darn tootin’,” agreed the farm mare.

They retreated to the guest room. Applejack made for Song’s armor, but the soldier cut her off. “Bandolier first,” she said, pulling what looked like a hoof-full of belts with strange metal cases hanging from them out of a duffel bag.

Applejack trotted over to get a closer look, confused by what she saw. “What in blue blazes is that?”

“A blade bandolier,” repeated Song, holding the mess of belts on both forehooves and spreading it out so that the length could be seen. “Or blade harness, really.” The strange ‘bandolier’ proved to be a series of straps which, when worn, would encompass the torso, hooking around her legs where the joints met the barrel. The strange metal cases attached to it at various points proved, upon closer inspection, to be some strange kind of sheaths holding—

“Are those all knives?” asked Applejack. “Ah ain’t never seen hilts like that before.”

Song nodded. “Most haven’t. I had them commissioned myself. They’re fitted to my hooves specifically,” she explained, holding up the appendage for comparison. “Optimized for quick draws and arranged so that I can reach several knives with either foreleg from multiple angles. The harness fits under my plates and slots into the armor at specific points so that the hilts blend with the plating of the armor.” She picked up one of the plates and held it to the appropriate sheath to demonstrate.

“Okay,” nodded Applejack, “Ah can see how that would be mighty uncomfortable if’n ya didn’t get it on straight, but … why? Why not just have ‘em on the outside like everypony else?”

The soldier shrugged. “Lots of soldiers like having concealed blades, especially in the REF. It pays to let your enemy underestimate you. I just take the whole understatement thing to the next level.”

Applejack gave the kindly-looking mare a reappraising look. “Remind me never ta play poker with ya.”

Song smiled. “It’s funny. Argent said the same thing when I first showed her this rig. Now, the first part of this is the trickiest…” Clip by clip, plate by plate, Applejack helped the soldier mare into her combat gear. As they were nearing completion, Song stated abruptly, “I have to thank you.”

The farm mare scoffed as she tightened the final strap. “Aw, shoot. Ah use a harness fer farmwork. Ain’t no trouble ta help.”

“Not that,” clarified Song as she donned her boots. “I meant with Fritters this morning. Many ponies find him rather… off-putting. Both for his mannerisms and his chosen profession. I understand why, but it’s still always nice to see a pony treat him like another pony and not an oddity.”

Applejack chuckled. “Song, Ah’m best friends with Pinkie Pie, remember?”

“True enough.”

“ ‘sides, he seems like a nice enough stallion under all the, well, um…”

“Craziness?” suggested Song with a chuckle as she grabbed her helmet. “Yes, he really is a good stallion,” she assured the farm mare as she slid the helmet into place. “Even if I want to give him a good kick sometimes.”

Jacques looked down at Grannie after the two young mares departed the room. “I plan to watch them with their combat practice, Grand-mère. Would you care to join me?”

“Aw, shoot, what the hay,” nodded the elderly mare. “Ah got nothin’ else need’s doin’ right now. An’ there’s just somethin’ funny ‘bout seein’ young ponies with gumption have a set to until they’re worn slap out.”

The friar was reasonably certain that she’d spoken in English, but didn’t feel confident enough to reply. He gave a polite but noncommittal smile and held the door open for her before exiting the farmhouse.

They found Fritters outside, standing by two large duffel bags, donning his armor with the help of his magic. He did so without apparent effort; without even looking, in fact. He was focused instead on swapping out the long, sharp-bladed spearhead currently on his shaft for a blunted one of the same length. Seeing the ease with which he kitted himself out for war, Jacques was reminded of the frustration of donning his own armor, and suddenly he understood why Song felt that unicorns were spoiled.

Fritters looked over at their approach, not slowing his preparations in the slightest. “Coming to see the exhibition fights? Well, the friar will have to pay full price, but pretty mares like you get in free,” he said with a wink at Grannie.

Grannie cackled. “Ah’m outta yer league, soldier boy, so don’t ya’ll get any funny ideas.”

“Drat!” exclaimed Fritters with mock disappointment. “Though I suppose it’s just as well,” he sighed, pulling two more blunted spearheads out of his kit bag; each blade was about the length of a shortsword and had a base long enough to be gripped by a hand or hoof. “Lieutenant Song says I’m a better minion when I’m sad and alone.”

Jacques cocked an eyebrow and folded his arms. “I have a very hard time believing Morning Song would make that remark even in jest.”

“Really? Huh,” replied Fritters thoughtfully, sliding the spare spearheads into sheaths on either side of his barrel. “Must just be the voices in my head, then.”

“You should get those checked,” declared a new voice. Marble Slab landed in front of Fritters, sending up a small cloud of dust and startling both the friar and Grannie. Fritters didn’t so much as blink, merely sliding the second duffel over to the red pegasus. Marble opened it and began armoring up, but before he did Jacques saw his cutie mark: a rectangular slab of white-grey marble shaped like a tower shield. It reminded the friar of Roman statuary.

“Find a good sparring spot?” asked Fritters, who, having completed his own preparations, now helped his comrade.

“Yup. There’s an unused pen a little ways west. Pretty flat, small enough for an arena, but not so small that we can’t maneuver.” He looked over at Grannie Smith. “Assuming we’re allowed to use that spot, of course.”

“Long as Ah get ta watch.”

Fritters flicked an ear in her direction. “Her ticket’s free.”

Marble nodded sagely. “Well, of course. Pretty mares get free tickets. Sorry, Friar. Those are the rules.”

“Pray, don’t concern yourself. I wouldn’t want to break protocol,” replied Jacques dryly.

“I also saw Miss Sparkle on her way here when I was scouting around,” added the pegasus. “Probably here to see you, Friar.”

Twilight arrived not long after. They exchanged greetings and the young mare said that she’d come to see how Jacques was acclimating and to discuss his new magic with him. To Jacques’ eyes, it seemed that she was more excited about it than he was. In truth, the whole subject still left him reflexively uneasy, but he couldn’t bear to crush her spirit, so he promised that they could talk about it once the morning sparring had concluded. Her ears fell and her shoulders sagged at the delay, though it was obvious that she was trying to hide it. Marble tactfully mentioned that she’d get to observe some interesting magic during the sparring, which softened the blow considerably if her perked up ears were any indication.

At about that time, Applejack and Song emerged from the house. Fritters gave an exaggerated sigh of relief and slumped as though from exhaustion. “Finally,” he groaned when the two mares reached them. “Mares take so long to get ready, am I right?”

Jacques and Marble elected not to comment, which was probably wise, if the loud metallic clang that rang through the acres as Song’s hoof smacked Fritters’ helmeted head was any indication. “I deserved that,” he admitted.

“You usually do,” agreed Marble.

They chatted amiably as they moved towards the unused sheep’s pen, moving slowly enough to allow Jacques and Grannie to keep pace. At one point, Fritter’s produced a ration of some sort from his harness and wolfed it down, earning a “Seriously?” from Applejack, though Jacques wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he offended her by not eating some of her crop, the friar speculated.

Once they reached the dirt-and-grass enclosure, the three soldiers stepped inside while the spectators arranged themselves at the fence. Applejack pulled over a disused crate for the elders to sit on while she and Twilight leaned on the fence itself.

“This is so exciting!” beamed Twilight, her enthusiasm bringing a smile to Jacques’ face. “It’s been so long since I got to watch this sort of sparring. I used to watch the Solar and Lunar Guards train to learn about the applications of magic in combat. And to spend time with my brother, of course.”

“Your brother is a soldier, then?” asked Jacques.

“Oh, yes,” she replied proudly. “Until he became Prince Consort of the Crystal Empire, he was the Captain of the Royal Guard.”

Jacques blinked, wondering not for the first time at the true height of Twilight’s social rank. The innocent mare seemed quite oblivious of the prestige that she must surely enjoy as a champion of the Diarchs and a sister of Royalty.

Unaware of his amazement, the young mare chatted on. “Marble mentioned last night that he comes from a long line of stoneworkers and craftsponies, mostly earth ponies. His special talent gives him a physical strength and stability that’s more commonly found amongst earth soldiers than pegasi, which I suspect will make him difficult to unbalance. Between his speed, his talent, and that big shield he’s got, fighting him is probably like trying to stop a wrecking ball.”

“I am unfamiliar with this term ‘wrecking ball,’ but I believe I understand what you mean,” said Jacques, quietly impressed at Twilight’s ready assessment of the pegasus. “In all likelihood you are right, but I am not familiar enough with how ponies fight to add my own speculation.”

In truth, Jacques was probably being modest. The core elements of war remained universal, whatever the specific weapons and tactics. Given the heavy cut of Marble’s armor and the fact that his shield was practically as large as he was, the friar was inclined to agree with Twilight’s guess.

And, though he kept his thoughts to himself, he suspected that he also had a fair measure of how Song would fight as well – misdirection, cunning, and rapid hoof strikes to incapacitate her opponents. He suspected that her talent would help her predict her enemy’s movements and manipulate them. Still, the fact that she was apparently unarmed seemed strange to him, and, as of yet, he didn’t have a sense of how significant the differences between the races were.

Fritters gave him pause. In part it was that he didn’t know how direct magic would function in battle. In part it was just that Fritters struck him as something of a wild card. His demeanor reminded Jacques of the tales of the Celtic wild men of old, but with more precision and purpose to his actions. Last night he was frightfully accurate with thrown weapons, especially that spear of his. As for those two extra spearheads he carries, somehow I doubt those are just for show.

While he’d been pondering, the three soldiers appeared to have finished their discussion and were moving to form three points of an invisible triangle, equidistant from each other. Song, who was closest, turned her head to address the unicorn mage. “Twilight, would you please cast a light forcefield over the arena? It’s probably an unnecessary precaution, but I’d rather not put somepony’s eye out with a stray missile if things get out of hoof.”

“Yeah, Fritters is sloppy,” quipped Marble.

The Konik cocked an eyebrow. “Annoying me before a sparring match is not wise, ankle-biter.”

Twilight nodded. “Sure thing, Song.” She closed her eyes and lit her horn. The crimson glow intensified and the air hummed as sparks swirled around the unicorn. Jacques tensed as he felt the atmosphere around him shift. The longer he watched, the more he felt like he could feel the changing currents of energy as the unicorn prepared her spell. As her charge reached its apex, he could have sworn that he felt a tingle in the back of his teeth. Then a beam shot out from the unicorn, striking a point in the sky above the pen, and from it ran a shimmering field of energy, pouring out like water over an invisible sphere until it ran to the ground.

Mute with wonder, Jacques stared at the impossibility that Twilight had casually spawned. His caution warred with his amazement, until after a moment the latter won out and he reached out a hand to tap the transparent shield. It emitted a hollow thunking sound, not unlike an empty barrel. “Extraordinary,” he breathed. “Had we possessed such thaumaturgic might at Hattin, we might not have been driven from the Holy Land.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t use this in combat,” Twilight said hurriedly. “The larger the shield, the weaker it becomes. I don’t have the special talent of my brother or the raw power of an alicorn to maintain this for long, and trying would just tire me out.” She gestured to the impromptu arena. “But it’s adequate for the purpose—”

Fritters cut her off with an exaggerated yawn. “Not to be rude, but can we get on with it?” he demanded, leaning on his spear. “I haven’t had a proper scrap in ages.”

“We sparred two days ago,” pointed out Marble.

“Ages I tell you!”

Applejack chuckled. “If’n yer gonna shoot yer mouth off like that, Frit, you’d better put on a good show.”

The unicorn gave a wolfish smile that was no less predatory for having come from a pony. “Your wish is my command, fair lady.” He hefted his weapon. “Care to count us down?”

“Um… okay. Three…” The combatants rolled their shoulders and shook out any last lingering stiffness. “Two…” They slid into ready positions, heads down. “One…” Muscles tensed. “Go!”

In a flash, Marble was off. The pegasus aimed straight for Fritters, shield forward and gladius tucked in behind, speeding along on his wings to bowl over the rangy unicorn. Fritters fired a red blast of magic from his horn, which ricocheted harmlessly off the metal shield, before sidestepping the charge, gripping the spear in both forehooves, and stabbing up at Marble’s flank.

Marble pivoted his shield to block the blow, but was forced to pivot again to block a flung knife. Song was advancing, running on three legs as she alternated forelegs to toss short blades that she pulled from somewhere in her armor to sling at her opponents. Fritters parried one with his spear and blocked another with a small conjured shield before shooting back a magic missile. Song sidestepped his attack, and before he could shoot again he had to fend off Marble’s gladius. While the two males were distracted, Song lowered herself into a full sprint and closed the distance, leaping through the air to strike downwards with—

“What in blazes?!” exclaimed Jacques as foot-long blades extended from Song’s heavy fore-shoes. She landed on her hindlegs, throwing a torrent of punches at her opponents. Any time she needed to plant one of her forelegs, she simply retracted the blade, pushed off the ground to pivot or kick with her back legs, and came back swinging. Only Marble’s careful shieldwork and Fritters’ skill at parrying saved them from early ejections from the match.

“Jeepers, she’s fast!” shouted Applejack, pounding on the fencepost in her excitement. “Look at ‘er go!”

“I’ve never seen weapons like that before!” chattered Twilight in excitement. “A new combat style! Oh my gosh, I need to take notes!”

Grannie’s response was more muted, but still awed. “That pony may not be a farmer, but she feels the earth. Look at how she pushes off the ground fer her strikes. Ah’ll bet she’d be a prime apple-bucker.”

Jacques gave himself a good shake to dispel his own amazement and forced himself to focus on the fight itself. “Quite impressive, to be sure,” he agreed, “but unless she can overwhelm them before they change tempo…” he took particular note of Fritters, “…there!”

As he spoke, Fritters made his reply to the onslaught. While still fending off attacks with his spear and, occasionally, his hoof-guards, he fired a quick burst of magic at Song’s feet. She sidestepped it easily, but in doing so slowed down enough for his spear to snake through her defenses. A last-second block kept it from striking her square on, but it still scraped against the side of her armor and, more importantly, yielded the initiative to him. Fritters went on the offensive, pushing Song back, exploiting the reach of his weapon ruthlessly to keep himself out of her effective range.

Of course, that only invited Marble to attack, and Fritters was forced to throw up a magic shield to deflect a flying charge from the pegasus.

Which left Fritters fending off a pair of thrown knives.

Which left Song facing Marble’s gladius.

Which left them both dodging Fritters’ questing spear.

And the melee continued.

Certain patterns emerged as the fight evolved. Twilight’s prediction of Marble’s style had proven to be spot on. The pegasus stayed largely on the defensive, with the combination of his aerial mobility and sure-footing on the ground making him nearly impossible to hit. When needed, he would use his shield and wings to get some breathing room before zipping back in for brutal close-quarters work with his gladius and shield. His main challenge proved to be that, while he was hard to hit, he was not as versatile on the offensive as his opponents.

Song lacked his vertical mobility, but was just as quick on her hooves as Marble, if not more so. Her fighting style was intensely up-close-and-personal, but whenever she was forced back she would use her daggers to change her enemy’s tempo and create openings. Jacques also noticed that she seemed quite adept at reading her opponents, anticipating their attacks and manipulating the battlefield to suit herself. However, while she had not run out of knives yet, Jacques had seen her needing to roll and scramble to retrieve spent blades from the battlefield, and Fritters seemed harder for her to read than Marble.

Fritters… Fritters looked like he was having fun. Doubtless recognizing the advantage that his reach gave him over the others, he used magic, clever footwork, and careful strikes to maintain his distance. He seldom over-extended on his strikes, always keeping the haft and blade centered on himself so that they could not slip in under his guard. Any time he did over-reach, it was a feint, one he covered with close-up magic until he could shift his grip on his weapon to be closer to the blade for knife-range fighting.

Also, while it was subtle, Jacques noticed that the other two seemed to have an unspoken agreement to focus on Fritters. They still attacked each other, of course, but Fritters always received just a little more attention. And yet his smile never faded.

Why the joint attacks? he wondered. And as for you, Fritters, just what are you playing at, soldier?

Applejack did not appear to share his opinion that the unicorn was up to something. “Come on, Fritters, ya promised me a show!” she taunted good-naturedly as the three combatants separated to size each other up. “Was a full Apple-family breakfast too much for ya?”

Her question was innocent enough, but Jacques could have sworn he felt a chill blow over the field as her words reached the combatants. Song and Marble exchanged a glance, and from his angle Jacques could see fear in the stocky pegasus’ eyes. “He was carbo-loading?!” demanded the squat soldier. Fritters’ grin broadened and his horn glowed. “Son of a—”

There was a sharp crack as Fritters charged, red light surrounding his hooves as he shot forward, leaving four smoldering hoofprints where he’d been standing. His weapon glowed with the same light as he stabbed, and a spear of magical energy lanced forth from the tip to strike the pegasus. Marble brought his shield up and dug his hooves in, but even so the force of the blow pushed him back. Fritters sped around the side, spear striking inward around Marble’s guard, but the pegasus shot into the sky, dodging the strike by a hair’s breadth.

The sky brought only the briefest of reprieves. Fritters smote the air with a flurry of blows, crimson spears of energy stabbing heavenward in a quest to bring down the pegasus. Marble dodged most of them, deflecting those he could not, but the spears arced their trajectories midair, denying him the luxury of a single direction to defend. Seeing only one chance remaining, the pegasus dove straight for Fritters, faster than the spears could angle inwards, shield front to protect him from the only direction he had to fear.

It might have worked, too, if it hadn’t been for Song.

Both stallions had presented their broadsides to her in their fight. Seeing her opportunity, the mare flung a trio of knives at both of them. Marble’s shield saved him from Fritters, but left him totally exposed to the surprise attack. Two of the three knives struck him and, though the blunted blades did not penetrate his armor, the force with which the earth pony had flung them knocked him off course, and he plowed into the ground. His shout of “Oh come on!” reached over the arena, indicating that he was not hurt, but he stayed on the ground, knocked out of the match by what would have been a lethal strike with sharpened blades.

The three knives that were flung at Fritters had an even easier target, as he was not airborne, and each hit its mark. Or would have, under other circumstances. Even as Marble had barreled towards him, Fritters had ceased his attacks and directed his magic elsewhere. Two knives were knocked off course by a burst of magic, while the third was deflected by a blade – one of the spearheads that he’d left strapped to his side until just then.

Silence fell upon the arena, as both remaining combatants stood motionless; Song, with her four hooves planted in a wide stance for maneuvering; Fritters, with his spear up, his magic gripping the spare head, and a smirk on his face as he watched Song from the corner of his eye. The stallion chuckled and shook his head. “Sneaky, sneaky, boss. Using the last of your knives to go for the hat trick while Marble and I squared off. Woulda worked if I hadn’t seen you coming.”

Song gave a dry smile. “Well, I’ve got to find a way around your ‘True Sight’ eventually,” she replied.

Twilight and Grannie looked as perplexed as Jacques felt at that, but he heard a sharp intake of breath from Applejack.

Fritters pivoted to face Song. “All the same, you’d have made a fine Drapieżnik.” With a tug of his magic, he loosed the other spare spearhead, holding them both in his magic like gladii as he hefted his spear in one hoof. “Course, I can’t just go easy on you, now can I?”

Song stood on her hindlegs and held her forelegs at her sides like a human. With a twist of her limbs, jagged sword-breakers extended from her hoof-guards, as well as the blades from before. She nodded in acknowledgment, and he nodded in return. Jacques had a sudden flashback to a certain Arab and a hot day in Acre.

Without a word, they charged.

Applejack had never considered herself a warrior. She was a farmer, first and foremost, saving Equestria a half-dozen times and facing down various monsters and villains notwithstanding. That being said, she knew how to fight. In fact, she was a good enough fighter that she’d held her own in the Changeling Invasion, against various monsters, and in a few instances where the Bearers had quietly handled groups of ponies messing with magical artifacts that they probably shouldn’t have messed with. As such, she felt that she was far above the average when it came to being able to hold her own in a scrap, and she had a track record and several complements from actual soldiers to back that assertion up. She still felt that way.

But seeing the REF soldiers spar was… something else.

She’d always had a vague notion that Equestria’s finest were on another level when it came to martial prowess, but it was one thing to know that and another to see it. Especially jarring was the fact that, until now, all three of the fighters had just acted like normal ponies. Sure, they’d worn armor and been suitably formal (except for Fritters), but, barring that unsettling encounter with Fritters’ odd ‘True Sight’ power, none of them had given any hint as to their capabilities. Song had acted like a schoolteacher, Marble like a goofball brother, and Fritters like… Fritters.

Now, as the psychologist and the vagabond clashed like a thunderstorm, Applejack knew she’d never look at them quite the same again. Song was a blur of blows, kicks, stabs, strikes, and headbutts as she fought to get through Fritters’ defenses. Fritters, meanwhile, fended her off with equally rapid stabs from his spear and blasts of magic while his sword-spear-thingies parried anything that got too close. Their battle took them across the arena, forcing Marble to take off and hover to avoid being caught in the middle.

And, all the while, Fritters just smiled.

Applejack didn’t know enough about fighting to say exactly what was happening, but she could tell that Fritters had Song outclassed. She wasn’t sure how he did, or where that burst of magic had come from earlier, but he did. Somehow, the scrawny, cadaverous unicorn was controlling the battlefield with ease, and, try as she might, Song couldn’t change that. Whatever had let her anticipate him before was gone, and it was all she could do to keep the pressure on and prevent him from overwhelming her. But she was still faster, and almost certainly physically stronger, and her chance lay in using that to overwhelm him.

The only problem was, she couldn’t break past his defenses long enough to make it matter. His spearhead secondary weapons danced like leaves on the wind, keeping her off his back while he attacked with his primary weapon. Every once in a while one of the short blades would snake out and stab at her under the cover of his main weapon, and each time they got closer to succeeding. Applejack bit her lip as Fritters’ strikes came within inches of ending the match, but Song managed to stave off defeat. The farmpony gasped as one blade lunged for Song’s belly—

Then cheered as Song caught the spearhead in the strange, jagged blades on her forehooves and ripped it out of Fritters’ grasp, sending it sailing away. The loss of the weapon created a temporary chink in the stallion’s armor, and she lunged, aiming a blow at Fritters’ head. He had to drop backwards to duck the strike, her blade whizzing through his crest at the near miss, but Fritters was down on all fours now, his back turned to her. She swung for a downward strike, but in doing so she was open to the buck that he sent flying up into her exposed barrel.

The buck connected… with the force of a light slap. “Tag!” he shouted cheerily. “You’re it!”

Applejack blinked.

Song froze, and Fritters rose to his full height to turn and face her. “Good bout, Morning, but a little sloppy there at the end.”

“Bwa-ba-huh…” Applejack stammered. “Huh?! How in the hay did he win?”

“Yeah!” agreed Twilight. “Even if that buck had connected, there’s no way that would have incapacitated an earth pony like Song!”

Jacques gave a quiet chuckle, and both mares turned to face the old man. “You’re quite right, of course,” he agreed. “The ‘buck’ wouldn’t have.”

“So how did he win?!” they chorused.

The friar pointed. At first, Applejack wasn’t sure what he was indicating, but, when she saw it, she paled. Behind Song, its base planted into the earth and held point aloft by magic, was the spearhead Song had knocked aside. If he’d bucked her onto that point…

Her thought trailed off as she turned to see Fritters chatting amiably with his fellows, discussing how the fight had gone. His bloodshot blue eyes caught her scrutiny, and he winked. “Did I give you a good fight, your ladyship?”

Applejack had faced many horrible monsters in her day. In all likelihood, she would face more. But in that moment it came home to her that this stallion, who played the buffoon, ate all her food, and allowed himself to be the butt of many jokes, was one of the most dangerous ponies she had ever encountered. And she would be seeing a lot of him. Faced with this realization, there was only one thing she felt would be appropriate to say.

“Eeyup.”

Author's Note

IMPORTANT NOTE THAT YOU SHOULD READ EVEN IF YOU IGNORE ALL THE OTHER AUTHOR'S NOTES! Aw, who am I kidding. People either read these or they don't. Anyway, I have heard my readers' cry and heeded it. I have created a document that lists a basic physical description of named original characters up to this point in the story for reference. You may notice that the link is a new 'story' in itself. That is because I intend to have little one-shot chapters in that story. Some will be canon but too off-topic to have in the main story - world-building supplements and the like. Some will be non-canon, like 'what if Friar Jacques had popped out in (insert EqG movie or work of fanfiction)' one-shots done mostly for comedy. I might even do a QnA with cast members of 14th Century Friar if enough people request it (and keep it clean ). So give it a look. Or don't. Up to you. Just don't say I never did anything for ya.

This chapter was a lot of fun for me to write, even if it did take a while. World-building, little bits of character building, and a fun fight scene. Good times.

Much as it pains me, updates will likely be slowing down slightly; work has been... work has been a lot this month and I'm kinda fried. On top of that, I need to finish the story that I'll be posting for Veteran's Day this year. It's the hundredth anniversary of the end of WWI (you know... the original Veteran's Day), so I'm doing something special. Keep your eye out.

This week's shoutout is rather special to me. It's a story that I read even before I was a fan of the show, referred to me by one of the guys who got me into the show - thanks Krovgar Warhawk. It's a Veteran's Day tribute with some heavy WWI overtones. Fitting given the upcoming memorial. Lest We Forget by knightcommander.

Happy reading!

Edit: Shoot! Forgot to mention that Fritters' "pitiable" speech is actually a reference to a specific scene in Phineas and Ferb. You get a metaphorical cookie if you know which one.

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First Lessons (Part 3)

“Pinkie Pie, slow down, darling!” chided Rarity as she hastened down the road after her friend. “Not all of us are so lightly encumbered as you!”

The pink mare halted her forward motion, though she simply continued her trademark bounce in place. Somehow, her springing failed to dislodge the pastry box from her back, a fact which Rarity would have found remarkable had she not seen it hundreds of times before. “Sorry, Rarity!” chirped the party planner. “I’m just really really excited is all!”

“You? Excited?” replied Rarity with mock incredulity. “Perish the thought.” The fashionista took advantage of the pause to adjust her saddlebags with a quick tug of magic. She had barely had time to cram everything into the pouches before being dragged along to Celestia-knew-where by the pink mare. If I’d known I’d be going for a jog I would have worn my adventuring saddlebags so the blasted strap wouldn’t keep slipping every few yards! “And why the rush, darling? It’s not as though the hospital is going anywhere, and I’d rather not be all sweaty and icky when we arrive.”

“Oh, I know that,” Pinkie assured her, dropping to the ground and, shockingly, staying there. “I just want to make the Lunar Guards feel super-duper welcomed since they’re here to protect us from the nasty Shades and all!”

“Shh!” hissed Rarity, glancing around furtively. “Pinkie, we’re not supposed to talk about that in public!”

“Pssh! I know that,” scoffed Pinkie. “But it’s the middle of the afternoon and we’re two blocks out of town. Nopony’s around.”

The fashionista was forced to agree. Ponyville wasn’t exactly bustling at that precise moment, and most of the citizens who were out and about were downtown at the market. Certainly, none were in their vicinity. “True enough I suppose,” admitted Rarity. “All the same, you really ought to be more careful. What was that you said about how losing a princess’s trust was the quickest way to lose your head?” Rarity thought it was highly improbable that Celestia would execute anypony, much less a Bearer, over a slip of the tongue, but Pinkie seemed to take the hint.

After a fashion. “Wouldn’t that be a sight,” chortled the pink mare. “My head on a spear on the bridge leading into town with a sign that says ‘Loose lips sink friendships.’ Doesn’t really scream ‘Welcome to Ponyville!’ does it?”

Rarity felt slightly queasy at the thought. “Not so much, no.”

“Ready to go?”

“Yes, please.”

They resumed their trot to the hospital, though Pinkie was kind enough to slow the pace to a brisk walk. When they entered the building, the party pony led the way, apparently not needing to ask the receptionist where the two Lunar Guards were staying. Rather than ponder how the pink mare knew the way, Rarity chose to wonder why Pinkie Pie had selected her for this particular jaunt.

A short while before, Rarity had simply been enjoying the afternoon sun on a solitary bench near the pond. The weather team had crafted such a nice day that she’d decided to move her ‘inspiration room’ outside, taking along her sketch pad, pencils, and other odds and ends to work on next season’s line in the fresh air. That had been exactly what she’d been doing when Pinkie had appeared behind her and loudly invited her to come and greet the two Lunar Guards that Celestia had sent to town. After regaining her composure (and after Pinkie helped her pick up the papers that she’d flung everywhere in her shock), she’d agreed to come along.

She’d assumed that Pinkie would be collecting their other friends along the way, or at least those who weren’t otherwise occupied, but, no. They’d simply gone directly to the hospital after a quick stop at the bakery to collect the pastry box.

Rarity would have been lying if she’d said she wasn’t curious why it was just the two of them. “Pinkie Pie, darling,” she began, “not that I’m not thrilled by the opportunity to welcome new ponies, but why, if I may ask, did you recruit me to the task and not our other friends?” And why didn’t you give me time to actually bring something for them like a good hostess? she didn’t add aloud. Honestly, the Element of Generosity showing up without a gift! What will ponies think?

“Well,” said Pinkie, taking a deep breath, “Applejack is farming, though she’s probably also fretting over the friar and all the soldiers for reasons ranging from hospitality to safety, Twilight is teaching Jacques magic and that’s probably gonna take awhile because she’s super-duper smart and knows a lot about magic and he’s also super-duper smart but doesn’t know anything about magic which is weird and confusing for him since he has magic now but Twilight’s a good teacher so I’m sure she’ll make it work, and I would have asked Spike but he looked like he was having fun working on the next Ogres and Oubliettes campaign that he and Big Mac secretly do but we all know about so it’s not really a secret, and Rainbow Dash looked like she was busy stalking Marble Slab, and Fluttershy is busy treating a beaver with a broken paw so that’s probably gonna be a while and judging by the sound of things he was saying some pretty naughty words, and the Cakes are busy in the bakery and I thought about staying to help them out but they gave me the afternoon off so that I could—”

Rarity interrupted her before she could get into listing every pony in Ponyville, her brain trying, and failing, to process all the data that had just been provided. “Yes, well, if everypony else was busy, I’m certainly glad to be of service. I would have appreciated a little more warning next time,” she added in a lower voice, “but I’m glad nonetheless.”

“Well you just had to come along, Rarity,” declared Pinkie as she passed a closed room from whence emanated the sound of glasses tinking together. “My Pinkie Sense said so.”

“Oh?” asked Rarity as she passed the same room; whistling had now joined the sound of clinking glass to create a sort of melody. “And what did your Pinkie Sense—”

At that moment, Pinkie Pie halted, her ears flopping madly, her eyes fluttering, and her knees twitching. Rarity had just enough time to remember that she should ‘look out for opening doors’ before the door to her left swung open a smacked her in the snout. She yelped in pain and surprise.

Nurse Redheart peered around the door, wincing in sympathy and guilt. “Oh, horseapples, I’m sorry Rarity!” she exclaimed. “I got caught up in my work and didn’t hear you out here.”

Rarity rubbed her smarting snout and did her best not to snap. “That’s quite all right, darling,” she managed through clenched teeth. “Accidents happen. May I ask what you were working on?” The question was as much a matter of distracting herself from the pain as polite curiosity.

“Just whipping up a few treatments,” replied Redheart, pushing the door fully open to admit the cart she’d been pulling. Rarity’s eyes widened at the cart’s contents. Redheart had certainly been ‘whipping up treatments,’ but ‘few’ was not the word that Rarity would have used to describe the twenty-plus multicolored liquids that danced about in flasks on the cart-top.

“Wowie!” exclaimed Pinkie Pie. “You opening a potion shop or something? Because if you and Zecora want to open a franchise I know a good marketing guy!”

Redheart chuckled. “Nothing like that. This is for Private Oaken. Whatever monster hit him was using some seriously nasty dark magic, so there are a number of different treatments, both old and new, that we’re trying.”

Rarity and Pinkie exchanged a glance. They both knew that Oaken hadn’t been fighting some wild beast but another pony; one consumed by dark magic. What was unclear was whether or not Redheart knew as well. The fact that she’d said ‘monster’ suggested either that she didn’t know or that she was simply using a euphemism while in public. Either way, Rarity elected not to suggest otherwise. “Well it just so happens that we’re here to visit our brave soldiers. Might we come along?”

“I don’t see any harm in it,” replied the nurse, who turned to lead them down the hall. “Fair warning, though, the insults are flying pretty thick in there.”

“Insults?” asked Rarity, cocking her head to one side.

“Yeah,” chuckled Redheart. “Remember how Med’s a Marine? Well, it turns out that different branches of the Armed Forces have a pretty fierce rivalry.” She glanced back. “And I’m talking a worse-than-hoofball-rivalries rivalry.”

"Goodness," exclaimed Rarity, recalling her father's rather spirited game-day denouncements of the Seaddle Bayhawks. "Is such a thing even possible?"

"Apparently."

“Oooh,” cooed Pinkie, “can I bring popcorn and sell tickets?”

“Only if you clean up afterwards and give me a cut of the proceeds,” answered Redheart. “To make matters worse, there’s a certain measure of ‘it’s a guy thing’ at play as well. Before she vamoosed, Morning Song said they might go for hours at this rate.”

Rarity snorted and rolled her eyes. “Stallions! Honestly! Foals, the lot of them!”

“Preach, sister.”

They came to a large double-door. A sign that proclaimed ‘Physical Therapy’ in bold letters hung over the top. From within could be heard the sounds of male voices raised in good-natured argument. “Here we are,” said Redheart. “As Medevac would say, ‘once more unto the breach.’” She pushed the door open and Rarity took in the scene.

Off to her right a unicorn stallion leaned against the table. He was tall, muscular, with such handsome features and appropriately grey-silver coloration that he looked to have stepped straight out of a recruiting poster for the Lunar Guard. Rarity felt her heart give a flutter. If ponies like him are the posterchildren, it’s a wonder more mares don’t join the Service.

The grey unicorn was watching the scene unfolding at the center of the room. A large brown earth pony stallion, smaller than Big Macintosh but still an impressive sight, was attempting to walk between two grip bars. He was even more well-muscled than the unicorn, but that didn’t seem to be helping him walk. The reason was fairly obvious – he was covered in bandages which concealed no-doubt impressive injuries. Based on what Redheart said, that’s probably Oaken, meaning the other pony is Ironhide.

Medevac, for his part, was flying over the earth pony’s head. The medic had dispensed with his lab coat and run straps around his barrel to reach down and around Oaken. Rarity realized that he must be taking some of the weight to help the wounded warrior walk. The fashionista also noticed that Medevac wasn’t wearing his prosthetic leg, and she did her best not to stare at the stump where it had been.

As the three mares entered, they caught the tail end of whatever Medevac had been saying. “…now that we’ve got you walking it’s just a short step to helping you learn the names of things.” He glanced up at the newcomers. “See, these are ‘mares,’ Oaken,” he prompted in a voice that sounded like he was coaching a foal. “Can you say ‘mares?’”

“I could say a lot of things to you, jarhead, just not in polite company,” replied Oaken. He and Ironhide straightened and nodded in greeting, first to the nurse and then to the two of them. “Miss Redheart. Welcome, ladies,” Oaken said, speaking for both of them. “Please forgive the indignity of all this. I’m Private Oaken and this is Private Ironhide, Lunar Guard. And who might you lovely ladies be?”

Refreshingly polite. He must come from good stock. “Greetings, my good sirs,” she said with a slight curtsey. “I am Rarity. This is my friend, Pinkie Pie.”

The two Guardponies exchanged a shocked glance. “The Bearers?” asked Ironhide.

“That’s us!” grinned Pinkie Pie.

Both stallions shot to attention. “It’s an honor to meet you both.”

Rarity flushed and allowed herself to bask in the respect for a moment. She seldom traded on her status, and whenever she did it was typically for a worthy cause, but she did appreciate being honored for her role in saving Equestria. “Well, that’s good of the both of you to say, but this is just a friendly visit. No need to be so formal.”

At that the stallions relaxed obediently. “It’s just as well; I wouldn’t want to mussy my dress blacks with bandages,” quipped Oaken.

Pinkie nodded sagely. “Rarity can relate to that. Remember when we got back from fighting the Quillboar? She was so covered in bandages she looked like a mummy!” she giggled. “Which was kind of bad timing because that week she got a visit from Photo Fin—”

Rarity shoved a hoof in Pinkie’s mouth. “Oh, I’m surethey don’t want to hear that story, Pinkie Pie,” she interrupted, laughing casually to distract from the rather pointed look she shot her friend. “Honestly, I don’t know why you bring it up so often,” she half-snarled through a smile.

Redheart politely turned away to hide a smile while Medevac openly smirked, but if Oaken and Ironhide were amused, they did a good job hiding it. For that, Rarity was immensely grateful. The nurses were already familiar with the story (in fact, they’d been the nurses on call when she came in), but if the newcomers had laughed she would have been mortified. No doubt serving in a palace teaches them to hide their opinions well.

Oaken spoke up in the silence, though whether it was to tactfully move the conversation along or simply to satisfy his curiosity she could not tell.“To what do we owe the privilege of your visit?” he asked.

“Cupcakes!” exclaimed Pinkie Pie, bouncing up and down in place. “We brought you ‘Welcome to Ponyville’ cupcakes because you’re new in town and I wanted to throw you a ‘Welcome to Ponyville’ party but Redheart would be super grumpy with me if I threw another one in the hospital so we brought you cupcakes as a placeholder!” In a flash she zipped over in front of Ironhide, causing the stallion to jolt back in shock as she deposited six cupcakes on the table next to him. “Germane Chocolate with just a hint of maple for you…” she darted past Oaken, grabbed a cart, wheeled it up next to the support bars, and set the remainder of the cupcakes down on it, “…and Pumpkin-Cocoa-Cinna-Surprise for you! Dig in! Dig in!” She stood beaming in front of Oaken, her animated eyes flicking back and forth between the two Lunar Guards as she waited for them to take their first bites.

Rarity suspected they might need a moment first. Ironhide flatly gaped at Pinkie, his eyes wide. Oaken reached a timid hoof out to poke the pink mare’s snout as though he wasn’t positive she was real. When Pinkie’s snout didn’t produce a *honk* noise when pressed, Rarity was almost disappointed.

Medevac looked on with unadulterated glee. “Yeah, I remember my first Pinkie-ing. You’ll get used to it.”

“Somewhat,” corrected Redheart. “You’ll get somewhat used to it.”

Ironhide, perhaps emboldened by the fact that none of the locals seemed fazed, picked up a cupcake in his magic aura as gingerly as he would a box of dynamite. He sniffed it to determine its authenticity. “How did…?” he began, his mind struggling to find the right words, “… I mean… it’s not as though my favorite cupcake flavor is in my personnel file…”

“Eh,” shrugged Pinkie as she bounced back over to Rarity. “Details.” More quietly she added, “Details which are in my files.”

“You’d best dig in before Medevac and I swoop in on them,” advised Redheart. “Public medicine makes for crippling sugar addictions, and Pinkie’s cupcakes are to die for.”

Oaken picked up one of his cupcakes, glanced at the dubious Ironhide, shrugged, and uttered the toast, “Sláinte mhaith,” before tossing the pastry into his mouth.

“Sláinte mhaith,” sighed Ironhide as he followed suit.

The two stallions chewed thoughtfully and Pinkie’s bouncing intensitified with barely suppressed anticipatory glee. “Well, what’dya think!? What’dya think?!”

Rarity had encountered enough Royal Guardsponies over the years to form the opinion that they were so used to muting their reactions that, even in their private lives, they seldom displayed emotional extremes. This did not mean they didn’t have such extremes, however; simply that understated reactions could speak volumes.

And when they did react, well… the wide-eyed and disbelieving looks they shot each other suggested that Pinkie’s cupcakes had verged on ‘life-changing.’

“That was… incredible,” breathed Ironhide. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a cupcake that delicious.”

“Stupendous,” agreed Oaken. “I’m filled with such an odd mixture of intense culinary pleasure and…” he gestured to the remaining treats, “moderate concern that you knew to make this recipe specifically.”

His uneasy qualifier at the end did nothing to quell Pinkie’s mood. “YAY!” exclaimed the party planner, doing a backflip in place. “That makes me so happy to hear!”

Oaken shot a glance at Medevac. “Is she always like this?”

“Were you not briefed on her?” chuckled the Marine.

“We were. I just thought Captain Sabre was exaggerating.”

Rarity chortled. “Take it from me, darling. Whatever Argent Sabre told you, she was underselling it.”

“I believe you,” replied Oaken. “I believe you, and I think that terrifies me.”

“It should,” chorused Redheart and Medevac.

Despite their fears, the two Guards were quite happy for the cupcakes now that the initial shock had passed. They politely offered to share the sweets with the other ponies in the room. Pinkie declined, as she had thoughtfully brought along a box for herself so as not to gorge herself on other ponies’ sweets. Medevac helped Oaken over to a chair before unhitching himself and wolfing down one of the Germane Chocolate cakes. Redheart picked up one of Oaken’s, stared at it ruefully, then glared at Pinkie. “You and the Cakes are the reason I can never lose those extra five pounds, you know that?”

Rarity, concerned about the same thing, cut one in half with her magic. “You could always split one with me, Redheart.”

The nurse looked down at her full pastry, sighed, and began eating the whole thing. “I need the sugar more than I need to lose five pounds.”

“You look great, Red,” Medevac assured her. “And you don’t need to lose a couple pounds to be beautiful.”

Redheart blushed and muttered a ‘thank you’ over her cake. Rarity looked back and forth between the two nurses and a smile formed on her lips. She was surprised she hadn’t noticed it earlier. It bore investigation, but she’d wait until there were fewer ponies about before she engaged Redheart in any mare-talk.

“Miss Rarity, you can take off your saddlebags if you like,” said Oaken.

“Pardon?” she asked, startled from her thoughts by the sudden statement. “Oh, my, I’d forgotten I had them on.” She levitated the bags off to tuck into a corner.

Oaken raised an eyebrow. “I hope you’ll forgive my curiosity, but was that a sketch pad poking out the top?”

“Trained to be observant, I see,” she said, smiling approvingly. “Yes, it was. I happened to be out under the sun working on designs for the upcoming season when Pinkie told me she was coming to greet you both.”

“Well, it’s a beautiful day for it, and, I imagine, quite the source of inspiration for you. I saw a few of your dresses in lasts season’s Canterlot Couturier, and I was impressed by how you manage to weave your surroundings into your work; very reminiscent of Color Palette’s Seasons of Epona line.”

The room fell dead silent. Rarity almost dropped her cupcake. “Y-you know Color Palette’s work? You know my work?!”

Ironhide sighed. “Here we go. You just couldn’t resist showing off, could you?”

Oaken shrugged, unperturbed. “Listen, Iron, when you go months without talking to anypony that knows the first thing about fashion, you make the most of the opportunity. It’s not like I get any culture from you.”

“Y-y-you know my work…” stammered Rarity.

“Hey, this is perfect!” exclaimed Pinkie Pie. “You like fashion; he likes fashion; you can be fashion buddies!”

Before Rarity could ask several rather obvious questions, a mischievous chuckle cut through the air. Medevac sat rubbing his hooves together like a manic toddler. “Oh,” he breathed, his voice a silken sigh of happiness, “I am going to get a lot of material out of this.”

“Cool your wings, Marine,” Oaken chided, “I picked it up from my sister.”

“Your sister?” asked Rarity, her voice a touch shaky from the shock. She gave her head a shake and cleared her throat, forcing herself to reclaim her poise. “Is she a couturier as well?”

“Not exactly,” replied Oaken. “My sister, Bobby Pin, has pretty severe autism. Diagnosed when she was little. Among other difficulties, she’s barely a step above mute most of the time.”

“Oh, my,” murmured Rarity. “That sounds…” she stopped herself before saying ‘dreadful,’ as she did not want to speak ill of his sister, even by accident, “… like it would be quite challenging.”

“It is,” agreed Oaken who, to her relief, did not seem to have noticed the pause. “One of the only things she’ll engage with other ponies about is fashion. For whatever reason she’s been fixated on it since she was a little filly. She started designing her own clothes at five. When we figured out she’d actually talk when clothes were involved, I decided to learn as much of it as I could.” He shrugged. “It just started as a way to spend time with Bobby, but ended up taking a genuine interest in it for my own sake. I’m not a designer by any stretch, but I know the lingo and I appreciate the artistry of it.”

He stated it all so casually, as though he was talking about getting over his dislike of mud to play outside with a more rambunctious sibling. But he committed to learning an art that’s not exactly highly regarded by most stallions just to talk to his sister! I can’t even imagine! “That’s… quite an inspirational story,” she said, wiping some moisture from her eyes that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

“Thank you,” said Oaken mildly. With a more challenging tone he turned to Medevac and asked, “Still wanna crack jokes about that, jarhead?”

Medevac held up a placating hoof. “Hey, I can respect a no-fly zone. Besides, that’s super cool that you’d be a good brother like that. Carry on.”

Pinkie gave a rather loud, weepy *sniff* as she sat with her forelimbs hugged around her own barrel, her tear-stained face a mixture of a beaming grin and a grim glare. “It’s not fair!” she protested. “That’s so precious and I really want to hug you, but you’re too hurt for it!”

A wicked grin spread across Oaken’s features. “Well, Ironhide’s my best bud, so you could always hug him.”

The stallion in question blanched. “Um…”

Pinkie sucked in a double-lungful of excited air. “The Hug Transferency Principle! Of course! HUG TIME!”

Ironhide’s eyes widened in horror. “No, no nononono—hurgk!”

Oaken and Medevac laughed like madponies, and even Rarity couldn’t suppress a dainty titter. Redheart just rolled her eyes, a resigned half-smile on her lips. “Pinkie Pie, make sure to let the poor stallion breath.”

“Oh, he’s fine!” Pinkie assured her. “Right, Ironhide?”

“~~gaa~ahah~aagh~~~asagaah~~” replied Ironhide.

“See? Fine!”

While Redheart negotiated the release of her patient, Rarity turned her attention back to Oaken. “Well, I’d love the chance to ‘talk shop’ as they say with somepony who appreciates the finer things in life. And, if she were ever interested, I’d be honored to do so with your sister as well.”

Oaken smiled. “That’s very generous of you. It would be good for her to talk to more ponies outside the family. And, for my part, I’d love the chance to ‘talk shop’ with an artist like yourself.” He cast a glance at Ironhide, who was currently writhing in Pinkie’s grip in a manner most animated. Dropping his voice, he added, “Seriously, I’m desperate. Do you know Iron once wore a green-and-red plaid suit… with a salmon-colored pleated tux shirt?”

It took all of Rarity’s self-control to not hurl on the spot. Her knees buckled and her back muscles arched, plunging her neck forward in preparation for retching. Through sheer iron will she held the floodgates closed, but it was a close thing.

Medevac winced. “Hot dang, Oaken, even I know that’s wrong.”

The earth pony shot him a look of long suffering. “The darndest thing is, Iron honestly doesn’t.”

Rarity staggered over to Oaken’s side, her eyes swimming and her gait wobbling as though she’d been matching ciders with Rainbow Dash. She managed to lay a gentle hoof on Oaken’s shoulder. “Darling,” she said softly, taking care to gulp down her lunch, “I want you to know that I will be personally outfitting you and this poor, deranged fellow with entirely new wardrobes.”

“Aw, Miss Rarity, you’d don’t need to—”

“I’m starting today,” she said, pulling out her sketchpad.

“But you don’t need to—”

He quailed under the look she gave him. “I’m. Starting. Today.”

It took him a moment to blink. “You’re starting today.”

She gave him a tight-lipped smile, then turned to see that the disreputable, fashion-illiterate, abomination of personal appearance known as ‘Ironhide’ had been released from Pinkie’s iron grip and was currently engaged in sucking down oxygen. “Private Ironhide,” she said in a voice that brooked no argument. He looked up at her with bleary fear as a measuring tape levitated out of her bag. “I shall require your measurements post-haste.” Wisely, he did not resist her.

Oaken chuckled as he watched the display, but his amusement swiftly gave way to interest as she began sketching. “I hope you don’t mind if I take notes, Miss Rarity.”

The fashionista spared him a moment to smile even as she set to work. “My dear stallion, I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

It was some hours later that Rarity and Pinkie departed, having bid their goodbyes to the soldiers. The fashionista was in high spirits. Good humor had abounded, pleasant conversation had flowed freely, and she had a brand-new project to relish in. And a sharp new mind to match wits with as well, she thought with a smile.In all, it was not surprising that there was a spring in her step as they trotted back to town. “Well, Pinkie, I must say that I’m rather glad your inscrutable Pinkie Sense picked me for this little outing.”

“Me too!” grinned Pinkie. “Especially since all our other friends were busy.”

“Yes indeed,” smiled Rarity, thinking back to the list that Pinkie had so casually rattled off earlier. It never ceases to amaze me how she keeps track of everypony. “Everypony else seems so swamped, it’s almost a wonder I was available! What with Applejack working, and Twilight studying, and Spike playing his games, and Rainbow…” Rarity stopped dead, her eyes snapping open as the full contents of Pinkie’s earlier expository dialogue finally made their way to the forefront of her consciousness. “I’m sorry, Pinkie, but am I right in recalling your claim that Rainbow Dash is stalking Marble Slab?”

“Yuppers!”

Rarity blinked. “Would you… perhaps care to expound on that?”

Pinkie tilted her head in confusion. “How would I get any bigger? Do you want me to eat more cupcakes or something?”

Her response prompted a deep sigh. “No, Pinkie Pie, expound, not expand, I want to know what you meant by...” Rolling her eyes, Rarity resumed walking. “Oh, never mind. I’m sure I’ll find out later.”

Marble Slab hummed softly to himself as he glided over the Apples’ vast acreage. A gentle breeze tickled his coat and sent ripples through the leaves below. From the sky, the trees almost resembled a great green ocean, with treetops like the crests of waves rolling with the currents. He smiled at the sight. No matter how many years passed, he would never fail to appreciate the grand views that were the birthright of the pegasi.

Nor would he fail to notice the pony that ducked behind the cloud in his wake. Whoever was following him had obviously been trained, or else he would have noticed sooner. He, or she, was hopping from cloud to cloud with carefully controlled flights that did nothing to disturb the breeze. But, unfortunately for his pursuer, Marble was using the combat air patrol technique that his Cossack friend Mishka had always called the ‘Crazy Ivan’ for reasons that remained shrouded in mystery, naval jargon, and unflattering remarks about Equestrian interference in foreign affairs. The ‘Crazy Ivan’ involved making abrupt and violent turns on an unpredictable timetable to give him a rear-facing view. On the last ‘Crazy Ivan,’ he’d caught sight of the darting figure.

But he or she may not know that, he thought, continuing to fly as if nothing had changed. He carried on his path for another twenty seconds, then began a gradual descent into the orchard. As he flew, he could feel the eyes of his stalker boring into him.

He landed in a part of the orchard where the trees had grown especially thick, giving him temporary cover from surveillance. A quick glance at his surroundings revealed that this part of the acreage was apparently less trafficked, leading to a thick canopy overhead and some dense shrubbery on the ground. Slipping off his helmet, he tucked it behind one set of bushes in such a way that the crest stuck up. It would have been noticeably too low to the ground for the average stallion, but, Marble thought with a smirk, I’m conveniently below average. With the distraction in place, he slipped into the undergrowth and waited.

It didn’t take long. His pursuer glided down behind a nearby tree, landing without a sound. The shadows cast by the orchard canopy made it impossible to make out the pony’s color, but, judging by the build, it was a mare. She spotted the helmet without too much difficulty and crept towards it. The mare did a decent job of moving from tree to tree, but, while he could tell that she was no amateur, he could also tell that she wasn’t a specialist; at least not on the ground. She approached the helm without seeming any wiser to the trap, her movements taking her past Marble’s position and allowing him to make out her mane—

Rainbow Dash?! he thought in astonishment. Why the heck is Rainbow Dash following me? Rather than put the question to her directly, however, he decided to watch and see what she would do.

The mare drew within a few feet of the bush, moving quietly but still more brazenly than she should have with the helmet being suspiciously stationary. Then she stopped. He saw her eyes narrow in suspicion, then dart around the surrounding greenery. When she failed to spot him, her wings flared open and she took a tentative step back. Guessing that she’d fly away if he didn’t say something, he decided to break the silence. “Out for a fly, Miss Dash?” he asked.

“GWAAA!”

She shot straight up through the canopy, sending a shower of twigs and leaves down as she tore heavenward. Marble chuckled to himself as he stepped out of cover. “Smooth, Slab. Smooth.”

A moment later a rainbow-maned head poked back through the hole, looking around suspiciously until she saw him. “Um… hiya, Marble.”

“Hello, Miss Dash.”

“I… uh… I wasn’t scared or anything, just so you know. I was just… demonstrating my awesome takeoff speed. Yeah. That.”

He pretended not to notice her blush, or that she looked everywhere except him. “Of course, Miss Dash. That’s what I was just about to suggest.”

She fluttered back down through the hole and landed in front of him, eyes still wandering around the trees instead of focusing on him. Marble wasn’t a psychologist like Song, but he was a personable stallion, and he’d picked up a lot from his boss in the last few years. As such, he had a fair idea that Dash would become defensive if he opened with asking why she had been following him. Instead he remarked, “You did a pretty good job hanging in my blind spot. I almost didn’t spot you.”

“Heh! Yeah, I’m pretty awesome,” she preened.

Not even going to bother denying it, eh? Alright then. “Training?” he asked. Or an ill-spent youth?

She snapped a salute that would have made any drill sergeant proud. “Flight Officer Rainbow Danger Dash, 129th Reserve Squadron, Equestrian Air Corps.”

Ah. A Wonderbolts Reservist. Shoulda guessed. Though there’s no way her middle name is really ‘Danger.’ He returned the salute. “Well, technically I should be saluting you, what with a flight officer outranking a lowly staff sergeant like me and all.”

The mare shrugged. “Naw. You didn’t know and I’m not in uniform. Besides, Master Sergeants Whiplash and Fast Clip always made it real clear that ‘Veteran NCO’ trumps ‘Green, Wet-Behind-Ears Officer’ every day of the week.”

Marble smirked. “Glad to see that Squadron Command hasn’t let the side down. Is Lieutenant Landing still in charge of the obstacle course?”

“It’s Commander Landing now. He finished up his time on the course while I was there and got an XO’s billet with the EAS Endeavor.”

“Should’ve kept his lieutenant’s bars. The alliteration worked better.”

Rainbow gave a snort of laughter. “Yeah, he said as much at the time. Spitfire started putting his commander’s bars back in the envelope before he stopped her.”

“That sounds like her.”

Suddenly, his face was full of Rainbow. “You know Spitfire?!” she demanded.

“Um… yeah,” he replied slowly. “So do you.”

“Not important! How do you know Spitfire? Do you go way back? Did you fight alongside the Wonderbolts? Were you a Wonderbolt?!”

Marble had given up on the idea of personal space during his first week at basic. That being said, he preferred to have it when given the option, and he gently pushed Rainbow back out of his. “Slow down, Flight Officer.”

“Dash,” she corrected. “Not Flight Officer, just Dash. And I’ll make it an order if that helps, Staff Sergeant.”

“Dash, then. And I’ll tell you how I know Spitfire on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

His grin was sly. “You tell me why you were following me earlier.”

Rainbow recoiled, her face twisting in outrage. “That’s—” he anticipated that the next word would be ‘blackmail,’ but she clamped her jaw shut and denied him the satisfaction of knowing. Her eyes narrowed and he felt as though he was being judged very carefully. “Fine,” she said at length, her voice clipped and quiet. “I suppose you have a right to know anyway. Follow me.” Without another word she took off.

Somewhat bemused by her abrupt change in demeanor, Marble followed. They flew in silence for several minutes, with Dash watching the ground below, obviously seeking something specific. At length she found what she was looking for near the bank of a stream that cut through the orchard. Slowing her flight, she beckoned Marble to a nearby cloud. Once they’d both landed, Dash pointed groundward. “See that?” she asked with uncharacteristic softness.

Marble had already seen what she was pointing to while on approach, but he dutifully looked anyway. A demure, butter-colored pegasus was tending to a beaver in the lee of a tree by the stream. “I’m guessing that you’re referring to Miss Fluttershy and not the beaver,” he remarked.

Rainbow shot him a ‘no duh’ look. “Yes. I mean Fluttershy. And you see what she’s doing?” Correctly guessing that it was a rhetorical question, he silently waited. “She’s taking care of some random critter that got busted up just because she’s kind. And I don’t mean ‘Element of Kindness,’ I mean her.” Dash’s magenta eyes shifted groundward to watch the yellow pegasus work. “She’s always been like this, ever since we were kids. Always trying to mend broken wings and patch up torn hides, whether it was a bird or her stupid kid brother or…” she swallowed, “or a dumb fool filly who wasn’t lucky enough to have a sister until she met her.”

Dash gave a slight chuckle. “And she’s such a scaredy-pony most of the time, that’s the funny thing. She’s literally jumped at her own shadow before, but when somepony or some critter needs her she just dives right in without a thought. Because that’s who she is. And no matter how crazy the adventure, how dangerous the journey, she’s always been there for us. Scared, flighty, wanting to run and hide, sure. But she’s done it. Every time.”

She shot him a sidelong glance. “We’ve faced down plenty of bad guys in the last couple years. Lot more than what you read about in the papers. And we’ve always come back. All of us.” Her red eyes glinted. “I make sure we all come back. But this…” her gaze dropped, “this stuff about the Shades…” she shuddered. “Celestia said two thirds of her army didn’t come back. And I… I got to thinking…” Dash bit her lip. “I just want to make sure she does make it back, so I thought I’d check and…”

Marble nodded in understanding. “You were checking to see how good I am, because you want to know if I’m good enough to protect her.”

“Pretty much, yeah,” admitted Rainbow. “I mean… not that I don’t think you REF guys are good, I just…”

“No, I get it,” he assured her. “I would have done the same thing if it were my sister. Rest-assured, Rainbow Dash, I’ll protect her life with even greater care than my own.”

She looked up and gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Marble.”

“You’re welcome.”

Dash cleared her throat, seeming uncomfortable with the solemn moment, and her smile turned teasing. “Though I’d like you to make it back too.”

“Believe me, I’d prefer that as well.”

Chuckling, she slugged him lightly in the foreleg. “You’re alright, Staff.” With a nod of her head she indicated that they should head back the way they came. As they flew, she asked, “So how do you know Spitfire?”

He flicked his ears to indicate a shrug without breaking his flying rhythm. “It’s not that interesting of a story, really. Before joining the REF, I was with the 73rd Strafing Squadron. We did some joint training exercises with the Bolts.”

Dash nodded in understanding. Interceptor squadrons like the Wonderbolts (formally the 1st Interceptor Squadron) were concerned with air-to-air combat first and air-to-ground second. Strafing squadrons were the opposite. “How’d you do?”

“About what you’d expect. The exercises where we were on the same team went great. The exercises where we were pitted against each other were split. They took us for six out of ten mock engagements, but we made ‘em work for it. Woulda been five and five if their speed wasn’t just leagues above what most of us could hit.”

Rainbow’s eyebrows raised. “Dang, you guys must be pretty tough to take on the Bolts four times and win!”

Marble smiled. It was a nice feeling having one of the foremost fliers in Equestria and a national hero praise his old squadron. “Well, if I’m being honest, we had one major advantage over the Wonderbolts.” She raised an eyebrow in mute query. “Combat experience. Less than half the current members of the Bolts actually have any, since a lot of the ones that do have it wound up in other squadrons; that and there isn’t as much call for interceptors as strafers on the borders. The Bolts are just plain better fliers than us, and we were outclassed in weather control and speed, but,” he bared his teeth, “we knew all kinds of dirty little fighting tricks that you only learn the hard way.”

He vividly recalled how significant a difference it had made in the fighting. The only Bolts at the time with any combat experience had been the ‘Big Five’ – Soarin, Fleetfoot, Fire Streak, Lightning Streak, and Spitfire herself. The rest of the Bolts, with the exception of the notably unpredictable Surprise, had ended most of the matches as ‘casualties,’ even the bouts that the Wonderbolts had won. Granted, we still got it worse, but, hey. It was the Bolts.

“Dirty little fighting tricks, eh?” asked Dash rubbing her chin with one hoof. “I bet you’ve picked up a lot of those in the REF too.”

“One or two,” he admitted coyly.

An eager grin spread across her face. “I don’t suppose… you could teach me?”

Marble couldn’t say ‘no’ to such an eager face. “I guess I could do that. Lesson one is called the ‘Crazy Ivan.’ Now there’s a bit of a story behind this involving Fritters, a Cossack named Mishke, three bottles of vodka, and a plainclothes op in Budaprance that went sideways in just the worst way. So we were tracking a griffon who was trading in stolen artifacts, right? But we had no idea that the Tsarina had anypony looking for the same guy. Imagine our surprise when…”

As it happened, there was another pony learning more of the art of war a short train ride away in Canterlot. He, like Rainbow Dash, saw violence on the horizon and sought to be prepared.

Unlike Rainbow Dash, however, this stallion had no background in the military, brawling, adventuring, or general world-saving to give him a basis for fighting. Thus it was that he found himself being introduced to the floor of the warehouse for the eleventh time that day.

Sandstone had heard the phrase ‘getting the wind knocked out of you’ plenty of times over the years but, having spent his youth in a school that seemed to be of the opinion that rambunctiousness amongst stallions was to be discouraged, he’d never actually experienced it before today.

He quickly formed the opinion that it was quite unpleasant.

“You missed your block again, numbnuts,” growled his sparring partner, a stoutly built earth pony stallion who’d probably have made a good career in hoofball.

The lower level of the warehouse where Brother Thornberry had introduced the Vox to Quartermaster had been converted into a training center for the revolutionaries. Approximately sixty young Vox who were not otherwise occupied had spent the better part of the day being instructed in combat by a dozen trainers. Since the Vox had few soldiers or professional fighters to speak of (and most of those they did have were elsewhere on assignments that Sandstone didn’t have the clearance to know about), most of the training was handled by the ponies that Quartermaster had left with the weapons. Sandstone still felt uneasy around these unknown ponies, but they seemed quite competent, and they didn’t provoke the same feeling of wrongness in him that Quartermaster had. So, with time, he’d been able to relax.

At least, as much as it was possible to relax when sparring. After being instructed in the basics of spear fighting, they’d been paired off and told to practice on each other. Sandstone had been paired with several prospective revolutionaries… and been sorely thumped each time.

This most recent sparring partner of his had been especially efficient in beating the stuffing out of him, and Sandstone’s patience had worn thin.

“No horsepucky, Sherclop,” was the acid reply that he attempted to give. But, due to the recent experience of having the air forcibly driven from his lungs by the impact of a spearhaft, it came out more like, “Nah harpahckah, Sherlah.”

From his position on the ground, Sandstone could see the other stallion roll his eyes and shoulder the practice spear which had so recently pummeled him. “You’re all left hooves, Sandstone,” sneered the stallion, “and your unicorn marefriend hits harder than you do.”

Sandstone let his head drop to the floor, not wanting to meet the other stallion’s eyes. His tormenter hadn’t quite asked if he was really an earth pony (that would have been impolitic, after all), but he might as well have. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it; the males of most sapient species have always had an unfortunate tendency to base masculinity in strength for its own sake rather than in how that strength was used. Over the years he’d learned to live with it. But he still hated how impotent it made him feel. At that moment, if the ground had chosen to swallow him, he probably wouldn’t have put up much of a fight.

“Hey!” snarled Sea Breeze, breaking off her own bout to shout at Sandstone’s tormenter. “Back off, creep!”

And now I’d welcome it swallowing me.

The big stallion did not seem impressed by Sea Breeze’s ire. “You realize you’re not helping his case, right?” he asked blandly.

“What’s your problem, buddy?” she demanded. “We’re all on the same side here!”

“Yeah? Well, if that’s the case, your boy toy here is gonna get a lot of Vox killed,” glowered the stallion, jabbing his spear at Sandstone. “He couldn’t beat up a barista, much less a Royal Guard. And that’s not a joke; he literally lost a fight to Latte of all ponies. No offense, Latte.”

The Starrybucks employee shrugged. “Eh. None taken.”

Before Sea Breeze could shoot back, the pegasus she’d been sparring with spoke up. “And you’re not doing much better, Breeze. Sorry. You may shoot better than the rest of us, but you’re not doing well up close.”

“So I’ll hang back and shoot!” shouted Breeze. “We both will!”

“And what will you do if the Guard reaches you in the back?” challenged the stallion. “Are you really willing to risk the Revolution just because you can’t swing a stick properly?” Sea Breeze brandished her spear threateningly, but he batted it aside with contemptuous ease. “You may be Quartermaster’s golden girl, but that doesn’t mean a blasted thing when the Guard is shooting at us!”

Breeze’s lip trembled. “I- I—"

Sandstone scrambled to his hooves and put himself between the two. “Piss off, pal!” he commanded with as much force as he could muster. “I didn’t exactly see you beating the instructors earlier!”

“At least I’ve improved. You, on the other hoof, just seem to get worse.”

“So, what, you want me out of the Revolution or something? That’s not your call to make!”

“I shouldn’t have to make it! You should have enough respect for your brothers and sisters to do it yourself!”

Silence followed the stallion’s declaration. All at once, Sandstone realized that the eyes of every other stallion and mare in the room were upon him. Some were sympathetic to him, some seemed to agree with his opponent, and some seemed to fear that they’d receive a similar ultimatum if they spoke up. Sandstone’s face flushed red and he opened his mouth to protest, to declare that he didn’t need to bow out because he was fit to fight, because he had to be, for Sea Breeze and for Equestria, but he couldn’t find the words to break the silence.

In his place, somepony else did. “Well, let’s not be hasty now,” called out a cheerful voice.

All eyes turned to see two unfamiliar stallions standing in the doorway. The first was a fit young pegasus with russet-red coat, silver-grey mane and tail, and a cocky smile. Standing slightly behind him was a cloaked pony of indeterminate race, his only visible features being a lean silver-grey muzzle and thin legs.

The assembled Vox froze, eyeing both the nearby racks of real weapons and the rear door as they wavered between fight and flight. However, Sandstone noticed that the instructors seemed nonplussed by the new arrivals. More trainers? he wondered. Or have we been sold out? Instinctively, he interposed himself between Breeze and the newcomers.

“Who the buck are you?” demanded Sandstone’s sparring partner.

“Fear not, my spear-toting friend, we are associates of Quartermaster,” announced the pegasus, bowing with a flourish. “I am Dagger, and this is my brother, Cloak. We are here to educate you.”

“Enlighten you,” added Cloak.

“Teach a class.”

“Put on a clinic.”

“Cloak and Daggers’ ‘How to be the Scariest Pony in the Room 101’.”

“Patent-pending. All rights reserved.”

“And for your first lesson,” Dagger swept into the room, winking to a couple pretty mares as he walked past, “we’ll teach you what you need to be dangerous.” He strode right up to Sandstone. The earth pony swallowed as Dagger’s silver eyes bored into him. The pegasus didn’t look much older than Sandstone, but his eyes weren’t those of a youth, whatever his cheery tone. “You there! Are you fully committed to overthrowing the tyranny of the Diarchy at any cost?”

Sandstone blinked. “Um… y-yes?”

“Perfect!” exclaimed Dagger, seizing his hoof and shaking it vigorously. “Welcome to the Revolution. And that’s the first lesson, kids: mindset is more important than physicality. With the right mindset, anypony can be dangerous.” A loud snort cut him off. Dagger turned to see that it had come from Sandstone’s partner. “What’s this? A naysayer?”

“You’ve done an awful lot of talking since you walked in, but not a lot of proving.”

Dagger blinked. “I was simply under the impression that you Vox liked talking. Right in the name, you know. ‘Voice of the Ponies’ and all that. But, if it’s a demonstration you seek…” he waved his brother over. “Now, take a look at my cadaverous brother. What you can see of him, at any rate. Poor chap. In science class he was commonly mistaken for the prop skeleton and used for demonstrations. Whenever he comes to town ponies think they’ve spotted the Grim Reaper. Why, he’s so thin that he has to watch out for sewer grates for fear that he’ll slip through.”

“Laying it on a little thick, aren’t we, bro?” sighed Cloak.

“Hush, Grim. I’m using you for a demonstration. At any rate, I’ll bet that scrawny Cloak here could beat the snot out of you without wielding a weapon.”

The big stallion snorted and hefted his training spear. “He’s welcome to try.”

Dagger glanced at Cloak and dipped his head towards the challenger. Cloak shrugged as though it was no business of his and stepped forward. The big stallion didn’t bother with subtlety; he just charged forward. Just as his spear was about to strike, Cloak swept to the side, catching the haft with both forehooves and swinging it like a bat. His swing, combined with the momentum of the charge, flung the big stallion head first into the ground, where he landed on his jaw. Before he could recover, Cloak once more swung the spear like a bat, causing the big stallion to leap into the air with a yelp as a stinging welt was laid across his nether regions.

Several of the Vox burst out laughing at the sight and a few even applauded, but Dagger was none too happy. “Quiet!” he ordered, silencing the crowd. “Cloak!” he shouted. “What the hay was that?”

“A humiliating defeat?” his brother volunteered helpfully.

“No, you idiot, you broke the rules!”

“I didn’t use my weapons.”

“You weren’t supposed to use any!”

“Oooooooh,” replied Cloak. “My bad. Sorry buddy.” He tossed his spear to the groaning stallion, who was in the process of rubbing his posterior. “Round two. Whenever you’re ready.”

No doubt the stallion would have preferred to have longer to recover, and probably some ice as well, but his blood was up. Retrieving the spear, he began circling Cloak, looking for an opening. Cloak didn’t bother to turn with him.

Once the stallion was fully behind him, he attacked and, just like before, Cloak waited until the blow had almost landed to twist out of the way and seize the spear with his forehooves. This time, however, the stallion had learned, and he used his superior strength to hang onto the spear, wrenching on it to pull Cloak towards him. Unfortunately, that proved to be exactly what Cloak wanted, as the small pony dropped his forehooves to the ground, pivoted, and bucked the stallion clean in the snout. The defeated pony slumped to the ground with blood running from his nose.

Ponies stood in silence, listening to the groans of the downed stallion while they looked at Dagger for direction. After a moment, he gave it. “Now you may applaud.”

And applaud they did, Sandstone and Sea Breeze included. It was not so much that they were applauding the defeat of a brother Vox. Rather, they applauded the newcomers who had shown them that any of them could be a fighter.

Dagger acknowledged the praise with a wave of his wing, then turned to Sandstone and Breeze, calling out to his brother over one shoulder. “Cloak, see to the wounded warrior. I’ve got to meet my first two students.”

He bumped hooves with each of them in turn. “I’m Sandstone. This is Sea Breeze. We’re…” Really happy you showed that guy up? Really happy to have instructors that don’t give me the creeps?

“We’re happy to have you on our side,” supplied Sea Breeze.

The pegasus winked and clicked his teeth. “Aw, that? That was nothing. Physical strength is all well and good, but the scariest fighters ain’t always the strongest ones. Well,” he amended, “except maybe Quartermaster.” Sandstone and Breeze chuckled. He patted them each with a wing. “Stick with me, kids, and by the time I’m done with you, you’ll know what real strength is.”

Author's Note

Edit: Now featuring this supplementary chapter to follow up on Rarity's speculation on Rainbow's activities.

***

Aura stepped carefully about Antiquarian's office, avoiding the burn marks, the overturned desk, scattered papers, and the muddy hoof prints left by a great number of irate ponies as she picked her way over to the spell formula inscribed on the back wall. Humming to herself, she lit her horn and activated the waiting magic. There was the sound of rushing air and a bright flash of light, and soon Antiquarian's office was back in its usual cluttered (but ordered and relatively clean) state. She smiled. Let the bean counters think what they will. With the angry mob on the prowl, I think that fail-safe enchantment was worth every penny. Still humming, she set herself to tidying the now-restored office in preparation for her employer's eventual return from being chased about the countryside in recompense for the delayed chapter. In all, it had the makings of a quiet evening.

***

Thank you all for your patience in waiting for this new chapter. Not that you have a choice, but still.

This wasn't originally going to be the next chapter, as we were going to start getting into a more rapid acceleration of the plot towards things going pear-shaped, but I realized that a couple establishing shots were needed for specific characters before we can get into that rapid run towards catastrophe. After this there will be one more bridge chapter and then we'll be making some direct progress in the main plot.

And, hey, remember Sandstone and Sea Breeze? They exist! And this is why I published A 14th Century Supplement as a separate story. In case you forgot what ponies looked like.

For anyone interested in military ranking systems, I decided that the Equestrian Air Corps would take cues from both Army and Naval conventions. This will go to explaining why the Wonderbolts roster had Colonels and Admirals in it. The EAC (and specifically the Bolts) have been bounced back and forth between Army and Navy a number of times over the years before being broken off as their own force. Their Enlisted ranks are essentially the same as real-life USAF ranks (with Private, PFC, and Sergeant instead of Airman, AFC, and Senior Airman). Their officer ranks are Flight Officer (O-1), Lieutenant (O-2), Commander (O-3), Captain (O-4), Major, Colonel, Brigadier General, Major General, Lieutenant General, General, and General of the Air Corps. As in the Navy, EAC captains (O-4) wield more authority than their Army equivalents (O-3). Dash, as a Flight Officer, is the equivalent of a 2nd Lieutenant in the Army, and a green one at that. Rather than playing tin god as an officer, she's smart enough to defer to veteran enlisted ponies like Marble, even though she technically outranks him. I could get into the complex interplay between those with technical authority (officers) and those with unspoken authority (senior NCOs) that sometimes supersedes technical authority as an unwritten rule... but that's reeeeally complicated and varies from unit to unit.

Shoutout this week goes to Love You Too, Doofus by Summer Dancer. Given that this chapter features Rainbow showing concern for a friend who's so close that she might as well be a sister, it seemed appropriate.

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On the Theory and Application of Violence

Twilight Sparkle was not one to be easily wowed by the academic prowess or mental acuity of another. After all, she had studied with some of the greatest minds that Equestria had to offer… and surpassed most of them by leaps and bounds. She could perform complex spells with an 85.7% success rate after seeing them only once, speak seven languages and read thirteen, lecture with a justified degree of confidence on virtually any practical science, and generally run circles around ponies in logic games.

This is not to say that Twilight was arrogant or that she was incapable of appreciating the talents of others. Quite the opposite, in fact. She remained modest about her accomplishments to the unfortunate point of crossing from virtue into self-deprecation, and she was always quite genuine in her praise of others when they displayed talents of the mind. Even when these talents were overshadowed by her own, her praise and admiration were genuine.

The simple fact remained, however, that Twilight seldom encountered ponies, or creatures of any sort for that matter, who could, say, hold their own with her in a complex philosophical debate, or rival her ability to process and retain data. Whenever she did, she always prized those moments, as they were few and far between.

Which was one of the principle reasons she’d come to thank the fates that Jacques had turned up on her proverbial doorstep. Days had passed since his arrival, and, once Redheart had been convinced that the shock of seeing the place would not give him a heart attack, he’d begun making the trip to town to visit the library and study. The feared cardiac arrest at the sight of the thousands of books had not occurred (though he had needed to sit and gape quietly for a good hour), and, once he’d recovered, he’d wasted no time in demonstrating to Twilight that it had been worth the risk.

In a word, Jacques’ mental acuity was impressive. His knowledge of modern science was exceedingly limited, it was true, and his knowledge of magic essentially nil. But such failings were simply the fault of time, not the mark of any intellectual deficiency. Indeed, the friar had a sharp wit and a keen mind which readily digested most any topic which was put in front of him. He would often appear bemused when confronted with an unfamiliar concept, but whenever she’d think he was stumped he would cut to the heart of the issue with the unerring straightforwardness of a warrior philosopher. One minute he would appear befuddled, and the next Twilight would swear that she was talking to the griffon general Clawswitz given new life. More than once in the last few days, their study of magic and Equestrian lore had been completely derailed by stimulating debates of applied moral philosophy that had left her grinning like a schoolfilly.

Right up until she realized that they’d gotten off-topic, of course.

His ability to retain data rivalled her own. She reasoned (often with a shudder) that it was because books were so scarce in his world, but whatever the case he seemed able to memorize complex tracts with little effort. Early on she’d learned that he could quote most, if not all, of his holy scripture chapter and verse, and, though she did not have texts for comparison, his recall of the writings of his world’s philosophers (including the disturbingly familiar-sounding Plato, Aristotle, Augustine, and more) were so consistent that she felt safe in guessing that he had them very nearly memorized as well. It was a hypothesis that seemed to be borne out in practice, as he very seldom needed to read or hear something twice. One day he’d read four tracts on unicorn magic, and the next day he’d make particular reference to passages from them without needing to look. Her estimate was that he was one of those rare beings possessed of a near perfect memory. When he’d laughingly assured her that most humans weren’t quite such quick studies, she wasn’t sure if she’d been more disappointed or oddly relieved. In a profoundly unusual turn of events, Twilight found herself with a pupil who could actually keep up with the pace of her teaching without struggle.

Except, of course, for the application. Jacques had consumed a staggering amount of text in the last few days, far more than she would have expected him to. Among other things, he had a general idea of Equestrian history, a broad sense of its governmental structure, and, thanks to their tangential conversations, a working knowledge of most of the major Equestrian philosophers. On the whole, that’s a better education than some university students I could name. Most importantly for their purposes, he’d even (in spite of his misgivings) come to understand the basics of magical theory and its most common schools, as well as many of the fundamentals behind Curatrix and Dark Magic.

None of which translated into his being able to cast even the simplest of spells. His passive magics, like his strength and regeneration, functioned normally, of course, but he hadn’t managed to repeat any of them since the armoring trick that he’d unconsciously pulled at the hospital.

It was… frustrating to say the least. So frustrating that she’d given serious consideration to strapping him to her lab table and running some detailed tests on him to see if she could figure out how to make him react. Only one thing stopped her from doing it.

The fact that he was as frustrated as she was.

Twilight was aware of a rather unattractive trait she possessed: that of obsession. When a problem took hold of her that she couldn’t solve, she had a bad tendency to push past all reasonable equine limitations (and even a few unreasonable ones) to solve it. When this trait manifested itself as a virtue (as it sometimes did) it was called ‘tenacity.’ Twilight was honest enough to know that she was sometimes tenacious… and sometimes obsessive. Much of that obsession came from a fear, bordering on a phobia, of failing the ponies who depended on her.

Seeing that same fear in Jacques was a sobering experience. He hid it rather well, but she’d looked in the mirror too many times to miss the signs. His inability to do what he regarded as his Creator-given duty was eating at him. What had made him so afraid of failure was a mystery to her, but she didn’t need to know to sympathize. And so, in her empathy for him, Twilight had managed to restrain her baser instincts to seek knowledge at any cost and instead allow him time for other things. The study of military history, weapons, and martial tactics all seemed to appease his grim sense of duty somewhat, as he could legitimately feel that he was making progress towards something that would practically aid them in the coming fight, and she made a point to allot time to the task.

Which was why she’d left the good friar buried in Brigadier General Culverin’s Treatise on Martial Arts of the Pony Races while she and Spike ran out to grab some muffins.

“I don’t know how that guy can read so much,” remarked Spike as they ambled back to the library with the baked goods. “Seriously, it’s like having two of you around all the time.”

Twilight raised an eyebrow in mock annoyance. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“Nah. Just creepy.”

She giggled. “Well, I’m just thankful that he’s such a quick study. I can’t even imagine trying to pick up the mechanics and lore of a new world completely on the fly. Just think – an entire world of unique races, cultures, histories, sciences, technologies, all just waiting to be examined in intricate detail through total immersion in this fathomless new puzzle of reality—”

“Twilight, you’re drooling,” pointed out Spike dryly.

The mare wiped her mouth quickly and glanced around with reddened cheeks, hoping that nopony saw.

“Anyway,” continued the dragon, “You can be thankful he’s a brainiac like you. I’m just thankful to have another guy around. I love you girls, but it’s nice to have somecreature around who talks male.”

Twilight shot him a quizzical look. “‘Talks male?’” she repeated. “Leaving aside your poor grammar, you two hardly say anything. Half the time you just grunt and point.”

Spike smiled slyly. “Exactly.”

Before she could ask what he meant, she happened to glance down at her reflection in a passing store window… and saw the reflection of another pony that seemed to be approaching at a swift clip down the lane. Rolling her eyes, she did some quick mental calculations. Assuming the standard refractive properties of the glass relative to the approaching target, impact will be in about… Her calculations finished she simply charged her horn and conjured a small shield at a deflective angle between herself and the incoming missile.

Said missile had no time to change its course, and Twilight’s ears were abruptly assaulted by the sounds of a gravelly voice cursing, an impact, and a cry as a cyan-and-rainbow blur glanced off her shield and plowed into the dirt in front of her, leaving a shallow trench in its wake. The missile came to a rest, and a low moan rose from it.

“Sweet Celestia!” exclaimed Spike, who’d yelped quite loudly at the fury missile’s entrance. “Are you alright, Rainbow Dash?”

“She’s fine,” remarked Twilight with much less concern. “After all, she wasn’t coming in that fast because she’s overconfident after the last four times she spooked me.” Reaching out with her magic, she plucked the pegasus out of the dirt and pulled her muzzle-to-muzzle so as to better glare at her. “Isn’t that right, Rainbow Dash?”

The pegasus shook her head to loosen the dust from her mane and wriggled out of Twilight’s deliberately underpowered magical grip. Once she was free, she hopped into the air and took her customary place two feet off the ground. “Sheesh, Twilight. If you’re gonna lecture me like my mother, at least throw in my middle name.”

Twilight smirked. “Fine, ‘Danger.’ Maybe next time you’ll think twice before you sneak up on me from an angle that let me see your reflection. I doubt Marble would have made that mistake.”

Rainbow huffed. “Yeah, well, it’s still four to one in my favor.”

“That would be true, if we were actually competing!” the unicorn snapped. “Honestly, would it have killed you to just ask me to help you practice your stealth lessons?”

Dash looked like she was about to shoot back a hot retort, but Spike piped up before they could rehash the debate he’d heard four times already. “What brings you to town, Rainbow Dash?”

“Checking in with you two, actually,” replied the pegasus, mercifully dropping the subject. “AJ and I are gonna start whuppin’ flank soon and I wanted to know if you and Jacques wanted to join us.”

“Sounds fun,” smiled Spike. “I’m in.”

Twilight had to resist the urge to remind the pegasus that most of the ‘flank whuppin’’ that had occurred in the last few days had been delivered squarely to Rainbow and Applejack. Both of them had taken up the REF ponies on their offers of training, and they had the bruises to prove it. Still, they’d both been improving and seemed to be enjoying themselves. In fact, the whole business had proved to be a draw to outside observers as well. The other girls had taken to observing on occasion, as had the two Lunar Guards, Redheart and Medevac, and, of course, the other Apples. It probably won’t be long before Big Mac starts training with his sister, reflected Twilight, realizing that she was curious to see how he would fare. I’ve only ever seen him break up fights, not start them. And I didn’t even get a good look at those fights because they don’t last long when he gets involved. But Applejack swears he could wrestle a bear if he wanted to.

Shaking aside these idle thoughts, she made herself focus enough to actually answer the cyan mare. “Sounds interesting, Rainbow,” particularly if Fritters uses his mystery technique again, “but I have to see if Jacques wants to before I say yes. He’s had a frustrating couple days.”

“Still can’t cast, huh?” asked Rainbow. “That’s rough.”

“Why do you think he can’t do it, Twilight?” asked Spike. “I mean, he knows all the basics.”

“Yeah,” agreed Rainbow. “He should just be able to do it, right? He’s done it before.” She held up feathers like fingers as she ticked off points. “The forest with the wolves when they were evil, the hospital with the monitors when he thought they were evil, and the hospital again with Spike when he thought he was evil.” She winced as the words left her mouth and glanced at the dragon. “Er, no offense.”

He shrugged. “Eh. None taken.”

“It’s not quite that simple,” answered Twilight. “He’s never had magic before. It’s like waking up one day with a limb you’ve never had. Imagine if you just suddenly had a unicorn horn. You’d have no idea what to do with it.”

Rainbow laughed, seeming more amused by the idea of herself with a horn than anything else. “Hah! I know what I’d do. I’d make myself the Princess of Awesomeness!”

“Or Radicalness,” suggested Spike.

“That too.”

Twilight chuckled. “I’m not sure Equestria would survive you as an administrator.”

Rainbow huffed, folding her forelegs. “Says you! I’d be a great administrator!”

“Oh yeah?” smirked the unicorn. “Which political parties make up the current Coalition Government in Parliament, and what are their historical relationships to the various parties of the Opposition?”

The daredevil mare’s mouth flapped open and shut several times before she gave up and glowered at Twilight. “Fine. We’ll just have to get you fitted with a pair of wings so you can handle the governing part of the princessing while I do all the awesome parts of princessing.”

“Your grasp of statecraft horrifies me.”

“Which is why I need you, oh Princess of Eggheads. You can be the Luna to my Celestia.”

“While I appreciate that you consider Celestia to the be current ‘Princess of Awesomeness,’ I suggest you not tell Luna about her title.”

“Look, can we just drop this and go talk to Jacques already?”

“That would probably be best.”

Jacques sat cross-legged on the floor of the library, surrounded on all sides by treatises on pony weapons and martial styles. It was… fascinating. Some matters were familiar. Since ponies were capable of standing on their hind legs and wielding weapons as a human would, most conventional stances and styles were nearly identical to his own, even down to having identical names. A short while ago he might have found it eerie, but the past days had given him time to adjust to the bizarre synchronicity of worlds.

For every similarity, though, there was a fresh alteration to his thinking. First to come into play was the difference of limbs. Ponies could, through a combination of joint pressure and magic that was beyond his understanding, grip weapons in their forehooves much as he would with his hands. However, the books noted, even the strongest hoof grip had difficulty comparing to that of appendages like griffon claws or minotaur hands. This meant that ponies were theoretically easier to disarm than such races. They had compensated for this by adapting their martial styles to incorporate the advantages that they did possess.

The first involved the use of the teeth to grip weapons. Initially, Jacques had found this ridiculous, likening it to gripping a blade in the reverse grip with his hands. It was true that the reverse grip was useful with knives and short blades for hooking, stabbing, blocking, and disarming opponents. However, because of the way that the wrist joint bent, it was worthless in all but the most specific contexts for slashing and hacking, which made wielding long-bladed weapons in the reverse grip useless. He had assumed that the same would apply to teeth grip.

He had been wrong. Because of their musculature and lower center of gravity, and the fact that they were four-legged beasts, ponies were able to put their entire body into an attack made with the head, and the power of their neck muscles gave them a surprising amount of ‘snap’ that offset many of the drawbacks of the reverse grip when it came to hacking and slashing. However, it was not without its own severe disadvantages. Stabbing was actually more difficult for teeth grip than for reverse grip, and, as a style, teeth grip tended to leave the body seriously exposed to counter-attack. This made it too cumbersome for any pony but a swift one. Thus, its utility was mostly limited to throwing weapons, like axes or chained weapons, or to use by agile combatants with the speed to offset this disadvantage, leading to its popularity amongst the earth-ponies in the former case and the pegasi in the latter.

Each of the races had their own particular emphases as well. The pegasi had a long and distinguished martial history, much of which reminded Jacques of treatises he’d read on Roman military tactics. Short swords and daggers, wielded with hooves or with teeth and accompanied by shields, were preferred for close-quarters combat, though spears and javelins remained their primary weapons. Archers were also common, as the utility of wings made it easier for them to use bows-and-arrows without mounted bases, magic, or great strength. They tended to rely on speed and agility to augment their attacks, and were masters of both harrying and charging. On the ground, the use of their wings essentially lent them two additional limbs, and, if they were disarmed, provided an avenue of escape. The main weakness that Jacques saw was the temptation to rely too heavily on their wings.

Unicorns tended to favor one-handed, or rather one-hooved weapons more than the other races, for the obvious reason that their magic allowed them to grip their weapons without needing to use their hooves or teeth. This gave them unequalled versatility in combat, especially when ponies were able to combine their telekinetic grip with offensive spells or magic wards. Some unicorn weapon masters were noted as being able to control multiple blades at once, though this was rare, and a handful were even able to make magical constructs with which to fight so that they needn’t carry six swords. Both styles had their drawbacks, however. Telekinetic grips could, in certain circumstances, be even more vulnerable to disarming than hoof-grip. As for blade constructs, their Achilles’ Heel was the danger that, if they were broken unexpectedly, they could send a magical backlash that could incapacitate even trained battle-casters. Jacques could all too easily see overconfident unicorns succumbing to their own hubris. To their credit, the masters seemed to know this, and their treatises insisted that, to be truly a master of a weapon, a unicorn must first become skilled in it without their magic. Because of this, the unicorns remained the most prevalent users of the various one-hooved weapons and the kite and round shields that accompanied them.

In Jacques’ opinion, the earth ponies had been the most creative in evolving their battle style. Without the versatility of unicorn or pegasi magic, they’d had to overcome the other races’ advantages through their own natural stability and grit. And, as a result, he found them in many ways to be the most familiar.

All melee combat, he well knew, relies upon having proper leverage on the weapon to apply force in the direction needed to inflict damage. In general terms, the more of the body that could be put into play, the more leverage could be applied, and the more damaging the strike would be. If a weapon had a longer haft, like a two-handed longsword or a polearm, then the fighter had more options in how to do this; a long weapon could be braced off the shoulder, the forearm, or virtually any part of the torso and hips with enough creativity. Because they were quadrupeds, and because of how their joints were arranged, ponies could do this far more readily than humans, and all three races had learned to apply this in melee combat.

The earth ponies had taken this to the highest degree. More than any other equine race that Jacques had read on, the earth ponies had become masters of two-handed swords, polearms, and lances. Each and every treatise he read on their martial arts seemed entirely geared towards bringing the full, massive strength of the earth pony to bear in a strike with the least amount of movement possible. Their knowledge of the anatomy of close battle was unrivaled, as there seemed to be no part of their body that they didn’t use in combat. Jacques even came across one passage talking about using mane and tail to add precision to strikes. Moreover, their natural attunement to the earth gave them a sure-footedness that made them the hardest of the races to unbalance or disarm. Even in ranged combat they were deadly. While they lacked the unicorns’ magic or the pegasi’s air superiority and swiftness with the bow, their raw strength enabled them to load crossbows with a speed that the other races struggled to match; unicorn magic would be worn out with the repetition, and pegasi wings were too fragile to risk using to reload the weapon. With the addition of large throwing axes, stones, and chained weapons, they had great offensive potential at medium range as well. Still, they had nothing comparable to unicorn battle mages, and aerial combat left them at a disadvantage without proper weaponry.

The unarmed combat followed a similar pattern. Some, like boxing and wrestling, were familiar, while others, like jiu jitsu and wing chun, were not. And, as with the various weapon styles, it was a peculiar mix of human and equine techniques. There was a far greater emphasis on kicking than he was accustomed to, especially with a powerful hind-leg ‘buck.’ Cavalry tactics seemed to apply as well, and though he was quite familiar with the principles of overrunning, trampling, and bashing aside opponents, it was odd to see them applied by a sapient race for personal use.

Still, the fundamentals of war remained blessedly familiar. The unicorns’ magic and ability to impale their enemies, the pegasi’s air capability, and the raw strength of the earth ponies served to expand the principles he was familiar with rather than eliminating them. His studies, combined with his observations of the soldier ponies during their sparring, and the fact that he’d been able to offer some legitimate pointers to Applejack and Rainbow Dash, gave him confidence that he’d be able to adapt his fighting to this new world with little more difficulty than adjusting to fighting in the Outremer after learning combat in Provencal.

Which is more than I can say for my own magical aptitude. The gloomy thought made short work of his previous good humor. His failure to reproduce his previous magical successes weighed heavily on his mind. It was impossible to know when these so-called ‘Shades’ would make their next move, but Jacques had never been one to wait idly while the enemy maneuvered. If dominance on the battlefield lay in minimizing the enemy’s advantages while maximizing his own, then preparedness was essential to victory. But he could not be prepared, because he could not make full use of his own advantages.

Jacques clicked his tongue in the manner that his mother always had whenever he was doing something that he shouldn’t; he’d picked up the habit as a means of personal discipline. Now, now, Jacques. Let’s not be so harsh. It has not yet been two weeks, and I’m adapting to living in a world of pastel-coated talking ponies of all things. More unusual still, everything is infused with a power that does not exist as such in my own world. I ought to be gentler with myself. Impatience is a vice, after all. It was sound advice, he knew, but he had a hard time listening to it.

Sighing, he set the book aside and stood with a grunt, his joints clicking painlessly, if loudly, into place. One thing that he couldn’t complain about was his recovery. He hadn’t needed his walking stick to get around for several days, and indeed only carried it because he was loath to walk without a weapon and his sword drew a lot of stares. His stitches were all out, and his injuries had faded into the sort of background pain that only troubled him when the Spring rains came. Or rather, when the Spring rains are brought. By pegasi. Who control the weather. Because that’s how things work in this world. He gave a short chuckle and wandered about the room, swinging his arms to get his blood flowing after so long sitting on the floor. Yes, I really should be more patient with myself.

His thoughts were interrupted by the return of Twilight and Spike, who had Rainbow Dash in tow. He greeted them with a shallow bow. “Ladies. Spike.”

“Hello, Friar,” replied Twilight, levitating a muffin over to him. “Up for another try?”

Jacques grimaced and nodded. Several days ago, he and Twilight had been attempting to get him to use his magic-dampening ability to shut off her levitation for trivial things like retrieving a pastry or book from her grasp. It was a good idea, but not one that had worked thus far.

Reaching out a hand, he held it directly underneath the muffin and tried to recall what it had felt like in the hospital when he’d shut off the monitors. He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing with concentration as he attempted to dredge up the memory. It was there, he knew. He could feel it at the edge of his consciousness, tantalizing him with the knowledge that only a slight push would give him the missing piece of the puzzle that was his new powers.

And so he strained; he struggled; he ran through every thought and emotion even remotely related to the event, every treatise he’d read on magical dampening fields, every scrap of information he possessed. He strove for result.

The muffin remained airborne.

Letting out a deep sigh, he resigned himself to the fact that this wasn’t going to be the moment and simply plucked the pastry from the air. “Not today, it would seem,” he remarked, his demeanor gloomy. God, I know that it is within Your permissive will that my patience be tested here, but I cannot help but wonder why. The knowledge that there was a reason, even if he did not know it, ought to have consoled him. Instead, he found himself frustrated by his ignorance, and disappointed in himself for his doubts.

“Don’t worry, Friar,” Twilight said. “I’m sure you’ll get it eventually.”

He gave her a dry smile. “I don’t doubt that, Lady Sparkle.” Or at least, I should not. “I simply find patience to be a difficult thing when darkness looms.” The remark came out more biting than intended, and he felt his own gloom spread throughout the room as the ponies and dragon were sobered by the reminder. Well done, Jacques. Next you can wander by the school and frighten the children. “Forgive me, my friends. I fear that patience is a virtue that I have always struggled with, and perfectionism is a familiar vice of mine. When patience falters and scruples multiply, my temper wears thinner than it ought.”

Spike chuckled and leaned against Twilight, munching around a mouthful of muffin. “You call that perfectionism? Hah! Trust me, dude. Twilight could teach classes on the subject.”

Twilight rolled her eyes and charged her horn. In a burst of light, she disappeared from where she’d stood and reappeared two feet to her left. The act dazzled Jacques every time he saw it, but this time it had the added effect of humor, as Spike yelped in shock before crashing onto the floor. His muffin went flying, but Twilight caught it with her magic before it suffered any damage.

“You shouldn’t beat yourself up, Friar. It won’t help anything. And, yes, I know it makes me a hypocrite to say that,” she said with a glare at the sheepish Spike as she returned his muffin, “but it’s still true.”

Jacques nodded, turning his own muffin in his hand without eating it. In truth, he wasn’t particularly hungry, as he was accustomed to fewer meals than his Equestrian friends, but he played it off as being lost in thought so as not to offend them. “I know that you speak the truth, but I admit to finding it difficult to relax.”

“Well,” cut in Rainbow, “I’ve got the perfect solution!” She made a series of rapid aerial loops that Jacques still struggled to follow even after days of acclimation before coming to a halt midair in a heroic pose. “Me and Applejack are about to lay the smackdown, and you're invited to watch!”

“Applejack and I,” corrected Twilight.

“Whatever.”

The mare’s bravado brought a smile to Jacques’ face. Several days of getting soundly thumped by the warriors and still she boasts. Henri would have liked her. He folded his arms and gave a mock severe look. “Lady Dash, are you certain that your intent is truly to help me to, as you say, chillax, and not simply to show off?”

Rainbow shrugged. “Eh. Two clouds, one buck.”

Chuckling, he nodded. “I suppose that it would be a welcome distraction and a practical one, as I must familiarize myself with equine combat.” He collected his walking stick and headed for the door, discretely passing his muffin to Spike as he passed. “Allons-y.”

Applejack grimaced and shifted in her borrowed armor. As a farmer, she was no stranger to physical discomfort, but it hadn’t taken long for the alien attire to start pinching her in new and inventive ways. Within minutes, she’d developed a profound respect for everypony who wore steel plates on a daily basis and resolved to never again take the stoic stances of the palace guards for granted.

“How in the hay do ya’ll fight in these tin tuxedos?” she demanded, tugging at one of the straps to loosen it.

Fritters approached and, with a jerk of his magic, firmly re-tightened it. “Well, for starters, we strive to put it on correctly. Honestly, Applejack, armor doesn’t do you any good if you leave gaps in the plates for blades to pierce your hide.” Finding that she’d loosened many of her straps in the minutes since Song had helped her get dressed, Fritters clicked his tongue in annoyance and set about tightening everything.

The two of them stood out by the same arena that had been used for sparring the last few days. Song and Marble were a few yards away, chatting amiably with Redheart, Medevac, and Ironhide while Oaken bandied words with the other Apples. All the soldiers, minus Oaken, were armored and armed with practice weapons, awaiting the arrival of Rainbow Dash and whatever guests she might bring.

Applejack was thankful for the delay, as it gave her yet another opportunity to voice her concerns. It had been one thing sparring with (and mostly losing to) the various soldier ponies the past week. It was another thing entirely to fight in armor, and she chafed under the plates for reasons that she couldn’t quite express. “Ah still think it’s a bit cumbersome,” she protested. “Armor don’t do me much good if’n Ah can’t move.”

The unicorn snorted, unimpressed. “Don’t give me that talk, plow horse. If I can get used to moving with the weight, you can. Trust me; once you get used to the weight, it’s like a second skin.”

“It ain’t the weight, Fritters. It’s the flexibility.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find that you can be plenty mobile in this ‘tin tuxedo,’” he smiled. “And, if not,” she yelped as he tightened one strap with a sudden jerk, “at least it will amuse me watching you try.”

The glare she shot him was calculated to stop a raging bull in its tracks. She knew because she’d done just that during one particularly eventful little adventure out west of Appleloosa. It seemed that Fritters was made of sterner stuff than the bull, or at least was a poorer judge of mood, because he was unmoved by the display. “Don’t give me that look,” he chided her. “You’re not sore because the armor chafes or anything like that.”

“And just what am Ah sore about?” she demanded, half-snarling.

To her surprise, his expression shifted from teasing to sympathetic. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the others were engrossed in their own conversations before quietly answering, “Well, I can’t say for sure, but I suspect you don’t like thinking about why you might need armor someday.”

Applejack inhaled sharply.

Fritters smiled kindly. “I’m perceptive remember? There’s no shame in such fears, so long as they don’t master us.” He rapped her peytral with an armored hoof. “And, once you accept the armor as your aid, it will help with that.”

The farm mare let out a long breath, reaching up to push back her helmet. She’d chosen the wide-brimmed ‘kettle hat’ because it reminded her of an armored stetson, and that familiar shape was a much-needed touchstone of comfort at the moment. And he was kind enough ta get it for me, so Ah guess that earns him some points. “Ah reckon yer right,” she admitted. “No point in runnin’ from somethin’ that’ll keep me safer.”

“Jesteś mądry! Smart!,” he commended her. “And it really will keep you much safer. When you’re wearing plate like this, there are really only three ways to die. First,” he boinked her snout with his hoof and ignored her answering growl, “you get hit somewhere the armor isn’t.”

“Obviously,” she snapped, rubbing her muzzle.

“Second, you get hit with something that just doesn’t care about the armor, like magic that ignores the plate or an impact that sends you flying or a heavy hit from a blunt weapon. Of course,” he tapped his own armor, “Guard armor has enchantments to dull impacts and ablate most combat magic, so you’re still safer in it than out of it, even in a lightning storm.”

Applejack remembered how the squad of Solar Guards who’d been struck with lightning by Nightmare Moon had survived the night with only minor injuries. When she and the other Bearers were getting checked over in the hospital the morning after the Nightmare Night ‘Incident,’ Redheart had told her that, ironically, the metal had saved the Guards from death by electrocution thanks to its enchantments.

The thought was enough to endear her to armor somewhat.

“Third,” continued Fritters, “you can die by something piercing the armor. A crossbow bolt or a hefty spear thrust can punch through,” he jabbed a hoof at her torso unexpectedly and drove her back a pace, “as could a good hearty swing from a massive sword or axe, especially if it hits on the wrong part of the suit or has a Big Mac-sized gentlecolt doing the swinging. Even then, though, an off-center hit on the armor will probably just glance off, whereas it might kill or cripple you without armor. Strikes that are too light and lack the mass or the force to penetrate will just bounce off entirely.” He smirked. “Which is always fun when you’re close enough to see the other guy and he realizes just how hosed he is.”

Applejack tilted her head in confusion. “So how come when yer sparrin’ Song’s knives tend to count as lethal hits even against armor? They ain’t that heavy. Ah got a hard time picturin’ them punchin’ through the plate even if’n they were sharp.”

“Well, one, Song’s a strong little pony,” said Fritters as he stepped back, gave Applejack a critical visual inspection, then nodded, apparently satisfied that she was properly attired. “And, two, her practice daggers don’t exactly do the real deal any justice. Each of her combat blades was forged by three master smiths - an earth pony, a unicorn, and a pegasus - to gain the metallurgic and magical skills of all three races. They’re ultra-dense, which makes them heavy for their size, and enchanted to hold a very keen edge. They more or less turn her into a walking crossbow with a good singing voice and a penchant for caring about unit morale.”

Applejack raised an eyebrow. “Those fancy knives can’t ‘ave been cheap.”

Fritters shrugged. “You’d have to ask her about that. What I will say is she used to have a nice house and a thriving practice, and now she lives in bachelorette housing at Fort Brag as though she were a hopeless career degenerate like me.” He grasped Applejack’s helmet in his magic and adjusted the strap to fit more snugly on her head. “Make of that what you will.”

It was at that point that a certain rainbow pegasus decided to make her appearance, buzzing the Acres and coming in for a screeching halt six inches from Fritters’ face. “The Dash has arrived!” she declared.

“‘The Dash’ is out of uniform,” replied Fritters, nonplussed. With his magic hefted Rainbow’s kit bag from where she’d left it before leaving to find Twilight, Jacques, and Spike. “I trust you found them, seeing as how you’re a half hour later than you said you’d be?”

“Well, yeah,” huffed Rainbow, “I mean, it only took me so long because—oomph!” Her knees buckled as he dropped her kit bag on her back.

“Given that we’re behind schedule, why don’t you take this opportunity to suit up, Flight Officer,” suggested the colour sergeant in a laconic tone that suggested that it wasn’t a suggestion.

Rainbow cleared her throat and straightened up hastily. “Um, yeah, sure,” she said before zipping off behind one of the sheds. Shortly thereafter, Applejack heard the sounds of zippers, clanking metal, velcro, and what she could have sworn were power tools. Dash reappeared ten seconds later, fully kitted in her light Air Corps armor and a smug expression.

Applejack couldn’t help but be impressed. “Wow, Dash. Ah know yer fast an’ all, but that’s still impressive.”

The pegasus preened. “What, you thought we just painted each other’s hooves in Basic instead of learning actual combat skills?”

“Combat skills that taught you to put on your combat wingblades for sparring?” asked Fritters innocently, indicating the sharpened blades. Rainbow turned beat red before vanishing behind the shed again. Applejack guffawed and Fritters gave her a dry grin. “Don’t let the Air Head fool you, Applejack. Half of what they teach in the EAC is pedicures. The other half is how to eat cake while the ground pounders do all the work.”

“Ah’m sensin’ some rivalry there.”

“Maybe just a bit.” He gestured to a long-bladed practice sword that leaned against the nearby fence. “Might I recommend that Madam l’Applejack limber up before the spectators arrive?”

Applejack chuckled in spite of herself and collected her weapon of choice. The greatsword was a fearsome-looking weapon, with a massive double-edged blade and a hilt long enough that it could almost have been classified as a polearm (or so she’d been told).

The weapon had caught her eye the first day that the REF ponies had presented a rack of practice weapons requisitioned from their unit in Canterlot. Something about its heft had just felt right to her. When Twilight had gone on to note that, historically, two-hooved weapons like the greatsword had been favored by earth ponies for generations, it had just confirmed her decision. The farm mare was still getting used to the stances and swings, but, for all the bruises the soldiers had given her, she felt that she was making great progress. Ah’ve won some matches here an’ there. Better with bare hooves than the sword, but Ah’ll get the hang of it.

Hefting the blunted weapon, she began practicing with the blade, focusing on her form and technique. Fritters took a few steps back to allow her room to swing and, after a time, began calling out blade positions and critiquing her form. “…Alber…. Pflug…. Ochs... Hälfte Pflug… Alber…Nebenhut… Keep your point out of the dirt, AJ… Better… Pflug… Vom Tag. No, no, no,” he tutted. “Your posture is off. Too much weight on the back hoof.”

“This ain’t exactly a natural posture ta hold fer long!” she shot back. Vom Tag involved rearing onto her back hooves to position the blade above her head. Her balance had always been good, thanks in part to her experience boxing, but holding the weight of the blade over her head like that made Vom Tag her weakest position by far.

“Try positioning the blade over your right shoulder rather than your head,” suggested a fancy-accented voice from behind. Applejack twisted her head to see that Jacques had arrived, with Twilight and Spike in tow. “You will find the strikes to be slightly weaker and shorter-ranged than when held over your head, but quicker and more deceptive to your opponent as well. When wielding my blade two-handed, I always preferred the shoulder version of Vom Tag, since Arabs and Turks tended to be smaller and more agile opponents.”

Applejack shifted to reposition the blade and found it to be much more comfortable. “Hey, that ain’t half bad, Friar. Still feels as unnatural as permafrost in July, but it’s better than feelin’ like a ballgown at a barnraising.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” chuckled Jacques. “Who are you fighting today?”

She gestured to Ironhide, who was also limbering up. “Iron first. No sure after that.”

He motioned for her to come to the fence. “Then, if I may offer some advice…” She trotted over and he leaned against the fence post like a coach at a boxing ring, speaking in low tones. “Speed is likely preferable for the upcoming fight. The unicorn’s telekinesis allows him to set the tempo of a fight to be as fast as he wants. You’ll need to be able to swiftly slide from one position to the next to sweep aside your enemy’s attacks and work your blade underneath his defenses. Motion and leverage are your allies; you want to pivot in such a way as to slide from a block into a strike and back with as few extraneous movements as possible. Like so.”

Stepping back from the fence, he used his walking stick as a mock sword, demonstrating how to fluidly shift through stances and positions while both attacking and defending. Sweet Celestia, he’s movin’ well, she thought with admiration. Wouldn’t ‘ave wanted to tango with ‘im in ‘is prime! Once he’d finished, he rejoined her at the fence. “You remember what I taught you about fighting an opponent who bears a shield, I trust?”

Applejack nodded. “Heavy strikes to push him back, precision strikes ta get around it, an’ sweeps ta hit anything exposed.”

He smiled and lightly tapped her on the helmet, the equivalent of paternally ruffling her hair. “You’re a quick study, jeune fermière. Fight well, Applejack!”

She turned around to see Fritters glaring at the old knight in mock irritation. “You trying to poach my pupil, Sir Jacques?”

“I don’t know. Are you claiming to know more of the art of the sword than a man who’s practiced it for the better part of sixty winters?” replied Jacques merrily.

“Touché.” He winked at Applejack. “Knock ‘em dead, AJ. Show this Nightie what Fritters has been teachin’ ya.”

Applejack took a deep breath and stepped forward to the center of the ring. Here goes nothing. The rest of the ponies vacated the pen, save for Ironhide, her opponent, and Marble, the referee. The squat pegasus nodded to both of them. “I’ll go over the rules for today’s bout real quick, and then we can start. Sound good?”

“Make sure you use small words so the Nightie can follow!” heckled Medevac from the ringside.

Ironhide smirked to Applejack. “Ignore him. He’s just jealous because Marines aren’t allowed to stay up as late as we are.”

Medevac pulled off his prosthetic leg and shouldered it like a club. “I call next fight.”

“If I could just get to the rules,” interrupted Marble with a glare at both stallions, “we can get started.” The pair fell silent. “Thank you. This is going to be a straight melee fight. Ironhide is permitted to use magic only for weapon handling, and no more. Clear?”

Applejack nodded, shifting into Hälfte Pflug, the version of the ‘plow’ stance wherein she gripped the sword the crook of one hoof like a spear while standing planted on the remaining three legs. “Gotcha.”

Ironhide remained on all fours, wielding arming sword and kite shield in his magic. “Check.”

“Very good,” said Marble, taking to the air and hovering a few feet away. Applejack and Ironhide respectfully clacked their practice blades against each other in salute before resuming their ready stances. “Redheart, want to count us off?”

The nurse hemmed and hawed at the suggestion. “I don’t know… given that I’m mostly here to patch up anypony who gets hurt, I feel like it might be a conflict of interest if I—”

“Three-two-one-go!” interrupted Medevac.

Applejack decided to interpret that as the signal and lunged forward, seeking an early victory by striking at Ironhide’s head. The stallion had hesitated at Medevac’s questionable countdown, but recovered quickly, blocking with his shield. Applejack let the momentum of her attack carry her forward, shifting both forehooves onto her hilt as she did so and sweeping the greatsword around in a low cut aimed at Ironhide’s legs. Once more, he blocked the attack with his shield, and this time he retaliated with a slash from his own sword. The farm mare pulled her sword back, sliding one hoof down the blade to wield the weapon in the ‘half-sword’ style, gripping it by both hilt and blade. She caught the blow on the flat of the sword, braced with her hindlegs, and pushed back, thrusting his sword away. With his weapon temporarily out of the way, she shifted from a horizontal push into a lateral stab and attempted to sneak her point over the top of his shield.

Of course, Ironhide had been doing this for far longer, so he blocked with his shield before she could do any damage and followed up by whipping his sword around with his magic and thrusting at her side. Only her armor saved her from an early ejection from the match, as his sword clattered harmlessly off her plates. Still, the attack forced her back and yielded the initiative to him. He advanced swiftly, and she was hard pressed to deflect all his strikes. The value of her armor quickly became apparent, as without it she’d have been too busy blocking to counterattack.

Even so, she struggled to change the tempo of the fight back to something in her favor. It’s that blasted shield! she thought with familiar irritation. If Ah could just take care o’ that, Ah could take care o’ him! Ah’ve beaten him before, an’ Ah can do it again if Ah can take care o’ that confounded shield!

The only problem was that Ironhide didn’t seem willing to let that happen. The few times she’d beaten him in days past she’d simply used her superior strength to run roughshod over him and bash his shield aside. Unfortunately, he seemed to have learned from those experiences, and he’d been very careful today to deflect the force of her blows off the shield rather than simply taking the abuse. An’ Ah think he mighta been takin’ it easy on me before today, she realized a split second before his sword snuck past her guard and clattered against her helm. She stumbled back, falling into a defensive stance as he advanced on her.

“Break his grip, Applejack!” shouted Jacques from the sidelines. “Break his grip!”

“Easy for you to say, Friar,” grumbled the farm mare, spitting out the flecks of sweat that had dribbled into her mouth. She glared at Ironhide’s gleaming horn. How can Ah break his grip when he’s got—

It was at that moment that three things happened at once. The first was that Applejack’s fighting instincts came up with an audacious plan of action. The second was that Ironhide lunged forward, swinging downward at her head. The third was that her instincts determined that her audacious plan was the only way that she was getting out of this and elected to unilaterally put the plan into action without consulting the rest of her mental faculties.

Applejack moved into the path of his attack, wielding her weapon half-sword style. Like before she caught his strike on the blade between her two forehooves. But, rather than pushing off like before, she twisted inwards, catching his sword with her crossguard and bringing them both around and down to hoof over the top of his shield. Now his armaments were tangled up with hers, with her crossguard hooking them both, her blade extending behind her like a pool cue held back for thrusting, and the pommel of her sword pointed towards him like a cue’s tip. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes as he attempted to untangle his sword, but before he could she executed the second half of her plan. With her considerable strength she thrust her pommel forward—

Straight into his horn.

Warrior unicorns were fully capable of impaling opponents upon their horns. It was by no means a weak instrument, and, had he not been actively channeling magic, the blow would have done little damage. Ironhide was actively channeling magic when the blow hit, however, and the painful backlash of the forcibly disrupted spell sent him reeling backwards as he dropped his weapons.

With his training, it would not be long before he recovered, but it was all the opening Applejack needed. She pounced on him, bearing him forcibly to the ground and menacing his head with the upraised butt of her greatsword. Ironhide did the only thing he could reasonably do under the circumstances.

He yielded.

The soldier tapped a hoof lightly against one of her legs as he stared crookedly up at her. “Nice moves.”

Applejack stepped off him, offering him one forehoof while she leaned on her sword with the other. “You weren’t so bad yerself.”

Hooves pounded dirt and whistles and cheers filled the air.

“Way to go, AJ! That was awesome!”

“Nice job, Applejack! That’s one for my notes!”

“Yer the rootin-est tooten-est cowpony swordfighter in Ponyville, sis!”

“Eeyup!”

“Ya did mah old heart proud, little Applejack!”

“Bravo! Bravo! Well done, Applejack!” cried Medevac with a butchered mockery Trottingham accent. “A finish with a pommel strike! Marvelous of you to end him rightly!”

“Nay, foul knave!” called Fritters in an even more butchered Trottingham accent as he trotted over to give Applejack a congratulatory hoof bump. “‘Tis when she hurls the pommel of her blade at him from afar that she endeth him rightly!”

Applejack wiped sweat from her brow and sat, realizing that she was panting. “Ah can do that?”

Song also approached, tossing Applejack a water bottle, which the farm mare gratefully drank. “Oh, absolutely,” said the alabaster mare. “Old-fashioned earth pony ingenuity. Just unscrew the pommel and chuck it. Or, in your case, buck it.”

Ironhide chuckled as he accepted a water bottle from Marble. “I’d be a little terrified to face a bucked pommel from you, Applejack. With a kick like yours it’d probably go clean through my head.”

Applejack felt a little queasy at the prospect and masked her discomfort with another drink of water. Fritters seemed to notice anyway, if the narrowing of his eyes was any indication. He put a smile on his face and patted her withers. “Don’t worry, Applejack. He’s a Nightie. It’d just go in one ear and out the other, missing his brain cell cleanly.” His tone was light, but the look in his eyes was a gentle one, and she smiled gratefully.

Ironhide, on the other hoof, appeared less than amused. “Go chew a magic missile.”

Fritters glared at the other unicorn. “What was that, Private?”

“Go chew a magic missile, Colour Sergeant,” corrected Ironhide.

“Better.” He gestured to the fence where the spectators were gathered. “Shall we gather at the ringside and, oh what is it you rustic types say, talk goose?”

“Turkey,” replied Applejack, one eyebrow raised in irritation. “It’s talk turkey, and you know darn well it’s talk turkey.”

“Po-tay-to, to-mah-to,” he said as he led the way over to the fence.

What Fritters had meant by ‘talk turkey’ had been to gather everypony (everycreature, she corrected mentally) and discuss how the two combatants had fought, both good and bad. The Konik typically led these meetings, despite the fact that Song was the senior trooper present. That had surprised Applejack initially, until Song had explained that the REF was somewhat flexible with who took the lead in different situations. Whoever the specialist was tended to have the floor and, when it came to combat, Fritters was the expert among experts. Though Ah suspect ole Jacques might be able to give ‘im a run for ‘is money, she thought with a glance at the Friar.

The meetings were densely informative, with everypony taking mental (and, in Twilight’s case, physical) notes. It was a refreshing change of pace for Applejack that most of what was said of her today was complementary. With the exception of when she’d gotten to fight exclusively unarmed, her victories had been vanishing rare, and she was abundantly pleased with herself after today’s performance. As for Ironhide, the easy-going stallion was a good sport about it, and seemed more interested in learning from his defeat than anything else. Fritters, for his part, showed remarkable restraint when it came to ribbing the Lunar Guard.

Right up until the end.

“Now, I know it might be a difficult concept for you to understand, but you might consider taking an advanced combat course on ducking to avoid a similar defeat in the future,” he advised deadpan. “I hear they have picture books for it now, so you should be able to handle it.”

Rainbow Dash and Medevac joined Applebloom and Spike in snickering like naughty foals at that. Applejack swatted the colour sergeant’s barding and indicated the children with a tilt of her head. “Hey, quit corruptin’ the youth,” she chided him.

“To be fair,” cut in Twilight, “I’ve heard worse out of you and Rainbow when you get competitive.”

The cyan pegasus chuckled. “Darn right you have!”

“In any case,” continued Fritters, undeterred by the interruption. “I think we all know the real reason you lost is because you went up against a certain somepony’s star pupil.” He struck a dramatic pose and polished a hoof against his peytral.

Ironhide smirked, sensing an opportunity for retribution. “You’re right, Colour Sergeant. I should have known better than to fight somepony taught by Friar Jacques.”

Fritters’ eyes bulged. Rainbow whistled softly. “Ooh, he got you good, dude.”

Jacques’ hearty baritone laughter shook the air, and the monk stepped forward to stand next to Applejack, patting her on the head as he twirled his mustache. “It would seem I owe you an apology, mon ami, for t'would appear that nefariously I stole your pupil after all!”

Fritters twisted to give Jacques a baleful (and utterly artificial) glare. “Fie on you, sirrah!” he cried, once more adopting his horrific Trottingham accent. “I demand of thee satisfaction for your treachery!”

Marble leaned over to Song and muttered, “Captain Argent’s gonna demand satisfaction of him if he keeps butchering her accent like that.” The mare nodded sagely.

Jacques grinned down at the ‘incensed’ stallion. “Are you challenging me then, young colt?”

“Verily!”

The friar chuckled and tossed his cane to a startled Big MacIntosh. “Very well,” he said, seizing Applejack’s sword from where it leaned against the fence and hefting it over one shoulder, a fierce gleam in his eye. “I accept.”

Author's Note

Aura glanced up from the manuscript she was reading. "Shouldn't you be running from the mob or something?"

Antiquarian waved her off dismissively and sat back in his office chair. "They were very understanding the last time I was in the hospital, and just as understanding this time around. In fact, I think one of my doctors was part of the mob. Which might explain the food," he added under his breath. "Anyway, they understand the delay."

"If you say so," she said skeptically, setting the manuscript down.

"Well, what did ya think?"

"The only thing I really questioned was when Spike said that he and Jacques 'talked male.' What's all that about?"

"You know, talking male," replied Antiquarian with a shrug. "It's that thing guys do where we have complex conversations without words." Aura raised an eyebrow. "What, I'm dead serious, it's--"

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. A lanky blonde unicorn ducked his head in, tilting it to the side quizzically. "Eh?" he said.

Antiquarian gestured to the manuscript and waggled his hoof back and forth. "Uh. Ah."

The blonde unicorn nodded. "Uh huh." He indicated the floor with his snout. "Nuh."

"Yah huh," replied Antiquarian. Both waved, and the other stallion left.

Aura blinked several times, then turned her inquisitive gaze to Antiquarian. "What was all that about?"

"Oh, X-Ray was just popping his head in to see if I was going to be ready to head to the bar soon. I told him we were wrapping up with the manuscript and would be about four or five minutes. He said he'd meet me in the lobby, I said okay, and that was that."

Aura's eyes narrowed.

"What?"

They narrowed into a glare.

"What? What?"

The secretary rolled her eyes and stalked out with the manuscript. "I'll have this sent off while you and your buddy have a good laugh at my expense."

"Wha-- Aura, I'm not making this up! Wait! Aura!"

***

Listen, the ancient male language of Gruntish is a real thing. It's a historical fact.

Anyway, as I alluded to, I got hospitalized again over the weekend, except this time it wasn't for anything deliberate like a surgery. I got real sick, and it wasn't the sort of sick where there's a slow build. You know, the sickness shows up, insults your lady friend, shoves you, you shove him, he decks you, you fight, he puts you on the ground and beats on you until the medics show up and run him off.

That's not what happened to me. This was more like walking past a third story window and getting tackled out of it onto a parked car, only to watch in shock and pain as the sickness ran off down the street whooping like the three stooges.

And if you think that analogy is weird, cut me some slack. I thought of it in a hospital.

I'm better now, but it's still a weird experience to go from 'fine' to 'I need to go to the hospital' in two and a half hours flat. My two main nurses were fantastic people, though, and the whole experience really brought my message from 'My Neighbor' back to me, which was poetic and humbling in a way. Be nice to your nurses, folks. They but up with waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too much crap, to the point that me just being not-a-jerk led to profuse thanks from a string of nurses and techs. Let's all help each other be a little better.

Anyway, people have been asking for more Jacques and... yeah. I was planning on all this even before people said anything, but I would like to remind everyone that what comes next is a great example of 'be careful what you wish--'

... you know what, you'll find out.

Shoutout goes to The Farmer's Daughter by Cillerenda. It's just... it's just beautiful and you should read it.

Jump to top

Limitations

“Absolutely not!” shouted Redheart.

Jacques didn’t bother to slow his warm-up routine. Stretching before battle is vital, after all, he reflected. “Absolutely not what, little sister?” he asked, his tone innocent.

“You absolutely will not be sparring with that maniac in your condition!” She glanced apologetically at Fritters. “No offense, Krucjata.”

Fritters put a hoof to his heart and shook his head sorrowfully. “Ah, the truth stings.”

The friar continued running through the different sword stances, pleased by the balance of the practice blade and gratified to see how well he was moving. “Redheart, know that I have nothing but respect for you when I say this, but you are as cautious as a first-time mother with a sickly newborn. While I appreciate your concern, my ‘condition’ is excellent.” He left off limbering up to flex his arm several times. “I can honestly say that I haven’t felt this spry in forty years.”

Redheart fixed him with a severe look. “How you feel now doesn’t change how you will feel if Fritters puts you on your rear and you break something!”

Setting his lips in a thin line, Jacques met her gaze levelly. “My stitches have been out for days, my ‘vitals’ as you call them have been excellent, and, in my own honest evaluation, I feel like a man nearly a third my age, and an abundantly fit one at that. I need to test the limits of my new abilities some time, and now seems as good a day as any. I’m sparring.”

The nurse sat, throwing up her forelegs in frustration. “Males! Medevac, talk some sense into him!”

Medevac’s pupils shrank and he scratched the back of his head, giving a nervous laugh. “Now, Red, don’t hate me for saying this, buuuut…”

She turned to glare at him. “Don’t tell me you agree with him!”

“He can’t stay out of the game forever,” said Medevac with a shrug. “The way I see it, better to do it while we’re here to monitor than let him do something reckless while we’re not.”

“Medevac!”

“Fine,” snorted the retired Marine. “You want me to talk stallion-to-man with him? I’ll do that!” Looking up at Jacques, Medevac raised one eyebrow and grunted, “Uhn?” his gaze flicking over to indicate Redheart as he did so. Jacques understood and shook his head. Medevac nodded and turned to Redheart. “He says he’s fighting anyway and there’s nothing you can do to stop him.”

The white-furred nurse turned red. “Horse—” she glanced over and saw Applebloom and Spike looking at her, and finished, “—droppings! You didn’t say anything!”

“Yes he did,” chorused Medevac, Spike, and all four of the assembled male soldiers.

“Eeyup,” agreed Big MacIntosh.

Song picked that moment to interject. “Redheart, I understand your concerns, but I believe you may have to let this one slide.” The nurse regarded her with shock, mutely demanding an explanation with her horrified gaze. “I’m not saying that I’m entirely comfortable with it myself,” explained Song, “but Friar Jacques does raise some excellent points, and he’s his own man regardless.”

Fritters, who had been stripping off his armor while the debate ran, picked that moment to speak up. “Don’t worry, Doc, I’ll go easy on him.”

Jacques shot him a censorious glance. “You most certainly will not, young colt. If I am to test the limits of my magic, and hopefully provoke it to do what I intend, then you must fight me earnestly.”

“Of course!” chirped Twilight. “I suspected you had an ulterior motive beyond simply sparring. It’s a legitimate theory – if danger or perceived danger has activated your abilities in the past, then a sparring match might be the best way to activate them now. Ooh! I wonder if it will affect the experiment that you anticipate the danger, and whether that will make it more likely to work or less likely? The Hoofenberg Uncertainty Principal would seem to indicate the latter, but then that more generally applies to the study of unicorn magic, which may not be an exact analog to…” she trailed off into complex jargon that, if the bemused looks of every other pony present were any indication, no one else understood.

Except for Big MacIntosh, noted Jacques with some surprise as the silent stallion nodded along to Twilight’s musings, periodically rumbling ‘Eeyup’ with the conviction of genuine comprehension. Exactly what manner of yeoman is he to be so knowledgeable? he wondered. And how came he by this learning?

“Come on, Red,” Rainbow was saying. Jacques forced himself to set aside his speculations and rejoin the conversation. “The guy’s pumped for a fight. Let him have this. He’s too awesome to get banged up over something like this.”

Redheart shot the pegasus an arch look. “If awesomeness is a benchmark for avoiding injury, what does that imply about how often I’ve had you on a gurney?”

Rainbow Dash stammered over a response and fell silent.

“Still,” sighed Redheart, putting a hoof over her eyes, “I suppose it’s hard to argue if everypony’s so dead set on letting this happen. And,” she admitted, “Jacques does have a point.”

“You don’t have to sound so grudging about it,” teased Medevac.

“Hush,” she snapped. “I’m still mad at you.”

His smile was unconcerned. “Duly noted.”

Letting down her hoof, Redheart gave Jacques a pleading look, “Just… please promise me you’ll be careful. I really don’t want to see you get hospitalized again.”

Jacques had gotten more accustomed to the unfairly adorable nature of his pony companions over the last few days, but the sight of her wide-eyed look of care and concern tugged so severely at his heartstrings that he almost changed his mind. Steeling his soul to duty, he made humor his shield and a cavalier tone his sword. “But I rather miss our bedside chats over hospital food,” he said with a smile.

Redheart didn’t laugh. “Jacques, please.”

Sobered by her concern, Jacques stepped over and crouched to be closer to her eye-level. “I promise to be careful,” he said contritely, putting a hand to her cheek and allowing her to nuzzle it in the manner of her people. “You are kind to show such concern for an old fool like me, little sister.” She smiled gratefully. “Though,” he added, his smirk returning as he stood back up, “if you want to get a hospital bed ready for this young buck over here…”

“Young colt,” corrected Fritters, who had now shed his armor. “If you’re going to insult me, at least get the species right.”

“Pardonne-moi. You are so skinny and brown that I mistook you for a deer.”

“Ooooh!” shouted Marble. “You just got burned, son!”

Fritters glared at the pegasus. “Shut up, fun-size.”

“Uugh!” groaned Rainbow Dash, flying over between Jacques and Fritters. “Enough chit-chat! Could we please make with the fighting?!”

Jacques gestured to the ring. “Shall we?”

Fritters nodded. “Let’s.”

“The rules of the bout are simple,” Marble droned as Fritters pumped his legs in place. “The two combatants are permitted to use…”

Fritters tuned the rest out. The rules had been quite clearly outlined ahead of the match, and what they essentially amounted to was that they were the same as in the fight between Applejack and Ironhide, with the additional stipulations that Jacques was permitted to use any magic he could activate and that Fritters could gradually increase his own magical use in direct proportion; in the meantime he couldn’t use his telekinesis to wield his spearheads like floating weapons unless they were tethered to his immediate area. This, among other things, prohibited the use of his Surge ability unless Jacques managed to abruptly unlock hidden depths of power. Which, while a cool thought and the ultimate goal, is highly unlikely. So, rather than hear the rules again, Fritters elected to size up his opponent.

Jacques held himself in the ochs stance, the hilt of the greatsword poised at head level with the point forward. It was a flexible stance that let the friar quickly cover and attack from a variety of angles, and the way he held the blade made it clear that he was comfortable doing so. Not that I expected any less.

The greatsword had the potential to be a challenge for Fritters. While such long blades were difficult to master, those who managed it were among the few who could challenge a spear fighter, or even multiple spear fighters, and hold their own. Most swords were incredibly vulnerable to spears, polearms, and the like. They had inferior reach, inferior ability to rapidly shift points of attack, inferior mass, and inferior defensive abilities. In an unarmored fight, a moderately competent pony with a spear could generally best even a skilled swordpony seven times out of ten. This was chiefly because the spearpony could use the long shaft to fight at either short or long range by various means, whereas the swordpony had to close the distance to strike his opponent (and do so without getting skewered or cut along the way). His only other option was to grapple the spear or strike the lead hoof of the spearpony, but that was no easy task against a warrior who knew how to handle his spear. Now, when the swordpony has a shield, things get much more challenging, but even without my special talent for spears and lances I’d take a spear over a shieldless arming sword nine times out of ten. There was a reason that spears were the chosen Main Battle Weapon of the Guard – in most cases, they were flatly superior to swords.

Greatswords, zweihänders, flambards, and other such two-hooved blades were the exception. In the hooves of a skilled blademaster, the big swords were spear-breakers. They had the mass and motion to sweep aside spear strikes in fights against multiple opponents, the length to be wielded like spears in one-on-one engagements, and the keen edge to chop away at spear shafts, leaving the weapons vulnerable to breaking. Granted, it took multiple hits to the right spot, and the metal langets of the spearhead were designed to prevent just that, but it was still a consideration, especially when fighting opponents with significant strength. There was a reason the earth pony warriors of old had employed such weapons against the spears of pegasi and unicorns. They worked.

Still, the greatsword was not necessarily superior to the spear, and he’d bested the flambards of minotaur champions on more than one occasion. Indeed, he relished the challenge even as he prepared for trouble. How much trouble he’d get would depend more heavily on the friar’s skill as a warrior than anything else.

And Jacques looks… calm. The friar’s half-smile betrayed no concern. He stood lightly on his sandaled feet, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice, but if there was anything in his grey gaze beyond tranquility, normal eyes could not perceive it.

Fortunately, I’ve never been called ‘normal.’ Fritters took a closer look with his True Sight, and what he saw made him blink.

The friar needed this fight. He yearned for it with the battle-lust of a young hussar riding the winds to Viennhoof, the fierce light of war blazing behind his cool exterior.

Alright, Friar, thought Fritters as the two of them tapped weapons respectfully. I respect that.

“Three…” called out Marble.

Truly I do.

“Two…”

In fact, I respect it so much…

“One…”

…that I’m not going to go easy on you.

“Go!”

Fritters lunged forward in a bipedal stance, gripping his spear with both forehooves, anticipating that it would take a firm grip to avoid getting disarmed by Jacques’ heavy swings. He was right. When he feinted a head strike before aiming a stab at the thigh, Jacques batted the spearhead aside with such force that Fritters would have lost his weapon if he’d wielded it one-hoofed. He was forced to bring his weapon in close and deflect a sweeping cut with the cross-tree of his spear.

The friar shifted his grip to half-sword and wielded the blade like a spear, matching Fritters in a series of thrusts and parries. The friar was fast; so fast that it was all Fritters could do to fend off the flurry of strikes. Counter-attacking would have been out of the question against such an onslaught if not for one thing:

Jacques’ strikes were uncontrolled.

Well, they’re somewhat controlled, amended Fritters as a late parry almost earned him a jab to the skull. He’s so fast that I almost can’t keep pace, but it seems like he can’t either. He watched Jacques’ eyes as they sparred and noticed that the Hospitaller seemed equally surprised. If I had to hazard a guess, the old boy isn’t this fast where he comes from. He doesn’t have a handle on his magic yet.

Some might have argued that this was grounds for stopping the fight so that Jacques could become more used to his speed, but Fritters didn’t even consider it. ‘Learn by doing,’ my father used to say. He parried a stab and then struck at Jacques’ shins, forcing the friar to dance back. I’m such a good son.

Jacques’ cuts and thrusts might have over-extended him at times, but he was too experienced a combatant to let his speed go completely to waste. Whenever he struck too far, he’d cover himself with the base of his weapon while he brought the point of his sword back, often using the opportunity to strike at the unicorn on the backswing. Fritters was starting to feel like he was fighting a high-strung pegasus with an earth pony’s clout. And, if I’m being honest, he thought as a heavy strike against the spear shaft rattled his grip, I’m a little rusty on fighting big bipeds.

Both fighters repeatedly came within a hair’s breadth of ending the match with a ‘lethal’ hit, but each time the intended victim managed to dodge or deflect the blow. More than once Jacques attempted to seize Fritters’ spearshaft and yank it away, but Fritters was always prepared and pulled back. Whenever this happened, he would attempt to counter-strike while Jacques was getting both hands back on his sword, but the friar would simply cover himself one-handed until he could resume his full grip. The seconds ticked by as the fight extended into a stalemate.

Then disaster struck. Jacques managed to catch Fritters’ spearpoint on his crossguard and twist, entangling the two weapons. The friar jammed his hilt out at an angle, which left his point aimed at Fritter’s center-of-mass while the business-end of the unicorn’s weapon aimed at nothing but air. Jacques grinned. Fritters blanched. Horsebuckets.

The friar stabbed straight for Fritter’s barrel. Desperately, Fritters thrust with his entangled spear against the sword hilt, hoping to throw off Jacques’ aim long enough for the unicorn to draw one of his spearheads with magic.

He drew the sidearm just in time. Before the sword could connect, Fritters managed to catch the side of the incoming blade with his freshly-drawn spearhead and shove hard to the side. The sidearm didn’t have anything approaching the mass or momentum of the greatsword, but Fritters managed to turn the strike aside. Fritters felt Jacques’ blunted blade pass through his coarse fur close enough to caress his skin.

Now it was Jacques’ turn for disaster. His as-yet-uncontrolled power caused him to overextend on the thrust, jabbing his swordpoint into the ground. Before the Hospitaller could retract the blade, Fritters dropped his spear, stomping on the swordblade with one forehoof while he drew his second sidearm with the other. Pushing off the hard-packed dirt, he sprang up the length of the greatsword, spearhead upraised for the finishing blow.

He cannoned into Jacques, but the friar slid one leg back and braced, dropping his sword to grapple with the unicorn. He caught Fritters by the neck, holding the konik away from his chest. The human staggered, only barely staying upright. Fritters attempted to bring the spearhead down and strike at Jacques’ shoulder while the old knight was recovering, but Jacques freed one hand to intercept Fritters’ hoof and grasp it tight. Rather than try, and fail, to break through the man’s superior strength, Fritters simply called up the first spearhead with his magic and thrust at the friar’s other side.

Jacques saw the stabbing blade coming and released Fritters’ neck to catch the spearhead by its socket. The unicorn winced as he dangled by one foreleg. Here comes the anti-magic, he thought, bracing himself for the painful magical backlash that would come when the friar broke his telekinetic grip.

To his surprise, no pain came. Jacques’ face streaked with strain and concentration as he fought the telekinetic thrust of the weapon, but, though he held it fast, he could not seem to activate his magic to counter Fritters’. Wait, what? Shouldn’t his magic instinctively protect him from mine? The unicorn poured more power into his thrust, hoping that the magical threat would force the friar’s power to come to the fore. Failing that, I’ll take a win at this point. He’s wearing me out.

The blade shook in the air, pulled between the wills of the two battlers. A low, rumbling growl built in Jacques’ throat, and with an animal yell he simply ripped the spearhead out of Fritters’ aura, a victory of brute strength over magic. Fritters felt an excited grin spread across his face. Oh, that is awesome! he thought. Jacques turned his gaze upon the unicorn, captured blade in hand. Also, bad for me. Time to go!

Whipping his body up, he kicked at the arm that held his foreleg. He hit Jacques’ elbow with both rear hooves, and the friar dropped him with a yelp. Fritters landed heavily in the dirt and rolled away, shifting his spearhead to his magic so as to rise on all fours. Looking up, he saw Jacques looming over him with upraised sidearm. He also saw the tangle of their respective primary weapons lying at their feet. Seizing spear and sword with his magic, he swung them sideways.

Jacques yelled in shock as his legs were swept out from under him, and Fritters pounced, landing on the friar’s torso. He menaced Jacques’ throat with his spearhead, panting as the exertion of the bout finally caught up to him. With a toothy grin and great satisfaction, he proclaimed, “I have thee, Sir Jacques!”

To his surprise, Jacques smiled slyly back. “And I have thee.”

Snickers and guffaws erupted from the audience. Fritters blinked in confusion, looking to see where Jacques’ weapon was. He found it in short order – tucked up under his barrel…

…and aimed squarely at his masculinity.

Fritters gulped. “Say, Friar, for the sake of my future wife and children, why don’t we call this one a draw.”

Jacques paused to give the suggestion due consideration, then nodded. “This is acceptable to me.”

The two rose to the sounds of applause, merriment, and smart-alek remarks from the spectators. “Fritters! Fritters!” exclaimed Marble, his voice filled with mock concern. “Is the future of the Krucjata line safe?!”

I would hope so. I have twenty nieces and nephews. He wiped away sweat from his brow as he trotted to the side of the ring. “Mercifully, yes, Marble. The future is secure. And my superior baritone vocals as well.”

Ironhide snorted. “An REF pony who can do more than caterwaul? I’ll believe it when I hear it.” Song gave him a long look. “An REF stallion!” he corrected hastily. “I meant an REF stallion!”

While Jacques sat at the side of the ring and allowed Redheart to fuss over him, the others continued to heckle the unicorn.

“It’s really a pity,” remarked Oaken. “Ironhide and I are putting together a quartet and we could have used a soprano.”

Ironhide nodded wistfully. “And I’ll bet you have an amazing falsetto too.”

Song gave a sly smile. “Oh, he does.”

The two Lunar Guards cackled, and Fritters shot his superior a wounded look. “Friendly fire, boss!” Her answering smile was innocent.

Medevac gave Fritters an impish look. “With a mug like yours, I sure hope your family isn’t depending on you for a dynasty.”

Fritters raised an eyebrow. “You want to be a biped, kretyn? Because I will rip another leg off.”

“Savage,” snarked Rainbow Dash.

“You know it,” winked Fritters.

Applejack stepped in and gave Medevac a light shove. “Lay off, Med. He ain’t so bad looking.”

Fritters couldn’t quite keep the shock off his face as he turned to look at her. Her green gaze fell on him and the unicorn flushed briefly. “Thanks, AJ. I appreciate it.”

The farmpony blinked several times, then gave him a crooked smile and a friendly punch to the shoulder. “Well, ya can pay me back by teachin’ me how ta fight that good.”

Once both combatants had been watered, and fed in Fritters’ case, they sat down to discuss the technicals of the fight. “So,” began Fritters, “can anypony point to what went wrong on either side?”

“I failed utterly use my magic,” said Jacques flatly.

The gloomy proclamation caused all heads to turn. Fritters winced at the dark look on the man’s face. “Well, that’s not exactly—"

“The fight would have been mine a dozen times over had I been able to control my strikes,” declared Jacques, flexing and unflexing one hand, “but I do not yet know my own speed and strength. Correcting this is relatively straightforward, but there is also the matter of my inability to break your magical grip.”

Applejack tilted her head in confusion. “But ya did break his grip, didn’t ya?”

“Oui, but by brute force, not by cutting his magic as intended. I also could not conjure the magical armor that I used…” he glanced at Spike and cleared his throat awkwardly, “… in the hospital.”

Song spoke up. “Well, you can’t be expected to master a technique in a single sparring match.”

“Yeah,” agreed Twilight. “I’ve had plenty of spells that took me weeks of trial and error to master.”

“With plenty of accidental explosions, fires, and inexplicable color changes to her fur along the way,” added Spike. Rainbow Dash tittered and Twilight hung her head with a sour expression, grumbling incoherently.

Jacques shook his head and sighed. “I appreciate your words, but this is different. My purpose in this sparring was to see if being exposed to a direct threat would prompt my magic to activate. But it would seem that unless I perceive the threat as real, it does not work. That would still be the case were we to spar again – I would always know that I was in no real danger. We could try it one time or one hundred, and I fear the result would be the same.”

Distressed by his unhappiness, both Twilight and Redheart moved over to sit on either side of the friar, pressing up against him in a wordless attempt to console him. He smiled down at them, but his spirits did not lift.

Ever tactful, Song pointed out the fact that his new speed, stamina, and strength had been on full display in the fight, concluding that, “I think it likely the rest will follow with patience and time.” She then steered the conversation back to the technicals of the match itself. So that he won’t dwell on it, Fritters thought as he watched her work. You’ve used that on me enough times for me to recognize what you’re doing, Morning Song. Later you’ll probably corner him in such a way that it doesn’t look like you’re cornering him and tease a better mood out of him with a string of leading questions that put a positive spin on the whole affair.

Such techniques did not come naturally to Fritters, but he’d learned enough to appreciate the work of a master. Taking her cue, he resumed his instruction on the science of the fight. Soon enough, Jacques joined in. A frown still lingered in his grey eyes, but he at least engaged the others in the teaching moments and even cracked a smile now and then as he drew on half a century of anecdotes to drive certain points home. He’s a tough old fighter, thought Fritters as he kept a discrete eye on the man. He’ll come around when he’s had time to process.

The rest of the day’s sparring passed without particular incident. Jacques sat on a crate by the other spectators, taking careful note of how the various fighters had evolved to match each other over the last few days.

Rainbow sparred against Marble, a fierce aerial duel that left the spectators’ eyes spinning. It followed the same pattern that most such fights did – a contest between Rainbow’s incredible speed and Marble’s quick defensive movements. Rainbow, in her lighter rig, tried to get around Marble and cut him with her wing- and hoof-blades. Marble, for his part, did his best to interpose his shield and entangle Rainbow before finishing her off with sword, hooves, and shield-bashes. This particular match ended with a narrow victory for Marble as he caught one of her hooves in the crook of his shield and twisted, leaving her flank open for his gladius to jab her in the gap between her flanchard and her barrel.

Medevac made good on his threat to Ironhide and fetched his old service armor for the fight, though he wore his prosthetic rather than wielding it. As the former medic’s primary weapons were a sword and shield, he and Ironhide fought a relatively straightforward bout, with the exception of when Medevac threw his leg at the other stallion’s head. The match ended in a victory for Ironhide, though the black eye from the leg attack wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. Medevac blamed his defeat on being retired for several years, but was willing to admit with a genuine smile that Ironhide was ‘not bad for a nightgown-wearing ponce.’ Jacques noted that Redheart had cheered for Medevac rather enthusiastically throughout the fight and recalled the tournaments of France, where the ladies would give their colors to their favored champions to wear. If his demeanor with her is any indication, I imagine he would wear hers readily.

In the final match of the day, Song squared off against Fritters. Their fights were always of interest to Jacques, as they provided quite the education in the differences between human and equine combat. A human throwing knives and wielding short blades and sword-breakers would have been hard-pressed to defeat a spear fighter, but Song’s speed, strength, and sure-footedness prevented the bouts from being the gross mismatch they would have been in his homeland. And, of course, the fact that he’s slinging magic makes it different as well. The unicorn had not used his mysterious surge of magical power since that first day (much to the curious Twilight’s chagrin), but in both magic and melee he was a formidable fighter nonetheless. Song, too, was an impressive combatant, managing to take Fritters for one match of every three. No small feat, as they tell me he is one of the best in their company.

One of Fritters’ chief advantages was his vaunted ‘True Sight.’ Song was a cunning and cerebral fighter, well-suited to battlefield deception. Yet for all her skill, Fritters seemed to have no trouble seeing through her feints the vast majority of the time. This forced Song, a mobile skirmisher in style, to fight straight against a stallion armed with a main battle weapon. It rather limits her options.

Today, that limitation cost her the match. She made as though to grapple Fritters’ spear and disarm him, a reasonable strategy against one so armed, but it was a feint. When he braced against her attempt to seize the spear, she lunged forward to grapple him instead. Had it worked, she likely would have pinned the unicorn with her superior strength, as she had the day before. Unfortunately for Song, he anticipated the feint and caught her full in the face with a magic missile.

Jacques winced. Guile and skill may take one far in this world, but against a powerful magic-wielder the magicless will always be fighting at a disadvantage. He knew he was projecting somewhat. After all, Song had magic which she actively used in battle; it just happened that Fritters’ combat magic outclassed hers. But in many ways that only makes my own situation grimmer. I fought him to a draw, it is true, and could likely beat him were we to fight again, but that’s only if his magic is handicapped. Were he to fight me in earnest, I would lose almost certainly. He sighed and shut his eyes, running a hand through his hair. God, how am I to defend these people if I cannot even command my own faculties?

“Friar Jacques?”

Yet there is no one like me in the world, so how then am I to learn my new power?

“Friar Jacques?”

What weakness of mine holds me back? In what way must I be purified so that I may do God’s will?

“Friar!”

Jacques blinked in shock and looked down to see Redheart staring up at him. “Hm? Yes, Bonne Sœur?”

“Are you all right?” she asked. “You kinda blanked out there for a minute.” When he hesitated to respond, she frowned. “Still down about the magic?”

Am I that transparent? I used to be better at concealing my distress than this. “I would be lying if I said that it did not weigh heavily on my mind.”

“It will come to you in time, I’m sure,” declared Song, who trotted over to stand beside Redheart. “Nopony expects you to master an unfamiliar talent right out of the gate.”

Redheart smiled reassuringly. “Yeah, Friar. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You literally have a new part of your physiology; getting that to click is no picnic.”

Jacques wanted to respond that they might not have the luxury of waiting, but stopped when he remembered that Redheart wasn’t aware of the coming of the Shades. “You are right, of course. I am simply anxious to have control of my new magic, in the event that it should be needed.”

Song appeared to pick up on what he’d left unspoken, if the softening in her gaze was any indication. The psychologist patted him on the leg. “You’ve told me more than once that Providence works at its own pace. I’m sure that it will become clear to you when the need arises.”

The friar gave a rueful chuckle, rubbing the back of his head. “‘Tis always humbling when a priest must be reminded of the pace of God’s designs. I concede your point, Morning Song. I regret that I am letting my impatience get the better of me.”

“As long as you know better,” Song replied with a merry smile.

Redheart tilted her head towards the farmhouse. “Shall we head on up? It’s about dinnertime, and the Apples have invited us all to join them.” She licked her lips. “I, for one, don’t want to miss an Apple Family dinner.”

Jacques glanced around and realized with a start that the other ponies had already left for the homestead. I was more distracted than I realized. “Yes, we had better head up, hadn’t we?”

Song smirked and trotted off, winking at Jacques as she passed. “Indeed. Best get moving before Fritters devours everything. He’s a stomach with legs, that one.”

Redheart tittered into a hoof. “I’d have said that’s anatomically improbable, but when he swung by the hospital the other day he went through the cafeteria like a swarm of locusts. Even more impressive, he managed to keep it down.”

Had he been in a better mood, Jacques might have made some quip about a locust swarm called ‘Fritters’ and the Plagues of Egypt, but his heart wasn’t in it. At least the Konik Plague can use his magic on command, came the gloomy thought.

Jacques gave himself a hard mental shake. Now none of that, old man! Defeatism is the devil’s work, and by God’s grace you’re better than that! The ladies are right; you need to get your mind in order! Realizing that Redheart was still waiting for him, he put on a smile and nodded. “I’ll be along directly, little sister. If you’d be so kind as to save a small portion for me, I’ll be grateful.”

The nurse tilted her head, perplexed, but she nodded anyway. “Alright. I’ll do my best. But,” she added with a wink, “if I lose a hoof to that ravenous monster while securing your supper, I’ll be unhappy with you.”

Jacques chuckled. “You may borrow my sword for protection if you wish.”

“No thanks. I’ll just use my Nurse Death Glare. It’s not Fluttershy’s Stare by any stretch, but it gets the job done.”

The friar almost asked about Fluttershy’s Stare, but then thought better of it. I imagine there’s a story behind that, and I need to resolve my malaise first if I want to appreciate it.

Once Redheart had gone, Jacques bowed his head in prayer. Holy God, I praise You, for You are infinitely wise and just and have promised not to allow us to be burdened beyond what we are able to bear. Forgive me for my doubts, for I am but a weak man who cannot comprehend Your designs.

He gazed down at his folded hands, his eyes tracing the veins that ran through gnarled flesh. I am gravely troubled by my inability to wield this new power that you have given me, and fearful that the enemy may come upon me unawares. Unbidden, memories of King Philip’s lackeys striking in the dead of night sprang to mind, and he shuddered.

Most of all, I am fearful that I shall fail in my mission to defend these innocents that you have placed under my charge. Grant me, oh Lord, the strength and the wisdom to shepherd this new flock. His hands clenched like joined fists. Let me not fail them through my own weakness and vice. Whatever the hard road ahead, whatever trials and demons I must face, I trust in Your victory, for “the souls of the just are in the hand of God,” and “those who know Your Name put their trust in You, for You, O Lord, have not forsaken those who seek You.” Shepherd me, oh God, that I may follow Your will. In Your Name, Amen.

The prayer concluded, he made the Sign of the Cross. His fears were still there, but they were quieted, subordinated by trust. All will be made clear in time, even if I must suffer that my eyes may be opened. With this assurance, he rose and walked to the homestead, smiling as he pictured Redheart defending his portion from the dreaded locusts of Fritters.

Applejack yawned as she wandered the halls of her home, letting the slow pace of her walk soothe her aching muscles. Never thought that swordfighting would teach me so many new and inventive muscle cramps. The rest of the household was long abed, giving her privacy to stretch her legs and let her mind drift. Thank Celestia it’s a light season, or else Ah’d be too sore ta move after farmin’ and fightin’ all day. She approached the living room at the end of the hall, her eyes idly tracking the shadows cast on the floor by the moonlight filtering through the windows. Still, at least it’s fun, even if Ah still can’t—

Had she been asked, Applejack wouldn’t have been able to say what exactly tipped her off, but there was something about the shadows that looked off, as though more than just the drapes shaped the contours of the blackness. The farm mare froze, her eyes narrowing. “Somepony in there?” she challenged, her voice pitched low enough to avoid waking the other residents but still firm enough to carry. Fritters, if this is another one o’ yer attempts ta scare me, Celestia forgive me for what Ah do to you.

After a moment, Applejack heard the creak of somepony rising from the sofa, and a figure stepped into the moonlight, resolving into a sheepish-looking Morning Song. “Don’t mind me, Applejack. I’m just enjoying the quiet.”

Applejack let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and ambled into the room to join the other mare. Horseapples, Ah’m jumpy! Mah heart’s a racin’ now! “No problem, Morning. Just wish Ah’d known you were down here.”

The psychologist gave her an apologetic look as she reclaimed her place on the sofa. “I didn’t mean to lurk. I’m just used to moving quietly after so many years in the field.”

Taking the chair opposite her, Applejack sank into the worn cushions with a sigh. “Like Ah said, no worries. What’re you doin’ up so late, anyway?”

Song tilted her head, seeming to weigh her words before responding. “Thinking about Jacques,” she admitted at length.

Applejack raised an eyebrow. “You worried ‘cause he was down today?”

“It’s not just that,” said the other mare. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that Jacques is a rather scrupulous man?”

Smirking, Applejack replied, “Ya’ll mean he’s a perfectionist? Yeah. Ah’ve been friends with Twi long enough ta pick up on the symptoms. Why?”

“Scrupulosity does not come from the ether, Applejack,” explained Song. “It’s the result of a series of influences and actions. Knowing Twilight’s past, I’d wager that much of hers comes from her entrance exam, both the obsession leading up to it and the exam itself.” The soldier shrugged. “That’s a gross oversimplification of a complex matter, but that sort of thing plays in.”

“Makes sense,” said Applejack, “but what does that have to do with Jacques?”

Song turned her head to stare out the window as she explained. “From what I’ve seen, Friar Jacques, like Twilight, struggles with perfectionism in large part because of a fear of failure. He feels responsible for a great many things, and can’t bear the thought of letting anyone down. Typically, such a deep-seated fear comes from a specific experience or experiences, often traumatic.”

Applejack thought about what she knew of the old man’s past. He’d talked some of his experiences in war, but it never seemed that battle troubled him to any great degree. Of course, war wasn’t what scarred him the most, she realized, her face paling. “His scars…”

“My thoughts exactly,” nodded Song. “I have a strong suspicion that whatever happened to him also happened to folks he loved. Call it mare’s intuition, or maybe it’s that I’ve worked with enough traumatized creatures to put together the little things they say and do, but that’s my belief.”

Applejack shuddered. “Okay, but… why tell me this? Ah ain’t no psychologist.”

Song’s smile was gentle. “No, but you are his friend, and you’re a perceptive mare. If he should open up to you, I want you to know what to look for. I’m not asking you to reveal anything that he says to you in confidence, of course, but it’s important that if he does want to talk you know what to listen for.” She rubbed at the back of one forehoof with the other. “Friar Jacques carries a heavy weight of some sort. If he wants to make any progress, he needs to be able to put it aside.”

“Make progress? You mean with his magic?”

“Well, yes, that too,” said Song with a somber smile.

Applejack wasn’t quite sure what to make of all that, but she did know that she wasn’t the sort to just let a friend suffer quietly. If’n he wants ta talk, Ah’ll listen, even if Ah ain’t the best mare for it. “Well, thanks fer lettin’ me know. Ah’ll certainly keep mah ears open. You might wanna tell the others too, though. At least Twi, Red, Medevac, and the soldiers, since he sees them the most.”

“I plan to,” nodded Song. “And… thank you.”

“Fer what?” laughed Applejack. “Fer bein’ a decent friend? That don’t require no ‘thank you.’”

Song smiled. “Perhaps not, but thank you all the same.” Yawning, she rose from her seat and stretched, her joints popping loudly. “Well, I should get to bed. Goodnight, Applejack.”

“G’night, Song.” The psychologist left the room, leaving Applejack to sit in silence and ponder the conversation. Her pondering didn’t last long before she started yawning too. Ah’m too tired ta think about this, she thought with a grunt, rising to head to bed. Oh well. Ah guess Ah should just be glad it was Song with a heavy conversation and not an intruder with a sword. Chuckling to herself as she recognized her jumpiness, she muttered aloud, “All right, Fritters. First thing tomorrow, Ah’m gonna let you train me in yer ‘True Sight.’ If Ah’m gonna jump at shadows, Ah might as well have somethin’ ta show for it.”

Jacques was just finishing the closing prayers of Prime the following morning when the smell of breakfast assailed his nostrils. He smiled to himself as he murmured ‘Amen,’ rising with alacrity to head down to the dining room. His smile broadened in appreciation for how easily he moved. He felt no pain from his injuries, not even after sparring the previous day. The friar had always been a swift healer, but the magical benefits he now enjoyed had hastened his recovery to the point that he almost questioned his perception of the passage of time. It is gratifying to have one aspect of my magic which works without regard to my own inhibitions.

He caught up his walking stick in one hand before leaving his room. It was hardly necessary, but he liked the heft of it, and it would make for a suitable weapon in a pinch. A stick also drew less attention than a sword, a fact which struck him as odd given the ubiquitous nature of weapons in his world, but it was an important consideration whenever he planned to visit Ponyville.

That name still amuses me. Is there a town in England somewhere called ‘Humanville?’ Surely even your people aren’t that blunt, Andrew. Idly he wondered whether the other races had such literal names to their townships. He resolved to ask the Lady Sparkle when he ventured into town, as he surmised that she would know.

His face fell slightly at the thought of speaking with the mare. Not because he had anything against Twilight. Quite the opposite, in fact. He found her to be an exceedingly pleasant young lady, and an intelligent conversationalist as well. No, the reason that his mood soured at the thought of her was the same reason for his gloom the previous day. He’d made no progress in his magic, and Twilight’s repeated attempts to help only served to underline his failure.

Now, that’s not fair, Jacques. Remember what Redheart and Song said and stop berating yourself for matters beyond your control. My lack of success thus far does not equate to failure; merely struggle. I know that I’m capable, else I would not have been able to save Applebloom and her friends.

His pace slowed at the thought of the filly. Speaking of which, he wondered, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, where is Applebloom?

Typically, the energetic filly could be heard throughout the homestead at this hour. The fact that her ‘grounded’ sanction had yet to be lifted seemed only to amplify her restlessness, and Jacques suspected that the other Apples would soon lift it with the excuse that they were ‘of merciful mind and duly satisfied that she had learned her lesson’ to spare their collective sanity.

Strangely, however, he had not heard so much as a peep out of her the entire morning.

His grip tightened on his walking stick. In fact… I haven’t heard anyone this morning.

Falling into a ready stance, he hefted the heavy stick like a sword and advanced cautiously towards the kitchen. As he approached, he was assailed by a palpable feeling of wrongness. It was a familiar sensation, one which reminded him of the dark power that had knit the timber wolves together, except that there was more to it than that – a memory of a darkness known in years past.

A darkness he’d thought long gone.

Dread settled upon him like weighted coils of rope, threatening to drag him to the ground. Fear took root in his throat. It was a palpable, choking emotion, provoking an animal terror and rapid breath. This was not a fear like any he felt in battle, but a fear of fouler things, the sort of which nightmares are made.

Had he been alone in the house, he would surely have fled. But he couldn’t let himself flee. Not without first ensuring that the Apples and Song were safe.

It seemed to take an eternity to reach the kitchen. The hall stretched out interminably, appearing to twist in on itself as he pushed forward. A great pressure built in his ears as though he was deep under water, staggering him with pain. The dreadful coils tightened about him, and he gasped for air, feeling like they were attempting to pull him beneath the waves of the sea. Shutting his eyes against the nauseating sensation he stopped, leaning against the wall to regain his footing as he hissed prayers through gritted teeth. When his balance returned, he opened his eyes to find that the house was dark; far too dark for dawn.

Then he was at the door of the kitchen, with no memory of having crossed the distance. His guts heaved at the abruptness of it, but, mercifully, his senses cleared, allowing him perceive the room clearly.

He almost wished that disorientation had remained, for without its shroud he could see a crimson liquid pooling on the floor and taste the iron in the air. Merciful God… Gripping his cane so hard that it hurt, feeling close to vomiting from fear for his friends, he entered the kitchen.

There he found a nightmare.

The Apples lay bound and gagged and huddled on the floor, terror quivering in their eyes. The kitchen was in shambles, with furniture smashed and the remains of the breakfast scattered, evidence of a battle only recently spent. Applejack and Big MacIntosh bore the scars of the melee; they’d obviously tried to protect their kinfolk, only to fail. Even now, they were doing their best to shield Applebloom and Grannie Smith with their bodies. And Morning Song…

It was her blood that pooled on the floor.

She’d put up a terrific fight, that much was clear. Her bloodied knives were scattered about the room, some protruding from walls, others embedded in the corpses of two fallen invaders. But it had availed her not, and she lay unmoving, a sword pinning her lifeless body to the floor.

Such horror confronted him that he ought to have fallen to his knees in grief, if not for the presence of the murderers still looming in the room. Murderers who should not, could not have been there.

King Philip IV of France smiled quite genuinely as Jacques entered the room. “Ah, the prodigal friar,” he said cheerily from his place near the Apples at the far end of the room. “I was afraid you might sleep through it all.”

Jacques could not help but stare in horrified stupefaction. At an unconscious level he registered the presence of four of Philip’s torturers. Two were armed with spears and standing to either side of Song’s body on Jacques’ side of the room. The other two lay dead in the wreckage of the kitchen, felled by the slain pony. All four men, whether living or not, had lifeless eyes. The wrongness of the scene rose like a bile in Jacques’ throat, yet even this could not distract him from the simple fact that Philip could not be there.

The venerable friar pointed an accusing hand at his old nemesis. “You’re dead,” he declared, his voice quiet with shock. Unmoved by the declaration, the dead king smiled back. Jacques’ voice rose with fury, “You can’t be here, you’re dead! Dead! Dead and gone!”

Philip chuckled, and Jacques could have sworn that the shadows shifted around the king as he laughed. “It suited my purposes that you think as much. But I couldn’t just leave without finishing what I’d started.” He reached into a pouch that hung from his belt. “I had a devil of a time finding you, I’ll say that much. Had to stop by some friends of yours first.” Fishing an object that rattled with beads out of the pouch, he tossed it across the room with a careless flick of his wrist. It landed in Song’s blood with a wet slap, sending flecks of crimson to splash on Jacques. The friar’s heart leapt into his throat as he saw what the object was.

Methuselah’s rosary.

Philip’s laughter reverberated through the room, resonating within Jacques’ skull. “You just can’t seem to keep your family safe, can you, Friar? First one band of monks, then a second.” He prodded Applebloom with his foot, eliciting a whimper from the filly. “And now you’ve put these colorful little creatures in jeopardy too.” He tutted. “Such a pity. Though I must admit,” from beneath the folds of his elegant robes he pulled out a folded white cap with a red sigil on it, “I have found them rather diverting.”

At first Jacques did not recognize the cap. When he did, he wanted nothing more than to un-see it. That’s… that’s Redheart’s hat… but that means… she… no… please God no…

The king gave a faint smile at the recollection. “That three-legged fool of hers put up quite a fight. Futile, true, but then you’d know all about that sort of defiance, wouldn’t you? As for the mare…” he brought the hat to his nostrils and inhaled, as though smelling the perfumed glove of a lady, “…why, the poor dear pleaded for her life rather piteously. It was sad, really. Killing her was a kindness in the end.” He sighed, shaking his head. “To think, all of this could have been avoided if you’d just let me finish you off, like I did that English bastar—"

Jacques exploded into motion, crossing the distance between himself and the left-most torturer in a flash and swinging his heavy wooden cane in a horizontal arc at the man’s throat. The torturer had no time to react before the applewood crushed his throat and smashed him against the kitchen cabinets. He slid to the floor, gurgling on blood, the spear falling from his hands as he vainly clutched his shattered windpipe. Dropping the walking stick, Jacques caught the dying man’s spear before it hit the ground and spun on the other torturer, who was lowering his own weapon to attack. With a warrior bellow Jacques charged, impaling the man and driving him into the far wall with such force that the spear snapped in half.

Jacques discarded the sundered weapon and pivoted to face Philip. From beneath his hooded brow, the friar’s eyes blazed with righteous fury, promising swift justice.

The king gazed back with an air of mild amusement and feigned a yawn.

Rolling his shoulders, Jacques advanced with deliberate strides, snatching up the sword that had been left embedded in Song without slowing, his eyes never leaving Philip’s.

“So dramatic,” mocked Philip, leisurely drawing his own sword.

Jacques didn’t waste time bandying words. He just charged with another warcry. The two men met with the clash of steel upon steel. Jacques moved with a swiftness and precision that belied even his fight with the timber wolves, exploiting his edge in height and reach to bury Philip beneath a flurry of blows. From the start, the deranged king was entirely on the defensive, blocking Jacques’ assaults by only the barest of margins, forced to pull back to stave off final judgment. They ranged around the entire kitchen as the friar pressed his relentless attack.

No more warcries emerged from Jacques’ lips. His entire focus was poured into slaying his foe, his body bent utterly to the task. Philip escaped death only by last-instant parries a dozen times over. His end was assured.

And yet, for all the mortal danger he was in, the king appeared bored.

Jacques did not spare a thought for this incongruity, however. He was too intent on forcing Philip back into Song’s blood. As he hoped, the king slipped. It was not enough for Philip to lose his footing; just enough to distract him for a breath.

That was all the time Jacques needed. The friar thrust his sword at the foul king’s chest, and Philip’s tardy parry could not stop it. Jacques plunged the blade in with all his might, not stopping until crossguard met ribs.

Philip emitted the familiar hraaugh sound of steel puncturing lung. The king stared Jacques up and down in bewilderment, as though seeing him for the first time. “You’ve… grown… powerful,” he managed through ragged breaths.

Jacques seized him by his hair and forced the king to meet his eyes. “You fool!” he hissed, his voice shaking with grief and outrage. “You should have forgotten me! Why could you not forget me?!”

The king quirked a crooked smile as blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. “You won’t forget… will you?” he asked. Jacques blinked, memories of those final days in the dungeon flashing before his eyes. Unperturbed, Philip patted Jacques’ arm in a congratulatory fashion. “Well done and all that, Friar,” he remarked, his voice unaccountably regaining its strength. “You really have grown powerful. Only…” Jacques let out a cry of dismay as the king began to dissolve into a noxious black smoke, “…not powerful enough.”

Staggering back in horror, Jacques swung his sword vainly at the vapor as it swirled around him. “You have powers you can neither understand nor control,” taunted the voice as the spectral figure crossed the room. It came to a rest behind the whimpering Apples, who tried to pull away as it coalesced once more into Philip. Jacques readied his sword to attack, but Philip made no move. A mocking smile twisted the king’s lips. “You think to protect those you love from the evil of the world, but you cannot.”

Without warning he seized Applejack by the scruff of the neck and hauled her off the floor. She wriggled in his grasp to no effect. Big MacIntosh attempted to grapple the king’s legs, but a contemptuous kick sent him sprawling. Jacques tried to rush to their aid, but he felt himself anchored to the spot. Looking down, he saw black, oily smoke gripping his feet like chains. Desperately he began to hack at them as Applejack cried through her gag, but the sword did nothing against the dark magic that bound him.

“You can’t protect anyone, Friar!” shouted Philip, a smoke-black dagger materializing in his free hand. “Not from me, and not from what’s coming! If you’re lucky, this time you’ll die with them.”

He rammed his dagger into Applejack’s back.

“NO!” howled Jacques. Power coursed through him and his sword became wreathed in white fire. With an anguished cry he flung it through the air like an oversized knife. It impaled Philip between the eyes and the king exploded in a flash of shadow and light. Without him to hold her up, Applejack fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Jacques sprinted to her side, the chains that bound him destroyed with Philip.

“Applejack! Applejack!” he shouted, cradling her as he attempted to staunch the bleeding. “Stay with me, jeune fermière, keep your eyes open!”

“Friar,” croaked Applejack, reaching up to hold onto him. “Friar Jacques.” Her breaths grew raspy as her life slipped way.

“No, no no, nononononono!” he shouted, pressing frantically against the gaping wound with his bloodied hands. “Please stay with me, Applejack! Please! I can’t—” he moaned in grief as tears soaked his beard, “Please, God, I can’t lose her too!”

“Friar!”begged Applejack, gripping his shoulders with her failing strength. “Please…”

Jacques cast his gaze heavenward. “Please, God! Her life is just begun! So many of my brothers and sisters have died,” he choked on his tears as he thought Song, Medevac, and, cruelest of all, Redheart. Little sister! Philip murdered my little sister! “God, God!” he cried. “Please, I beg You, let no more die for me!”

“Friar, please!”

“Please! Take me instead!”

“Friar!”

“God, take me!”

As he spoke, he was seized in a mighty grip upon his shoulders and shaken like a dog. Twin green eyes gazed down at him from on high, and he thought an angel had come to take his life for Applejack’s. Immense gratitude flowed through him as the green-eyed angel seized him, her blonde hair streaming behind her like a golden mane—

“Friar Jacques!” shouted Applejack into his face. “Wake up, Friar! Wake! Up!”

Jacques gasped for air as though he’d been pulled from the sea. His vision swam, blurred by tears, and he instinctively wiped at his eyes, finding himself—

… in my bed… at the Acres… and… Applejack…

The mare had gripped him by the shoulders and shaken him awake. She stood over him, her hindlegs on the floor and her forelegs still holding him fast. Her sleep-matted mane was unbound, loosely framing her worried face. Anxious green eyes bored into him, as though she was trying to anchor him to reality with her gaze. “It’s okay, Friar,” she assured him “It was just a nightmare! You’re safe!”

“A-Applejack?” he stammered, propping himself upright automatically. Trembling, he reached a hand up to touch her face, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was afraid that if he touched her it would dispel the illusion and she would be dead again.

She pressed her muzzle against his hand to show that she was real. Alive… she’s alive… I didn’t lose… and Song… Medevac… Redheart… they’re, they’re all…

“It’s okay,” she promised, “you’re okay now, you’re safe, you’re—oomph!”

Jacques seized the mare in a tight embrace and wept unashamedly into her mane. After a beat he felt her return the embrace, rubbing his back as a mother might to soothe a crying babe. “It’s alright, sugarcube,” she whispered in his ear. “It’s alright. Just let it out. Let it all out.”

Author's Note

Antiquarian was enjoying his morning coffee when Aura de Patience arrived with the mail. "Several letters for you today, sir."

"Anything interesting?" he asked, letting the steam of the cup warm his face.

"Let's see here... a bill from the University..."

"Send it to the EEA."

"...a bill from the EEA..."

"Send it to the University."

"... a letter from Warhawk..."

"Probably about that crossbow trap. In my defense, we both suffered on that one."

"... and a... oh my."

Antiquarian sat up. "Oh my? Oh my what?"

"A letter from the Angry Mob," she replied.

The stallion sighed and sank into his chair. "Is it that time of the month already?" Aura gave him an odd look and he grimaced. "Not what I meant. Better let me have it in case it's booby trapped." Dutifully she passed it over. With no small amount of trepidation, he opened the envelope. When he was satisfied that no horrifying end awaited him, he read the letter. It didn't take long. "Huh," he grunted when he finished.

"What's it say?" asked his secretary.

"Dear Antiquarian,

What the buck, dude?

Sincerely, the Angry Mob."

Aura blinked. "That's rather... terse."

"Indeed."

"What is it in reference to?"

"Oh, probably the last chapter," he replied casually, crumpling the letter up and tossing it in the trash.

Her brow furrowed. "But it wasn't late."

He chuckled. "No, but I'm afraid I did something far worse." Seeing her confusion, he elaborated, "I gave the audience exactly what they asked for."

Aura knew him well enough to give a worried frown. "What did they ask for?"

"Oh, more Jacques, more of Jacques fighting, that sort of thing," he replied casually.

"So you..." The already pale Aura blanched. "Antiq, you're a monster."

Antiquarian cackled maniacally.

***

In all seriousness, I was planning on basically everything that happened anyway, regardless of people pressing me about it. I do love feedback from people about what they'd like to see in future chapters, and I consider all criticism (even that which is put... impolitely). My writing will never be perfect, and the promptings of readers can help me see things that I'd otherwise miss. Some changes have come because of audience feedback. I'm truly grateful for that. However, my consideration of input never shakes the bedrock aspects of the story. Certain things must happen a certain way. Thus, I sped things up a little to bring us back to Jacques being active sooner, but I did so while keeping on track with the outline that already existed. I'll also admit that the dream wasn't originally this... ahem... dire. If Jacques asks, I'm blaming you.

So... yeah. Heavier than it's been in a little while, but you didn't think I'd leave Jacques' trauma-induced fears unaddressed forever did you? I established his need for healing back in France. Don't worry, though - the ponies have got this.

I know a lot of people were probably hoping for more of a magical fight between him and Fritters but, frankly, there's something else coming that would have been hamstrung by Jacques just laying down the law his first time sparring since getting hospitalized. Cut the poor friar (and me) some slack.

Other people will likely give me the obligatory hate for the IT WAS ALL A DREAM bit. And, yes, that trope is often overplayed. Fundamentally, however, there's nothing wrong with the use of dreams in storytelling, and in this case I wasn't trying to deceive you. I dropped a lot of hints early on that this was a nightmare. The twisting hallway, the mind-altering affects he suffered the random sword in Song, the darkness, the fact that he didn't hear anything, etc. And, come one, you didn't really think I'd kill three beloved OCs off-screen, did you? I'm not a monster, whatever Aura thinks. If the twist surprised you... well, maybe I'm more subtle than I thought. Oops?

Shoutout goes to The Truth Hurts by Metool Bard, a story of Lightning Dust and Wind Rider. It's probably been rendered non-canon by season 8, but, hey, that's what AUs are for. The story is a great exploration of how the decisions we make, and whether we choose to lay blame or take responsibility for them, determine whether we will grow or stagnate. Through the eyes of these two fallen ponies, we asked to consider our own moral agency and how seeing our own sins can be the very blessing we need to overcome them. But, in case that sounded needlessly wordy, don't worry - the story itself is a much more compelling and organic narrative than my clunky description of it.

Happy reading!

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Unconventional Measures

Celestia woke to the sound of raised voices outside her chambers. Or rather, to a raised voice. Period. Full stop. That she could hear the voice at all was impressive, as her bedroom was not immediately accessible to the hall and was quite well sound-proofed to boot. But then, Luna has never been known for her subtlety when her anger is aroused.

As if to punctuate the thought, the outer chamber doors slammed open with such force that Celestia could feel the ‘thud’ through the floorboards. With one barrier to sound removed, another voice could be heard: that of Kibitz, her long-suffering steward. I really must have a word with Luna about tormenting the poor old stallion, mused Celestia, languidly drawing herself out of bed.

The second set of doors banged open in the next room and the voices’ volume increased, accompanied by the sound of hoofsteps. Celestia briefly considered making herself more presentable, but quickly dismissed the idea. It’s not as though Kibitz hasn’t seen me looking half dead before.

She had only just managed to rise to all fours when the doors to her bedchamber burst open to admit four Solar Guards, who wore blue-trimmed barding of her chamber guards, the much-harried Kibitz, who still wore his nightgown, and Princess Luna, who wore an expression of utter fury. “Celestia!” cried Luna, her voice just one step short of the Royal Canterlot Voice. “We would have words with you!”

Celestia heaved a mental sigh. Oh dear. She’s using the Royal We. That can’t be a good sign. Putting on a dignified smile, she turned to Kibitz, who was still stammering over the impropriety of waking a reigning princess from her slumbers, and said in her best ‘I’ll-handle-this’ voice, “Kibitz, did you perchance restock the coffee and tea in my sitting chambers?”

The elderly stallion looked wounded by the suggestion, which was at least an improvement over looking wounded that one sister should visit another in the wee hours. “Of course, Princess,” he chunnered through his bristling mustache. “I would never think to leave you without provisioning for—”

“Thank you, Kibitz. You are most efficient as usual,” said Celestia warmly. “Now, judging by the hour, I’m sure you were just out fetching a nightcap when my sister decided to pay me a visit, so you are free to return to your slumbers.”

Kibitz’s mouth flapped for a moment as he tripped over his words, seeming torn between obeying the princess’s wishes and following his usual habit of mothering her whether she wanted it or not. Ordinarily she found it endearing, and even appreciated that he kept her from overtaxing herself, but with Luna seething in place it was time for him to go. “Goodnight, Kibitz,” said Celestia. Her smile was pleasant, but her tone carried an unspoken (polite) order.

Recognizing this, the stallion bowed. “Goodnight, Your Royal Highnesses,” he said, ducking back out of the room chambers, the guards following close behind.

Once they were alone, Celestia turned an inquiring eye to her sister. “Jacques?” she asked.

“Indeed,” Luna grimaced.

Celestia let out a sigh rolled her neck relieve the cricks in it. “Of course it is. Why don’t you fill me in while I get the tea going.”

Luna flitted through the myriad of gleaming orbs that dotted the dreamscape, her eyes intent as she prowled. As Keeper of the Realm of Dreams, she was attuned to the flow of unconsciousness around her and to any effects that lay upon it. The blessings… and the curses.

Tonight there was a foulness on the air, like the stench of a rotting corpse. This was not entirely a rare occurrence. There had long been Dark Magics wrought by the sapient creatures of the world upon others and themselves which had the effect of tainting dreams, whether deliberately or not. Likewise, there were vile monsters of various forms which infected the dreams of ponies, typically in an effort to feed upon their misery or twist their thinking towards some nefarious purpose. Even the ambient power of evil artifacts or enchantments in proximity could have dangerous side effects. It was Luna’s job to defend her subjects from these torments.

What made tonight different was the nature of the threat. Rather than attacking particular ponies as such entities were typically wont, this threat lurked in the shadows, darting about from dream to dream. It did not linger in any one place for long, but seemed only to sow little seeds of corruption before moving on.

Luna was vexed by the shadowy entity. Its damage to the dreams it touched was easily undone even in passing. After the first few she did not even bother to enter the dream proper, for there was no need; it was practically harmless.

It is searching for something, she thought to herself. Else it would not pass by so many dreams so easily.Yet I detect no intelligence in it beyond animal craft. This vile thing is like a griffon’s hunting animal, turned loose to locate a particular prey. But to what end? And what shall it do if it finds what it seeks?

She had no desire to find out, but the entity proved to be elusive prey, even for one such as her. There was no pattern to its moves; no direction. It passed by ponies’ dreams with such disinterest that any harm it inflicted on them seemed to be an afterthought at best; a matter of instinct and nothing more. It was only when it lingered briefly over a lone griffon’s dreams that a strange theory came to her.

What if it is not after the dreams of a pony, but some other creature? What if…? her gaze drifted ahead and saw another inequine dream lying in the path of the monster.

That of Friar Jacques.

“Oh no.”

Luna reached out with her magic to shift the dreamscape around her, drawing her to the friar’s dream in much the same way as a teleportation spell would function in the waking world, but even with her speed it was too late. The entity was already there.

“It entered Jacques’ mind?” demanded Celestia, incredulous, almost dropping her tea in shock. Fortunately, she managed to hold on to the cup. True, she’d magically steeped the tea with such blasphemous speed that she half expected the Duke of Trottingham to appear in her chambers and accuse her of witchcraft, but it was still decent tea, and a much-needed source of caffeine at the moment.

“No, thankfully,” replied Luna, who had opted for coffee with equally blasphemous amounts of cream and sugar. Ironically, the Princess of the Night rarely drank it black. “The priest’s defensive faculties are quite robust. Shockingly so.Even I would have difficulty forcing entry without permission. I could do it, but not without harming him.” She took a long pull of her beige coffee before continuing. “Unfortunately, this entity did not need to break into his mind to harm him.”

Time is a nebulous concept in the sleeping world. Thus, the battle was already raging when Luna arrived. As before, Jacques’ mind was a multi-tiered fortress of weathered stone, standing proud amidst a wasteland of bygone wars, its walls guarded by armored humanoids with gleaming eyes.

Now, however, fresh war lay upon the wasteland. Humanoid creatures of oily black shadow besieged the massive fortress, attacking with weapons of darkness and hate. They shrieked and hissed and beat their frenzied magics upon the walls like a hurricane.

Yet the darkness found no purchase upon the fortress, and the cold-eyed warriors who defended it slaughtered the monstrosities in ruthless silence. Luna allowed herself a grim smile. It appears this monster has bitten off more than it can chew, especially now that I am here. She struck the entity from behind, striking them as a hammer against the anvil of the fortress.

The darkness was no match for the combined fury of the Lunar Princess and the warrior priest. One apparition after another was vaporized, and Luna’s smile turned wolfish as she ravaged her cornered prey.

Then she heard the screams.

There are many sorts of cries a creature will emit when in pain. Some mark physical pain; others emotional. What she heard from the depths of the fortress was so loud, so anguished, that it pierced the very air around her. It was a cry of total agony; the wail of one who had lost those he loved more than his own life.

Friar Jacques was in pain.

But how?! thought Luna in horror. His fortress was not breached! His mind is safe! The enemy cannot have—

Then gazed out upon the carnage of the battlefield, and understood.

The dreaming mind naturally latches onto those thoughts which are readily associated with each other. It tends to consider that which it perceives. Though Luna did not know what evils Jacques had faced in his life, she knew them to have been dire. His mind is a fortress in a barren wasteland, its walls guarded by thousands of warriors who are almost certainly representations of dead comrades. His pain is that of an old soldier, long surrounded by death. This evil assaults him, and though it does not touch him it torments him from afar, reminding him of pain and loss. His dreams recognize this… and turn dark.

“No, no, no!” shouted Luna, flying high over the carnage. “FRIAR JACQUES!” she cried out, her Royal voice booming throughout the wasteland. “THIS IS BUT A DREAM, FRIAR! WHAT TRAGEDIES ARE PAST HAVE ALREADY GONE, AND FUTURE TRAGEDIES ARE AS YET UNWRITTEN!”

But he did not hear, and the screaming continued unabated.

Again, she tried, “THESE VISIONS ARE BUT THE BITTER FRUIT OF FEAR! THEY ARE NOT REAL! FIGHT BACK! IN HEAVEN’S NAME, FIGHT BACK!”

Her words had no effect.

Fearing that the old man’s heart would give out under the strain, Luna flew towards the fortress, hoping to enter his mind palace and console him directly. As she approached, however, the defenders menaced her with their weapons. “Please, grant me passage! I come with aid!” The weapons were not lowered, and the screaming did not stop. Luna felt tears well in her eyes. “I beg of you, he is in pain! Grant me passage!”

Silent sentinels and anguished cries were her only answer.

“I could not enter,” said Luna, her voice husky as she raised her cup to her lips. “They would not let me.”

Horrified, Celestia crossed the room to put a wing around her sister. “Oh, my dear Luna, I am so sorry! That must have been terrible!” To witness such pain and be unable to act… a special torture I know all too well. “What did you do? How did you wake him?”

“I didn’t,” answered Luna bluntly. “At least, not alone.” Seeing Celestia’s confused expression, she gave a small smile. “I put to practice what you taught me, sister. I called upon a friend.”

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed by Thy Name…

It was all Jacques could do to keep his hand from shaking. He sat in the armchair by the window, taking in the light of the stars and the moon without really seeing them.

… Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done…

Applejack had held him, comforted him, for he could not even guess how long. Time itself had seemed to cease as the warmth of her touch battled his nightmares with a sisterly affection.

… on earth as it is in heaven…

The softness of her coat; the security of her embrace; the faint smell of apples that clung ever to her – these tactile sensations anchored him in reality. Dreams could make a disturbingly detailed facsimile of the waking world, but even the most lucid could not truly compare to material reality.

… Give us this day our daily bread…

Even when she helped him to the chair, Applejack had remained by his side, allowing him to rest one hand on her head and stroke her mane. She seemed to know that he needed to feel her, to physically remind himself that she was alive, all without him telling her. It was fortunate that she intuited this for, in truth, he had been unable to say a word to her.

… and forgive us our trespasses…

It shamed him that he could not speak to her, but the pain was too fresh, too poisonous to risk speaking aloud. He could not bear the fear of bringing his past agonies down upon these gentle souls. Nor could he bear to inflict the pain of his memories upon them.

… as we forgive those who trespass against us…

Every day Jacques prayed for the souls of the persecuted, the fallen, the lost, even as he prayed for the souls of those cruel and vicious people who inflicted such depravities upon them. He prayed for his enemies as much as he prayed for his friends, except when his outrage threatened to drive merciful thoughts from his mind.

… and lead us not into temptation…

Then he prayed for his enemies doubly.

… but deliver us from evil…

“Friar?”

… deliver us from evil…

“Friar Jacques?”

… deliver us from evil…

“Friar Jacques?”

Jacques let his head turn to Applejack as her worried queries turned more insistent. The farm mare cleared her throat before speaking. “Ah, uh, Ah know ya probably don’t wanna talk about it, but…” She trailed off, leaving the question open.

… deliver us from evil…

“No,” croaked Jacques, his voice raw from sobbing. “Thank you, Applejack.”

Applejack bit her lip. “Friar,” she said haltingly, “You know you can tell us anything, don’t you?”

… deliver us from evil…

I do not wish to burden them, he thought.

But is that protectiveness? prodded another thought. Or pride?

Jacques realized he didn’t know.

“Ah just…” Applejack’s voice was thick with emotion, “Ah just want ya to know ya can be honest with us. We’re here for ya, no matter what.”

But I am not sure what the honest answer is yet, my friend. Not wanting to commit until he’d had time to think and pray on it, he gave a wan smile and replied, “Another time, perhaps.”

If Applejack appeared less than satisfied with his answer, she at least did not press him about it. “Well, can Ah… can Ah get ya anythin’ at least? Some tea? Warm milk ta help ya sleep?”

Jacques shuddered at the thought of going back to sleep.

… deliver us from evil…

“No, thank you Applejack, I…” he had to clear his throat against a dryness that now made itself known. “Actually, if you would fetch my waterskin from the table…”

Applejack did as she was bade. After learning that many hoofed creatures of Equestria were sapient, Jacques had feared that they might react… poorly to his waterskin. As it happened, there were far more animals that weren’t sapient, and enough omnivorous griffons living within the borders to mean that waterskins, while uncommon, were not unheard of. Being that the Apples raised farm animals, they were unbothered by it. Some of the other girls had been a little put off (more because the fur on the exterior was a little too close to equine for them to be comfortable than any genuine concern), but Fluttershy, of all ponies, had been fascinated by the pragmatism behind it. Under other circumstances, Jacques might have found the memory amusing, but with his nightmare fresh in his mind it only conjured images of the pale yellow pegasus lying limp at Philip’s feet, blood spilling from her cut throat.

… deliver us from evil…

Jacques’ gnarled fingers dug into the armrest. Philip is dead! Dead and gone! Such fears are only nightmares—

Applejack set the waterskin on his lap.

—and yet the danger these Dark Magic-wielders pose to my flock is very real.

“Anything else Ah can get ya?” asked Applejack, anxious to help.

… deliver us from evil…

Jacques gave her a long look. These poor ponies… there is an evil coming such that I must contend with. A helpless rage built in him at the thought of how powerless he’d been in his dream; how powerless he still was in the waking world.

… deliver us from evil…

… I must think on this…

“Applejack,” he said aloud, “there are matters I must meditate on. Thank you most kindly for your tender care, but I wish to be alone for a time.”

The mare balked at that. “A-are ya sure?” she stammered. “Maybe it ain’t such a good idea ta be alone, ya know?”

Jacques smiled wanly. “My dear Applejack, you have already saved me from my nightmares. I shall be quite all right on my own.” Still, Applejack hesitated. “Please, jeune fermière.”

It was the ‘please’ that did the trick. Applejack’s nod was reluctant, but obedient. “Well, if’n you insist. But you just holler if ya need anythin’, ya hear? Won’t be no bother.”

Truly, Heavenly Father, she is fit to bear Your Harmony. “Thank you, my friend.”

Applejack backed out of the room, seeming unwilling to take her eyes off him as she left. For his part, Jacques tried to look back out the window, but he caught himself watching her on his peripherals. He held strong until she closed the door. Then it took all his strength not to beg her to return. So long as she had been in the room, he had known that it had only been a nightmare; that his old enemy had not really returned and slaughtered his friends. With her departure, that fear returned. It was foolish, irrational, and powerful.

… deliver us from evil…

His nightmare had been an illusion, but his struggles were not. Something was inhibiting his ability to grasp his new magic, and he suspected that something was himself.

Come Holy Spirit, enlighten our hearts that we may see the things that are of God. Come, Holy Spirit, enlighten our minds that we may know the things that are of God. Come, Holy Spirit, enlighten our souls that we may belong only to God. Sanctify all that we think, say, and do, that all may be for the glory of God. Amen.

When Jacques had first learned swordfighting, it had come naturally to him. The mechanics of such combat were as natural to him as breathing. Spears, pikes, axes, maces, all manner of melee weapons he could wield with deadly efficiency from when he was a boy.

Mastery of the bow, however, had eluded him for years. Even now, he was nowhere near as skilled an archer as he was a swordsman. He had learned to improve, however, when an old Templar sergeant had explained to him the problem.

“A fighter must think,” the sergeant had said, “but not too much. When he thinks well, he sees the right course of action and takes it. When he thinks too much, he sees too many courses of action and is too slow in acting, if he acts at all. Young lord, this is your trouble - when you fight with a sword, you think; when you shoot a bow, you think too much.”

Jacques had taken the old man’s words to heart on and off the battlefield, even in his theological studies. The simple wisdom of the sergeant had taught him a valuable lesson: Contemplation is a precious gift from God, but confusion is oft of the devil, for it is his delight to sow doubt where there ought to be faith.

… deliver us from evil…

Throughout my life, my fears of doing wrong have prevented me from trusting in God to do good in my life. I pridefully think to solve problems myself, rather than humbly striving to do the best I can and having faith that God will account for my mistakes. If I am to master this magic, I must act; act and trust in my God…

His eyes fell on his sword.

… as I have in the past.

The beginnings of a plan formed in his mind.

… deliver us from evil… amen.

As Applejack backed out of the room, she tread as lightly as she would to avoid waking a newborn. It was an irrational action – Jacques was still awake, after all – but the experience of comforting the heartbroken man had left her defaulting to her maternal instincts, honed by raising Applebloom from infancy.

Ah hope ya find what ya need in yer meditatin’, Friar, ’cuz Ah don’t understand none o’ this. She eased the door shut behind her, turning to find Big Mac waiting for her. His silent stare was as eloquent as ever. Years of reading him meant that she heard his questions about Jacques as clearly as if he’d asked them aloud. She shook her head and mouthed “Not here,” indicating down the hall with a flick of her head. Big Mac nodded a silent “Eeyup” and accompanied her away from the room.

They walked in silence for a time, ambling in the direction that would ultimately take them downstairs. Once they were a reasonable distance from the room, Big Mac simply tilted his ears towards Applejack. The mare sighed. She wasn’t exactly ready to talk about the experience. “Ah reckon ya’ll wanna know what that was about,” she said, her voice as soft as a sigh.

“Eeyup,” he replied, his basso quiet.

“Well, that makes two of us, because Ah don’t rightly know myself,” she said honestly, running a hoof through her loose mane. “He didn’t say a word about it but… that scream…” she shuddered. “Ah ain’t gonna unhear that, ever.”

“Eeyup,” rumbled Big Mac, his tone somber.

They reached the staircase at the end of the hall and started downstairs, lapsing into silence. She almost said more, but bit her lip instead, unable to voice her inner thoughts out loud. Then there’s… the other thing. The fact that it weren’t him who woke me up. Applejack grimaced. Magical dream shenanigans. Ah don’t begrudge Twi ropin’ me inta this world savin’ business, but Celestia help me there are times Ah miss bein’ a normal pony.

Applejack shook her head to clear the distracting thoughts. Ah need more time ta think is all. Better ta focus on somethin’ else ‘til Ah wake up good an’ proper. The smell of tea and cocoa from the kitchen provided a welcome distraction. “Did you brew that, Big Mac?”

“Eenope.”

Applejack was so tired that, by the time she’d formulated the question ‘who else is up?’ they’d already reached the kitchen. The answer proved to be Morning Song and Applebloom.

Well, Applebloom is sort of up, corrected Applejack. The little filly was seated at the table, a mostly-empty mug of cocoa clutched limply in one hoof as she snored, her face tucked into her other hoof. Applejack instinctively grimaced at the thought of giving the filly a sugary beverage during the night, but she reasoned that tonight probably warranted the exception if it helped her get back to sleep.

Song, for her part, was up and alert, cozy silken bathrobe notwithstanding. Her mane gave little indication that she’d just woken up, leading Applejack to suspect, with some mild annoyance, that she was one of those mares who needed little work to make herself presentable. Her blue eyes were keen and lively, as though she’d been awake and active for hours and not even hit her stride yet. If it hadn’t been for the soldier’s silk bathrobe, Applejack might assumed just that.

Looks like Grannie slept through it, though. So there’s that at least.

At their entrance, Song held out a pair of mugs. “Tea or cocoa?” she asked.

“Tea, Ah guess,” replied Applejack. She indicated Applebloom with a tilt of her head. “What did’ya put in her cocoa ta make her conk out like that? Nothin’ from the top shelf Ah hope,” she quipped.

Song smiled. “Just the cocoa. Poor little thing got exhausted waiting for you.”

“Really?” blinked Applejack. “How long was Ah in there?”

“Over an hour.”

Applejack’s ears fell flat. “Sweet Celestia, that long?”

Song shrugged. “These things take as long as they take.”

Applejack let out a long breath, walking over to the table to lean against the heavy wood. “Don’t Ah know it. That was… somethin’ else,” she said with an exhausted half-chuckle. “Ah admire ya greatly, Song, but Ah don’t mind tellin’ ya Ah could never do yer job.” Her gaze drifted to Applebloom. “Ah mean… Ah calmed down ponies from nightmares plenty o’ times before, but that…” a shudder ran through her, “Ah don’t ever want ta see any creature goin’ through what he went through again.”

Song trotted over and passed a mug of tea to Applejack. “You don’t seem to think it was just a nightmare,” observed the alabaster mare. Her tone was not challenging. If anything, she sounded like she suspected the same.

“Ah don’t just think it,” said Applejack, taking a swig of tea, “Ah know it.”

“Oh?” asked Song, raising an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

Applejack chuckled, her gaze falling to watch her sleeping sister. “Somethin’ crazy is how. Ah’m not sure Ah’d believe it if’n it weren’t fer all the other crazy stuff that happens ‘round here.” She reached out to stroke Applebloom’s mane while the filly dozed. “Like what happened ta this little one’s friend a while back when we were out campin’, for instance.” Song tilted her head in mute query. “Ah’ll tell ya some other time. Let’s just say the Royals sure seem ta like Ponyville. Meantime, Ah got a favor ta ask of you and Big Mac.”

“Of course,” nodded Song. “Name it.”

They departed on their errand a short while later, leaving Applejack to sit alone in the kitchen, watching Applebloom sleep. Such an innocent little angel, thought the farm mare, her heart swelling with love. Ah can’t even imagine what Ah’d feel if Ah lost her. But, her thoughts darkened, if Ah did, Ah imagine Ah’d sound a lot like Jacques did. The realization left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Deciding to do something productive rather than dwell on it, Applejack gently slid the filly onto her back and padded upstairs to put her to bed. She managed not to bounce her sister too much, but, despite her best efforts, the filly still shifted on her back, mumbling as she woke up. “Applejack?”

“Yeah, AB?”

“Is Jacques okay?”

What a sweet little filly you are. “Sure he is, sugarcube. He just had a nightmare is all.” Under her breath she added, “ish.”

Applebloom seemed to sense the qualifier anyway. “Sure sound’d like more’n jus’ a nigh’mur,” mumbled the exhausted filly.

Applejack bit her lip. “Well, it’s nothin’ that won’t pass in time. Yer big sister and brother are gonna take good care of him.”

“Y’better,” mumbled Applebloom, sounding like she was about to drift off to sleep again. “Or Imma tell Grannie on you.”

For the first time since her harsh awakening, Applejack smiled. “Well, we’ll just have to bring our A-game then.”

The thumping at Twilight’s door repeated, a heavy sound that resonated through the whole library. “A’right, a’right,” the unicorn grumbled, her words slurred by recent slumber as she made her way downstairs, a faded blue bathrobe thrown on against the blanketless chill. Celestia, if this is Pinkie Pie with some asinine question about the history of sprinkles or the viability of edible greeting cards, I can’t be held responsible for what I’ll do. “Hold yer horses, ‘m coming.” She swung the door open with her magic, blinking away her sleepiness. “Okay, Pinkie, what’s the—”

Big MacIntosh loomed in the doorway.

Twilight jolted to wakefulness with painful abruptness, an instinctive burst of telekinesis checking that her bathrobe was cinched tight. “Big MacIntosh!” she greeted a touch too loudly. “This is a surprise! What brings you to the library?” Once the words left her mouth, her eyes widened in horror. “Not that it’s a surprise that you’re at the library! I’ve heard you’re read very well, I mean, very well read! And red, as it happens, so you’re a red reader, but why would you be reading now when it’s the middle of the night, which is why it’s surprising that you’re here, so—”

“Miss Twilight,” interrupted the stallion mildly.

The unicorn swallowed. “Yes?”

“Applejack asked me ta get you an’ the girls an’ come to the farm.”

Twilight’s blood ran cold. “Oh dear, did something happen?”

“Eeyup,” replied the stallion. Twilight gasped in horror, but before she could begin panicking he held up a calming forehoof. “It’s settled fer now, but Applejack thought it best ya’ll talk it over sooner rather’n later.”

“O-of course,” stammered Twilight, feeling some of the tension leave her body. Her worries were not banished entirely, but at least it seemed there was no ongoing catastrophe. “Let me just get a few things.” She made to call for Spike’s assistance, but stopped short. For all his maturity, he is still a baby dragon, and he needs his rest. I can always come back for him if I need to. She magicked her saddlebags over and threw in several quills and a bottle of ink, as well as some of the notes she’d been compiling about Jacques (whom she assumed this was about) and a pair of general reference tomes. In her concentration, she almost removed her bathrobe in front of Big MacIntosh before she realized she’d be undressing in front of a stallion. Flushing red, she gripped the doorknob with her magic. “One sec.” Shutting the door, she threw off the robe and tossed it over the back of the nearest chair. She then gave her mane and tail a cursory brush while she jotted down a quick note to Spike in case she didn’t get back before he woke up. This done, she stepped out to join the Apple patriarch. “Ready.”

Big MacIntosh nodded once, rolling the stem he was chewing on from one side of the mouth to the other before turning to lead her towards the Acres. As they stepped out, Twilight became confused. “Excuse me, Big MacIntosh, but aren’t we going to get the other girls?”

“Eenope,” he replied. Noting her tilted head, he added, “Already handled.”

Twilight blinked. “But… how? I mean, based on the layout of our homes the most efficient way to rouse all of us as an earthbound pony would involve proceeding to my home first and then to Rarity’s—”

“Ah woke Dash first fer speed,” rumbled the big stallion.

“Oh,” said Twilight, frowning. “Well, that would make sense, as she is geographically closer to you and could wake the others quicker, but… how did you do it? Did she park her cloudominium on the ground?”

“Eenope.”

“Then how?”

Big MacIntosh smiled.

Even from the ground, Big Mac could hear the raucous snoring of the pegasus. She was so loud that it was not difficult for ears as acute as his to pick out which window was her bedroom. It was not even impossible for him to guesstimate where in the room her bed lay.

Satisfied with his reconnaissance, he glanced around for a suitable means to rouse her. His eyes lighted upon a green pinecone. Smiling to himself, he hefted the cone in one hoof, glancing up at the window as he mentally calculated force, angle, and trajectory; ‘Fancy Mathematics’, as his sister would call it. He gave the cone a gentle toss, pivoted, and bucked.

The projectile sailed through the air in a gentle arc to plunge through the window and strike the occupant within. Big Mac was too far away to hear the impact, but no so far that he could not hear the abrupt cessation of snoring, followed by the creative string of profanities which, among other things, loudly speculated as to the genetically improbable lineage of the pony who dared launch the missile. A moment later, an expletive-spewing frizz of rainbow hair poked out the window, ready to give whoever stood below an earful (on top of the one already administered), but the magenta eyes which peered from beneath the frizz blinked repeatedly upon seeing Big Mac, and the foul mouth fell silent.

“Miss Dash,” said Big Mac politely. “A word?”

“‘Physics?’” said Twilight, repeating Big MacIntosh’s answer in its entirety. “You used, and I quote, ‘physics’ to wake her?”

“Eeyup.”

“I… don’t suppose you’d care to elaborate on that?”

“Eenope.”

Twilight glowered at the smugly smiling stallion. This was a side of the big pony she seldom saw, but Applejack often mentioned – the sly prankster. It made her wonder about what other hidden sides of Big MacIntosh lurked beneath the surface. But that can wait for now. “Well, can you at least elaborate on why Applejack is gathering us all in the night?”

Big MacIntosh’s face fell. “Friar Jacques had a nightmare,” he said after a pause. “An’ AJ thinks it weren’t no normal nightmare, but she didn’t want ta say more without the rest o’ ya’ll there.”

“Oh,” winced Twilight. She’d had her own night terrors plenty of times over the years, ranging from the annoyance several days ago about Sombra to the truly disturbing one about the Forgotten Final Exam. But if it’s something that messed with Jacques of all people, it must have been pretty disturbing. A post-traumatic episode perhaps? Or something magical in nature? I’ve never heard of any pony except Luna being able to mess with dreams, but then I haven’t studied dream magic much. She mentally kicked herself for the oversight and resolved to requisition books on the subject when she next had the chance. And maybe write Luna… when Spike’s awake. Oh, I miss my Number One Assistant! Maybe Morning Song can—

“It’ll be alright, Miss Twilight.”

“Huh?” she asked, turning to face Big MacIntosh.

“Sorry,” he said, looking down as though embarrassed to have intruded on her thoughts. “Ya’ll looked like you were gettin’ yerself worked up. AJ gets that look too. Ah just didn’t want ya worryin’ before we even know what ta worry about.”

Twilight’s mouth flapped open and shut, not sure how to take his sudden and caring insight. Or the fact that I don’t think I’ve ever heard him use so many words at once. Perhaps it was her tiredness, but she couldn’t keep down a girlish giggle. “That transparent, huh?”

“Eeyup.”

“Well, thank you, Big MacIntosh. I suppose I just need to think about something else.” She glanced at him with a smile. “Like the fact that we’ve known each other for years and you still call me ‘Miss Twilight.’ You don’t have to do that, you know. AJ’s like my sister; no need to be so formal.”

“Fair enough,” he rumbled. “Ah’ll call ya plain ‘Twilight’ as soon as you start callin’ me plain ‘Big Mac.’”

“Deal,” replied Twilight. Her grin turned sly. “”

“—” he froze, realizing he’d just replied to her Latin in the same tongue.

“Aha!” exclaimed Twilight. “So it’s true! You’re a classicist like me!”

Big Mac harrumphed in irritation and resume walking. “Who talked?”

“Pinkie Pie.”

“How in the hay does she know?” he demanded. Twilight just raised an eyebrow. “Right. Stupid question.”

“I don’t understand, though,” she said. “Why do you keep it secret? From the sound of it, even Applejack doesn’t know.”

A noise approaching a growl rose in the stallion’s throat and he looked away. “Ah don’t wanna talk about it just now, Twilight.”

“Okay,” acquiesced Twilight, knowing better than to prod him. “Well, if you don’t want to talk about that, how about… Xenopone or Thucydonkes?” Big Mac turned with a quizzical expression on his face. “Hey, I’m trying to keep myself from spiraling into a mental fugue of worry about Friar Jacques. I need something mentally stimulating to distract me, and I just so happen to be walking with Ponyville’s own closet classicist. Give me something!”

Her last request might have come out a little more intense than she’d intended, judging by how Big Mac pulled back slightly, but it seemed to have the desired effect as, after a moment’s thought, he replied, “Xenopone.”

Oh, he is not getting away with one-word answers! “Why is that?” she prodded.

Realizing that they still had a ways to go to get back to the Acres and that there was no escaping Twilight’s thirst for intellectual conversation, Big Mac sighed and began. “Well, you gotta understand, Ah first read Xenopone when Ah was about eight, right after Ah read Magnus Aurellius…”

Rarity wasn’t especially thrilled to be awoken in the middle of the night by Pinkie Pie shouting something about Rainbow Dash shouting something about Jacques shouting something. She was even less thrilled by the fact that there was no time to indulge in even the most basic of beautification exercises to offset the ill effects of a rude awakening, which she loudly lamented to Pinkie Pie as the two of them hastened to the farm.

A pony who didn’t know Rarity might have concluded that she was unconcerned for Jacques’ wellbeing, but this would be untrue. Rarity was concerned. She simply believed that it was better to fret about something trivial (and thus easily dismissed when necessary) than to focus on something grave over which she had no control.

Or, to put it more bluntly, complaining about her mane helped to distract her from worrying about Jacques.

Fortunately, Pinkie knew Rarity well enough to take it in stride, a fact which the fashionista silently appreciated beneath her veneer of annoyance. The brightly-colored mare just hopped along with her customary exuberance, replying to Rarity’s general irritability with generic chatter. About halfway through the journey, the couturier noticed a certain tightness in Pinkie’s smile and a deliberateness to the chatter. It was then she realized that Pinkie, too, was distracting herself with an affected normalcy.

I suppose there’s a lesson here about who we’ve all become these last few years, reflected Rarity. When facing physical dangers, our mindless chatter and knee-jerk complaining tends to be genuine. When a friend struggles with trauma, we hide our fretting behind an affectation of the same. Masks of unconcern. Danger is routine while personal struggles are distressing. It was a sobering realization.

Rarity and Pinkie Pie were the last to arrive at the Apple homestead, the airborne Rainbow and Fluttershy having passed them on the way and the others all living closer. When they entered, Rarity fully expected (and dreaded) to be the most disheveled pony present.

She was both surprised and somewhat horrified to discover that Fritters was in an even more ghastly state than her.

Marble Slab and Fritters were both kitted in full armor, though they’d stacked their helmets on the table where they sat. Marble looked understandably weary and unkempt, but not to any noteworthy degree.

Fritters, by contrast, brought to mind the phrase, ‘like Tartarus warmed over.’ His already gaunt features had taken on a ghoulish countenance in the dead of the night. He gripped the coffee mug in his forehooves as though it were a dark artifact anchoring his undead soul to the realm of the living. His bloodshot eyes twitched with manic intensity as they screamed baleful pronouncements across the room at the rather awkward-looking Rainbow Dash who, for her part, was studiously avoiding meeting Fritters’ gaze.

Now, while Rarity was the sort to wonder what might have passed between the two to inspire such antipathy on Fritters’ part, she was not the sort to tactlessly draw attention to Fritters’ appearance or his palpable ire until she had a better lay of the land.

Pinkie Pie was not Rarity. “Wowie cazowie!” exclaimed the bubblegum-colored mare. “Are you practicing for Nightmare Night early, Fritters? Because I love the Undead Murder Hobo look you’ve got going!”

There had been a light chatter in the room before the declaration. That stopped immediately, as ponies abandoned communication in favor of staring in shocked horror at Pinkie Pie.

Unaware of any social gaffe, the pink mare tilted her head in confusion. “Wha’did I say?”

A high-pitched, reedy laugh cut through the air as Marble Slab sagged against the table, shaking with laughter. It was shortly joined by muffled snickering as Applejack bit her hoof in a vain attempt to smother her amusement. Fritters recovered enough from his shock to glare at the former and shoot the latter a wounded look. “Sorry,” mumbled Applejack through her teeth.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask,” said Twilight. “Why are you in armor anyway?”

Fritters directed a cold glare at Rainbow Dash. “Well you see, Twilight, we were visited in the dead of the night by the Dread Cake Bird, in all its wicked glory.”

Rainbow hopped into the air, returning the glare. “Hey, I’m not a—"

Pinkie’s horrified inhale cut her off. “THERE’S A BIRD DISTRIBUTING CAKE FLYING AROUND AND NOPONY TOLD ME?!” cried the pink pony.

Applejack winced and hushed the mare. “Cripes, Pinkie, ponies are sleeping here!”

Fritters chuckled bitterly. “Oh, the Dread Cake Bird does not distribute cake, dear Miss Pie. Rather, it is the foul harbinger of the wicked Cake Eaters, those dark spirits which wear the flesh of officers and bureaucrats. Through their feigned incompetence and petty actions they create a realm of hate and misery for the lowly enlisted ponies, so that they might feed upon the anguish of those unlucky enough to fall under their evil spells. Whoa be he unto whom the Dread Cake Bird cometh, for he shall reap only grief and hardship for all his days.”

Ponies stared at Fritters in various levels of bemusement and disturbed fascination. Applejack broke the silence by asking what every civilian in the room was thinking. “Huh?”

Rolling his eyes, Marble explained. “‘Cake Eater’ is slang for the cruddy officers and bureaucrats who make bad decisions for political, petty, or just straight up incompetent reasons and end up hosing the ponies who actually have to carry those orders out. When those orders get passed to you, we say you’ve been visited by the Cake Bird.”

Pinkie Pie snorted. “That’s silly. Why would eating cake be a bad thing?”

Marble wisely elected not to engage in debate with her. “The reason Fritters is so worked up is that when Flight Officer Dash woke us up in the dead of night, she did so by shouting into our window that something had gone wrong at Sweet Apple Acres and we needed to head out here right away… then left without providing further details.”

Rarity winced, guessing what happened next. “Ah. So, you naturally assumed it to be a catastrophe…”

“… and armored up with painful speed to book it out here, yes,” finished Marble. “Fortunately, we bumped into Lieutenant Song on the way, since she’d been coming to get us, but the damage was done. The princess over here was already awake and cranky.”

“Shaddup, Marble,” glowered Fritters.

Rainbow blushed. “In my defense, I didn’t know that Song was already coming to get you, and Big Mac was light on the details with me too.”

“And in my defense,” said Fritters, far from appeased, “you’re a Cake Bird.”

“I’m not a—!”

“Enough,” interrupted Song. “I’m calling a halt to this conversation before Fritters starts his whole sermon on the vile power of the Good Idea Fairy.”

“Oooh!” cooed Pinkie. “The Good Idea Fairy sounds like fun!”

“It’s really not.”

“Um, I’m sorry to interrupt,” broke in Fluttershy timidly, “but… um… shouldn’t we talk about why we’re all here?”

“One of life’s great mysteries,” muttered Fritters.

Song nodded. “Thank you, Fluttershy. I think that would be best. Applejack?”

All eyes turned to the orange farm mare. She sighed, one hoof playing idly with her unbound mane. It was odd to see her without her hair ties, and even odder to see her without her hat. Rarity knew that, though Applejack didn’t put great stock in presentation, she still made aneffort to look nice each morning. A small measure of her stress that, even when she had time waiting for the rest of us, she didn’t bother tidying up.

“Truth be told,” fidgeted Applejack, “Ah ain’t exactly sure where ta start.”

“Maybe start at the beginning?” suggested Pinkie Pie brightly. “I always think that’s the best place to start.”

Applejack smiled at the simple wisdom. “Ah reckon that’s true, Pinkie Pie.” She took a deep breath. “Ah was dreamin’, ya see. Nothin’ too crazy, just dreamin’ about the orchard.”

Rainbow chuckled. “Of course you were.” Applejack shot her a look. “Sorry.”

“Like Ah was sayin’, the dream weren’t nothin’ special. Right up until…”

Applejack plucked at the guitar strings. The fruit responded to the call of her music, drifting down from the branches to flow in red rivers of ripe produce. Harvest had been far easier ever since she’d discovered the Songs of the Earth, which left more time to spend with her friends and family. When she was done here, she’d go into town, see what everypony was up to, maybe even see if Fr—

A hole was ripped in the fabric of reality, blue and purple light sparking from the rift as existence was rent open to admit the frantic visage of Princess Luna two feet from Applejack’s face. “APPLEJACK!”

“HYAAA!” screamed the farm mare.

“So Princess Luna herself visited you?” asked Rarity.

“Eeyup,” grimaced Applejack. “Scared the dickens out of me, too.”

Fritters chuckled. “Yes, Her Royal Frightness does have that effect when she forgets to dial back the intensity. Thank the Source she didn’t inherit her sister’s predilection for pranking.”

“Wait, Celestia pranks?” demanded Rainbow.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Can we focus please?” interrupted Song, her eyes flashing. The culprits immediately fell silent. Her calm demeanor returned, and Song asked, “Applejack, what happened next?”

The farm mare looked down. “Well, if’n Ah’m honest, Ah think Ah missed a lot o’ the exact words on account o’ bein’ so shocked, but the gist of it was, ‘Forsooth, Fair Applejack, thine friend the Friar is sore afflicted with terrors wrought upon him by the foul incantations of a dark entity. Wake, therefore, and rouse him from his suffering, then send forth for thine friends to deliberate!’” She cleared her throat. “Or, ya know, somethin’ ta that effect.”

Fritters gave a quiet, sardonic laugh. “‘Forsooth, Fair Applejack?’” he muttered.

Applejack flushed. “Ah’m paraphrasin’, alright?” she protested hotly. “The mare talks funny! Is now really the best time ta be laughin’ about this?”

“Cracking jokes is not my motivation,” said Fritters. “Well, not my prime motivation, at least. Luna’s rhetoric is relevant in itself.” He glanced at Song. “We’ve only personally interacted with Luna a few times, but in our experience there’re two contexts when she defaults to an older mode of speech. Right, Doc?”

Song nodded. “Yes. Usually, it’s when she’s surprised, or when she’s stressed.”

“Oh my,” whispered Fluttershy.

Twilight frowned, rubbing her chin. “I can’t blame her for being a little stressed. Dreams are her domain, and it sounds like her territory was just violated by somepony.”

“Or something,” added Rainbow Dash ominously. Fluttershy eeped. “Or, you know, probably just somepony,” came the hasty addendum.

Rarity cleared her throat. “Well, somepony or something, it does raise the question: what does Luna want us to do about it?”

The question was an obvious one, the answer less so. Marble took a pull of coffee before addressing Applejack. “I don’t suppose Her Royal Highness gave you any other details?” Applejack shook her head. “Well, that’s less than ideal.”

Rarity felt a headache coming on. It’s much too early to be dealing with this nonsense. She lit her horn helped herself to a much-needed cup of coffee. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the princess’s judgement, but I can’t help but wish she had given us a little more to go on.”

Song shrugged. “Intel is always incomplete. Perhaps Luna needs to confer with Celestia before telling us more. If this is related to the Shades, as is probable, it may be that they want to deliberate before rushing into anything. Agelessness breeds patience.”

“Well, Ah ain’t ageless,” groused Applejack, “and Ah wish Ah knew what they were talkin’ about.”

“As do I, but there’s no point dwelling on it,” observed Song. “The best thing we can do is focus on what we do have control over. In this case, helping Jacques deal with this.”

“But how?” protested Applejack. “Ah don’t know about ya’ll, but Ah can’t fight some dark thing what took hold o’ a man’s dreams. Ah don’t think even Twilight can do that, and she’s the most magical one here.”

Twilight nodded miserably.

Rarity huffed. “Well, we have to do something, darlings! Who knows what terrors the poor man must have experienced?”

Fritters opened his mouth as though to say something, but fell into a silent grimace instead. Rarity’s eyes narrowed. You seem to know, don’t you, Colour Sergeant.

“So we will do something,” said Pinkie, her voice somewhere between cheerful and somber. Trotting over to Twilight, she threw a foreleg over the other pony’s withers. “We’ll do what we do best.”

Twilight blinked several times as she processed the statement before a slow smile spread across her lips. “Of course we will, Pinkie. We’ll be his friends. We’ll be there for him.”

Even Fritters smiled at that.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” chirped Pinkie. “Let’s go up there and give him a big group hug!”

Before she could spring up the stairs, Applejack stopped her with an outstretched hoof. “Hold on there, Pinkie. Ah think it’d be a little overwhelming if we all ran up there at once; he still ain’t used ta how ponies do things. Ah’ll go up first an’ see if he wants company, an’ then come get ya’ll if’n he does.”

“I’ll go with you,” volunteered Twilight. “That way, if he wants company, I can come down and get everypony while you sit with him.”

Applejack nodded gratefully and the two of them slipped upstairs. An awkward silence followed as various ponies imbibed in caffeine, stared ahead with blank grimaces, or (in Pinkie’s case) hummed cheerfully. Rarity envied her friend’s optimism. Perhaps it’s just the early hour, but I can’t help but feel that we’re all missing something.

In the silence, the fashionista noticed that Song was staring rather pointedly at Fritters. The stallion seemed to ignore her but, after a few beats, abruptly said, “You’re not a Cake Eater, Dash.” Song smiled.

The pegasus blinked. “Oh, um, thanks?”

“Don’t make a habit of it, though,” added Fritters with a smirk. “I’m about twenty years behind on my beauty sleep, so that chicken scat won’t fly twice.”

“Language,” sighed Song, seeming to say it as a reflex.

Fritters chuckled. “Boss, haven’t you given up hope that—?”

Whatever hope Song may or may not have given up would remain a mystery, as Fritters was cut off by the sound of heavy hooves galloping downstairs, heralding the arrival of a horrified Applejack. “He’s gone!” she exclaimed, breathless. “Jacques is gone!”

“What?!” cried Rarity. “Gone where?!”

“A-Ah dunno! He ain’t in his room, he ain’t anywhere upstairs! He mighta gone down the other stairs, but we oughta heard him! He can’t be runnin’ around right now, he can’t—”

Fritters was at her side, trying to calm her down. “Uspokajać się, Applejack. Easy. He’s probably just downstairs somewhere.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Twilight tightly. All eyes turned to the mare as she arrived, her face pale. “I just checked the main floor. And that’s not all.” The mare swallowed. “He… he took his sword.”

Jacques sang a hymn under his breath to keep his pace as he strode down the winding path. The cool spring breeze and the distant hoot of an owl were the only accompaniment he had on his journey. The breeze, the owl… and God. Heavenly Father, I pray this is the right decision.

The friar was a level-headed man, not given to madcap schemes or risky ventures, but years of war had taught him that bold plans verging on insane had their place. The duel with Karim was a foolish idea by the wisdom of the world, but by God’s grace it worked. This present matter would appear to demand such action.

Jacques had no desire to sin by putting God to the test through senseless risk. Equally, however, he knew better than to allow fear and indecision to keep him from trusting in God’s will, even if the only way forward was fraught with peril. His inability to make progress through study or practice seemed to indicate that his only remaining options were drastic ones. Hence this calculated risk I now undertake.

Even so, he paused in hesitation upon reaching his destination. Am I truly interpreting God’s will in this, or am I just acting emotionally? Sighing, he massaged his temples. What great difficulty it is for mere mortals to seek to fathom the Divine. God, how I wish for great burning words in the sky to direct me.

Since no such sign was forthcoming, however, he fell to his knees in prayer. Lord, I am but a sinner, weak and frail. I cannot comprehend your designs, but may only fling myself upon Your mercy and strive to do the best I can. As You were once patient with Gideon when he humbly asked You twice for the same sign, be patient and merciful with me as I endeavor to learn my magic. If I have misread Your will in all this and acted foolishly, I am sorry. Please minister to the good that I ought to have done and correct my error. Let my meager self serve Your glory, weak and sinful though I am.

With that prayer of trust in God, Friar Jacques rose and resumed his journey, striding forward until he was lost in the depths of the Everfree Forest.

Author's Note

Aura deigned to look up from her paperwork at the rather annoying stallion standing in front of her. When the colt-bun-sporting pony had first approached, everything about him had just screamed 'may I speak to your manager,' and 'Zephyr Breeze's personal trainer.' Aura tried to look past first impressions, because appearance often did not match reality.

Unfortunately, in this particular case, it seemed that the young stallion was exactly as annoying as the stereotypes surrounding him would imply and, unfortunately, he was the Angry Mob's chosen representative today. A shame that Tar is out sick. I'll have to send him a fruit basket from Antiq and myself; he likes strawberries as I recall. "Look," she said aloud, "I understand your frustration, Mr. Naval Gaze—"

"Um, actually, I don't think you do, and it's offensive that you'd assume you could—"

"Don't interrupt," commanded Aura flatly. Did his parents never teach him courtesy? "As I've said repeatedly, Antiquarian is not in, and will not be available to answer for his imagined crimes against the mob."

"Um, it's actually super offensive that you don't acknowledge his obvious hurtful attacks on us—"

"Yes, yes, thought crimes. Got it. Well, crimes or not, he isn't here, so why don't you run off and tell Big Brother about it and kindly take your double-think elsewhere." I really must speak to Antiquarian about getting 1984 adapted for the Equestrian readership. Please get well soon, Tar.

"I'm not leaving until Antiquarian—"

"I'm back," rasped a voice from the door.

Aura turned and gasped in horror at the ghastly sight. Antiquarian's tween jacket was shredded and bloodied, his bow-tie undone and his face bruised. He leaned upon a shattered spear for support as he limped into the room. In his back appeared to be— Oh, yep, that's a knife. That's a knife in his back. "Sweet Celestia, Antiq, what happened?!"

"That's a bit of a long story," he chuckled as he limped over to his chair.

Aura snatched up the medical kit and ran to help. "Why is there a knife in your back?"

"Good question," he winced, sitting down.

Aura glared as she began disinfecting and stitching up his multiple wounds. "Antiq, who stabbed you in the back?"

Hissing through the pain of disinfectant, Antiquarian replied, "Also a good question. Suffice it to say some business did not end as expected." Glancing at the horrified Naval Gaze, he asked, "Who's slack-jawed here?"

"A representative of the Angry Mob," said Aura, unable to keep the distaste out of her voice.

Antiquarian looked back at her with concern. "Oh dear, is Tar still sick?" She nodded. "We'll have to send him a fruit basket. What does he like? Raspberries?"

"Strawberries," she corrected. "And you really should see a doctor."

"And deprive you of my company?" he chuckled. "Not for one more moment, my dear. Anyway, slack-jawed, what d'ya want?"

Naval Gaze sniffed. "Actually, it's Naval Gaze, and don't think that we're just going to ignore your blatant disregard for our feelings."

Antiquarian rolled his eyes. "Oh, great, it's one of you lot. Listen, chum, I'm not gonna play your little appeasement game. I like Tar and the older crowd well enough, because they're honest in their irrationality, but I can't stand your type. Now, I usually find this whole mob thing amusing because I can just run, but I'm not in a running mood right now. So howsabout you go back and tell your bosses this: If you come at me right now, you'll win," he bared his teeth in a feral grin, "but it won't be worth it."

Naval Gaze huffed. "You're a barbarian from a bygone age."

"Funny thing, a distant culture called the Romans said the same thing about their counterparts in the Frankish warrior tribes, but the Romans were the ones who kept massive numbers of slaves. Get the buck out of my office."

In his first intelligent move of the day, Naval Gaze left. Antiquarian sighed. "Kids these days. Shame about Tar, though. I know he'd understand why the chapter is late."

"Indeed," agreed Aura. "Antiq, I don't mean to pry, but..."

"Don't worry, Aura. I've learned not to keep my niece in the dark," he assured her. "Once you're done doctoring and I've had a nap I'll tell you all about it."

Aura nodded, then dropped some bloodied gauze on his lap meaningfully. "Make it a nap and a cleaning and you've got a deal." Antiquarian chuckled.

***

It should be noted that no one has been harassing me like Naval Gaze; I just wanted to have Antiquarian chew someone out and I like Tar too much to subject him to that. Plus the online outrage mob disgusts me and I felt like saying so.

This chapter has been late for a number of reasons. Partly it's because it was just a hard chapter to write. Partly it's that April was one long string of kicks in the teeth for me. Rest-assured, I've talked to the people in my life who are my 'Auras' about it, because it's foolish to go alone. We're placed here to help each other and to be helped; God made us social creatures for a reason. Don't let pride keep you from becoming a better person. I'm not looking to discuss it in the comments section, but I always appreciate prayers and well-wishes.

I'm hoping this chapter came out as coherent on paper as it did in my head.

The passage in Scripture about Gideon and God that Jacques is referencing is Judges 6:36-40.

The Cake Bird is a real thing from military slang, as are the Cake Eater and the Good Idea Fairy, the latter of which is defined in Urban Dictionary as "A mythical creature that causes upper level management to impose changes to standard operating procedures in an attempt to fix something that wasn't broken in the first place. These changes usually inflict undue stress and/or hardship on subordinates while having no negative effects on the decision maker." Good Idea Fairies should be shot on sight.

Deleted joke.
Song: "Agelessness breeds patience."
Fritters: "Except when it comes to eating cake."
Twilight: "Did you just call Princess Celestia a Cake Eater?!"
Fritters: *swallows* "Well, technically…"
Twilight: "You bucking heretic! I will bucking end you!

Today's recommendation is an oddly relaxing read called "Up Where the Air is Clear" by Rambling Writer. There's nothing especially dramatic happening. It's just about experiencing beauty. Sometimes we all need to take a step back and just appreciate beauty. Not for any particular reason; the beauty is reason in itself.

Happy reading!

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Stand Firm

Contrary to common belief, the Everfree Forest was not uniformly hazardous. True, there was no part of the forest that could be called ‘safe’ in the sense that most ponies meant it, but there were areas where alert mares and stallions, and even responsible fillies and colts, could pass without serious risk.

Lumberjack Ridge, for instance, had long been a relatively mild part of the forest, with little danger beyond the occasional wandering predator or monster and the odd burst of wild magic. Even these potential threats were kept largely in check by local earth ponies like Burnt Oak whose woodscraft and wiliness allowed them to counter or defeat most threats they encountered.

The area around Fluttershy’s cottage was likewise rather tame, though this was due more to the general fondness (bordering on adoration in many cases) that living creatures almost invariably developed for the light-coated pegasus.

Even the Deep Woods near Zecora’s homestead, which had once been among the deadliest stretches of the Everfree, were now largely tamed by the mysterious mage and her skill in zebra magic. (Ironically, the fact that she’d picked not only the Everfree but that particular stretch of Everfree to live in had contributed mightily to the belief that the zebra was, in fact, a wicked pony enchantress; upon reflection, it was an understandable mistake to make).

But, as safe as some areas of the wood had become, there were plenty more that were just as treacherous as the rumors indicated, if not more so. Topping the list was the infamous Dead Mare’s Drop, a valley whose rather blunt title signified the truly horrifying number of monsters which were wont to dwell in its depths. (A close second was Dead Mare’s Dip, which was equally monster-infested, but not quite so long a drop to the bottom, and thus theoretically easier to escape with one’s life and limb intact).

The Timberline was not so deadly as Dead Mare’s Drop or Dip, but it came close enough that most ponies wisely gave it a wide berth. The Timberline was home to the usual collection of odd creatures, vicious monsters, and wild magic. It was not these, however, that made the Timberline uniquely dangerous. After all, every stretch of the Everfree met that description at some level. No, what made the Timberline treacherous was the unusually high concentration of residual Dark Magic in the flora. Mages and botanists alike debated the reason for this, but the results were known to everypony who lived within walking distance of the wood:

More than anywhere else in the forest, the Timberline was timber wolf country.

Of all the dangers of the Everfree, the timber wolves were arguably the most broadly troublesome. Rocs, manticores, cockatrices, and the like were all dangerous, but at their core most of them were still animals rather than abominations of Dark Magic – meaning that they could be avoided, led away, or driven off according to the same general principles used with normal wild animals. Timber wolves and their ilk, however, were malicious; hateful. They didn’t attack because they were hungry or felt threatened; they attacked because they wanted to. And, while there were other evil creatures in the Everfee which were even deadlier, the timber wolves were by far the most prolific.

It was fortunate that the growth magic of earth ponies was wont to carry an element of Light Magic, for it gave new life according to the harmonious designs of Creation. This meant that flora tended by talented earth ponies dissuaded timber wolves from spreading. When the Apple Family had founded Ponyville generations before, they had planted their acreage directly next to the Timberline, and quite unwittingly created a living wall that kept the evil at bay.

It was here that Friar Jacques travelled. It was no accident that he selected the location, or mere adjacency to Sweet Apple Acres that informed the decision. No, Jacques had familiarized himself with the Everfree Forest once he’d recovered enough to interrogate his benefactors. In part, it had been a sort of professional curiosity brought on by his near demise. More importantly, however, he had been concerned about the proximity of a place that spawned such horrible creatures. These conversations had taught him much about the Everfree, including the Timberline. The knowledge that the wolves were abundant there was his primary motivation for choosing it.

To Jacques, the timber wolves were a known quantity. He had faced them before and won, before he’d even understood the world, much less acclimated to it. In the past weeks, his strength and resilience had grown by leaps and bounds even as his knowledge of magic and its effects deepened. Perhaps most critically of all, he did not have any non-combatants with him this time, meaning that he could fight a running retreat if required.

Not that the friar planned on running if he didn’t have to. If he was understanding his lessons on magic from Twilight correctly (and, given how methodical the both of them were, he was confident he did), then vanquishing a half dozen timber wolves ought to be well within his capabilities.

And, God willing, it will be enough to provoke my new powers to show themselves.

“… I hold back my feet from every evil way, in order to keep your word…”

Jacques’ sandaled feet made little impression on the earth as he strode through the forest. He was not hiding, but neither was he trying to draw attention to himself before he found a suitable place to fight. Applejack mentioned a clearing somewhere down this path. That should prove adequate to the task at hand.

“…Your word is a lamp to my feet, and a light to my path…”

The forest was unnaturally quiet. Even his prayers, murmured at scarcely a whisper, felt loud in his ears. Worse yet, he’d felt as though he was being watched from the moment he entered the forest, and that feeling had only intensified as he walked.

His only consolation was the brightness of the moon and stars that shone through the canopy, and he had much less difficulty seeing than he’d feared. Though, in hindsight, I still probably should have procured a torch before setting out.

The journey was long enough that he finished several psalms. They had a wonderful way of steadying his nerves. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. In verdant pastures He gives me repose. Beside restful waters He leads me. He refreshes my soul …”

A sudden chill ran down his spine, and a foul sense of wrongness gripped him, as though sickness had come upon him suddenly. But this was no sickness, Jacques knew. Something wicked this way comes. His left hand held his scabbard while his right inched towards the sword hilt. “…He leads me in right paths, for His Name’s sake…”

There was a swishing sound behind him, as of a snake slithering through grass. The presence grew behind him with its unearthly chill. His hand closed on his hilt. “… Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—”

The foulness rushed upon him as a rattling hiss ripped through the air, but Jacques was already in motion. He spun, drawing his sword and slashing in one swift motion. For an instant, his vision was filled with a vertical maw of gnashing green teeth; then his sword clove through the fangs, spraying sickly green fluid in all directions. He felt a severing sensation, the same that he’d felt when killing the timber wolves, but much more acute, as the chill was banished with his strike and his assailant fell in half.

Jacques studied the dead monstrosity out of the corner of his eyes while he scanned the foliage for additional threats. It was some sort of vine creature – a long, thorny green vine with a pony-sized ‘mouth’ filled with fang-like barbs. He vaguely recalled from his studies that they were called something like ‘venomous pony traps’, but didn’t have time to dwell on the recollection. The foul sense had not left him, and he felt the coldness of more foes approaching. Four fresh vines snaked into view, surrounding him on all sides. Holding his sword back for a wide sweep, the veteran knight waited for the newcomers to slither into his reach. The vines hissed, then struck.

Slice. Cut.

In two strokes, four bifurcated pony traps fell to the forest floor, the dark enchantments in them severed along with their lives. With their destruction, the foul sense left him, and he was once more alone in the forest.

“—I shall fear no evil,” he finished belatedly, “for Thou art with me. Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.”

Noticing that the dead pony traps already seemed to be withering, he flipped one over with the tip of his sword. It became a husk before his very eyes. “Well,” he remarked aloud, “at least that seems to work.” Indeed, the speed and power with which he moved, and the greater surety with which he sensed the severing of the dark enchantments, was a marked improvement. Better yet, his ability to sense the presence of active evil magic in his proximity was something new – a power that he and Twilight had found referenced repeatedly in the old texts but which they had been unable to test. According to the texts, it’s not foolproof, but it remains helpful all the same, Jacques reflected as he wiped his blade clean of the plant residue. Still, he thought with a sigh, it is not quite enough to justify returning yet.

Sheathing his sword, he continued down the path. “You spread a table before me in the presence of my foes…”

Unbeknownst to Jacques, his presence in the Everfree Forest had been marked by more than just the vines. There were wild animals which noticed his passage, of course, and stayed well clear of the strange and dangerous creature they saw.

But the Everfree Forest was not just home to that which is wild. There, in the Timberline, it was home to that which is Dark. Old and wicked magics had long permeated earth, rock, and tree. It was not any sapient force with active thoughts and ambitions; merely instinct and mindless urges.

For all its simplicity, however, this magic was not without awareness. The magic sensed an intruder; one who bore the Light with him. The Dark Magic sensed this… and was filled with rage. It hated the Light, even as it feared it; desired to confront it even as it shrank from battle with it.

So the Darkness waited, restraining the greater part of its malice while it gathered its strength to destroy utterly the Light which had dared to enter its domain.

It was difficult for Jacques to gauge how long he strode through the forest when he could only intermittently see the moon, but he was out at least long enough for it to have noticeably moved in the sky. Twice more he was attacked by the vine creatures, but he dispatched them with little difficulty. In truth, the occasional attack helped break up the monotony of his travel and proved to be rather cathartic on the whole. Ah, he thought dryly, if tending the plants had been so enjoyable at the Commandery, I would not have found weeding so irksome.

Still, he had yet to encounter any timber wolves. As those creatures were the reason he’d come this way, he found their absence equal parts annoying and ominous. Have I simply missed them by chance, he wondered, or is there some other factor at play? Perhaps they are stalking me even now.

There was a bright spot in the journey, however; quite literally so, as the moon shone brightly in the clearing he found. “At last,” he murmured with relief as he stepped onto the hard-packed earth of the open space.

The clearing was a score or so yards across and twice again as wide; its floor was a mix of coarse dirt and moss-covered stone. There were no great tripping hazards, save for a single large rock that rose three feet from the ground off to his left, and even this was so close to the edge of the clearing as to be of little concern.Without a canopy of trees to obscure the view, the moon and stars granted ample illumination. Open space. Adequate footing. Clear sight. Yes, this will do nicely.

A distant howl broke the forest’s stillness. Soon it was echoed by others deep in the woods. Most people wandering the Everfree at night would have shuddered at the sound. Jacques nodded in satisfaction. “Now I have but to wait.”

Drawing his sword, he rested the flat of the blade on his shoulder and strode over to the flat rock. Sitting down, he propped his elbows on his knees, a hymn on his lips as he waited for the wolves to come.

The Dark denizens of the Timberline had tracked the Light as it journeyed to the clearing. Vines had harried him and lesser crawling things had observed him, slowing him while the packs gathered. Now the first packs had sent up the cry, calling the Timberline to battle. The Dark Magic was too simple a construct to comprehend emotions as such, but its bestial nature still felt spiteful triumph as its monsters closed in on the Light.

Judging by the approach of the howls, Jacques knew that battle was not far off. He was not without trepidation for the danger to come, but he was accustomed to besting such fears. “Blessed be the Lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle…”

Many wolves raised their unnatural voices to the night, raising the hairs on his neck and causing a bitter taste to rise in his mouth. Once more he questioned whether or not this had been a wise idea. A moot point, as it is too late to withdraw.

“…Bow your heavens, O Lord, and come down; touch the mountains so that they smoke. Make the lightning flash and scatter them; send out your arrows and rout them…”

Friar Jacques focused on breathing evenly as he prayed, keeping his voice steady. Recall what Twilight advised – prayer draws me closer to God; to His Harmony. These new powers are God’s will for me, and so a part of that Harmony. Oh Lord, let my prayers open me to doing your work. “…take up the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to withstand on that evil day…”

The acrid smell of the timber wolves’ breath, which had escaped his notice on that first day in Equestria, now washed over him like the chill of a northern wind in January.

“…and, having done everything, to stand firm.”

Green eyes burning with unholy light peered at him from the woods across the clearing, and a familiar sense let him feel the evil energies hidden therein. Jacques rose to face them, sword held in a steady hand. “Stand therefore, and fasten the belt of truth around your waist, and put on the breastplate of righteousness.”

The first wolves crept from the undergrowth, drool dripping from their fangs. Jacques’s eyes narrowed. Truly, such abominations are an affront to God’s harmonious design. “As shoes for your feet put on whatever will make you ready to proclaim the gospel of peace.”

Shaking out his limbs to remove any stiffness, Jacques stepped forward a pace. The wolves responded by fanning out around the impromptu arena – four, six, a dozen. Well, I did want a real threat, thought Jacques ruefully. “With all of these, take the shield of faith, with which you will be able to quench all the flaming arrows of the evil one.”

Two wolves, larger than the rest, edged forward, their claws biting into the ground. Jacques squared off against them, meeting their gaze unblinkingly. You are constructs of hell, and it is my duty to unmake you. “Take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God.”

Low snarls rumbled from the challengers’ throats. Jacques let out a low breath and brought his sword into guard position. The power of God is greater than these foul monsters. “My strength is in the Lord who made heaven and earth,” he murmured.

The wolves sprang forward, covering the distance between them a few short strides. Jacques stood his ground and brought his sword back to strike. “By Your Word, oh Lord.” As the wolves leapt into the air, time seemed to slow, and the rush of combat, that old friend of Jacques’, flooded through his veins. Swinging his sword in a mighty arc, he roared his faith and defiance into the teeth of the enemy.

“Deus Vult!”

Fire leapt from his blade, a pure white light which lit the clearing like the rays of the sun. The wolves had an instant to cry out in pain and terror as the blade smote them. One cry, then they shattered in a thunderclap of light, leaving naught but smoldering twigs and ash.

For a moment, there was no sound but the dull echo of the thunderclap. Jacques stood stock still, his eyes bulging at the blade, whose fire had faded to a faint gleam. Then a reedy laugh escaped his lips, mounting into a resonating basso belly laugh that was giddy as a child’s on the Feast of St. Nicholas. “” he exclaimed, reverting instinctively to French. “” He looked to the timber wolves, a massive grin on his face. “” The wolves ducked low, their ears back as they prowled uneasily about him. “” he chuckled, “… oh, pardonne-moi, not only did you plainly see it, but I am not even speaking English. Or Ponish, I suppose. Not that it matters much, as you are simple beasts of…”

Low growls answered him as the monsters circled him.

Jacques sighed and readied himself. “Talking to timber wolves now. Well done, Jacques. If Andrew is watching this from on high, he is surely laughing his head off.”

Apparently realizing that charging in ones and twos would be suicide, five of the remaining wolves attacked en masse while the others hung back in case he slipped past. It proved to be a wise choice on their part, as Jacques lowered himself into the low pflug (“plow”) guard and charged through the leftmost wolf, striking down its gullet. Once more his sword blazed with fire, but this time he split the timber wolf in two, leaving what was left of it to burn behind him. He wasn’t sure why it hadn’t exploded this time, but, as his charge had brought him face-to-face with a second wolf, didn’t stop to ponder it.

His new opponent ducked low and swiped at his legs, but he danced around it, feeling as light as an acrobat. He clipped off one of its forelegs with a quick slice and it yelped, backing away as its severed stump smoldered. The friar was forced to dodge again as two more wolves sprang between him and the injured wolf. They nipped at his legs, missing by the barest margin, and he shifted back. A sobering thought came to him as he menaced them with his gleaming blade. Nurse Redheart will be rather cross with me if I come back bloodied. I hope she does not—

A sudden chill to his right alerted him to a flanking attack. He pivoted and swung, splitting one wolf’s head laterally. While he was turned, the two that had faced him split up, one attacking from the front while the other darted left. The wolf to his front Jacques caught with a backswing, but, swift as he was, he couldn’t get his blade into position to block the threat to his left. As the wolf reared to strike him and he raised his left arm to shield himself, a desperate prayer flashed through his mind. Please God, Redheart will be so angry!

Just at the timber wolf’s fangs were about to bite into the flesh of his arm, he felt a shift in power like when he’d first met Spike. A shimmering white shield flashed into being, and the wolf crashed against it as against a wall, smashing its muzzle apart and stumbling back in pieces. The shield vanished from sight the instant its task was completed, but Jacques could still feel it there, waiting to snap into being at need.

Jacques blinked. My shield of faith, it would seem— A snarl from behind brought him back to the fight, and he braced himself for the blow. The wolf dug at his back, only to scrape its claws off against white armor that gleamed around him. This time, the armor did not fade immediately, as yet another wolf struck from another angle, only to be repulsed. Jacques felt the armor burn them even as he heard their cries.

He also felt that the armor was just a shade weaker on the second strike, as one might feel a raw patch of skin where the outer layer had been scraped off. The armor won’t take endless punishment. I need some breathing room. He swept his blade in a wide arc, slaying another timber wolf and wounding two others as he extricated himself from their midst.

Darting a few feet away, he spun on his heel and adopted the low alber stance, ready to bring his blade upward into anything foolish enough to attack. For the moment, the surviving wolves were hanging back, nursing their wounds. They aren’t gathering branches from the surrounding trees to repair themselves, he noticed, suggesting that my blade can permanently cripple them even if I don’t fully break the enchantment. The friar adjusted his grip on his sword. They don’t seem keen to attack me, but that might not remain the case for long. Surely there are other timber wolves in these woods. Loathe as I am to leave these monsters alive, the prudent thing would probably be to withdraw now that I’ve accomplished my mission. He took a step back and saw no reaction from the wolves. God has granted me victory; I should take it and leave.

No sooner had he decided this than he felt a bone-deep chill and heard the crashing of trees and brush behind him. Turning his head, he saw the silhouettes of trees swaying as something forced its way through. Shifting to be able to keep the remaining wolves on his peripherals, he faced the new threat, eyes on the forest for when it emerged.

“Right,” he said softly. “What fresh spawn of hell are…” he trailed off as he had to look up, “…you?”

A house-sized timber wolf loomed over him.

Jacques let out a sigh. “Well. That’s a shame.”

As the Light had destroyed minion after minion, the fear and hate of the Timberline had only mounted. Its bloodlust had been felt by the nearest approaching packs, and they’d run together, crashing into each in their haste to be the first to reach the Light. From their shattered bodies had risen a great wolf imbued with the collective malice of more than a score of timber wolves. This great wolf now loomed over the Light, ready to devour it.

The friar considered his options and found them to be precious few. Outrunning the half-dead pack is one thing; outrunning that thing will be impossible. He glanced at what was left of the original pack and saw them creeping closer, their boldness restored. I certainly can’t fight the great wolf with them at my back. However… the big wolf took a step closer, removing a yard of breathing room with a single step … I cannot destroy them before that monster attacks. His eyes drifted to his sword, which, as though sensing the danger, once more blazed with fire. The sight kindled in him an idea. He wasn’t sure if it was an actual technique from one of Twilight’s books or just inspiration born of desperation, but at that moment he didn’t care. Gift horses and all that.

He concentrated on the fire, letting it grow until it practically leapt off the sword. Will this really work the way I want it to—? The great wolf lowered its head to charge. I guess we’ll find out. Jacques swung the blade at the pack in a low arc, shouting an old prayer that had been spoken in many forms and many tongues over the centuries. “Please God let this work!”

The reach of his blade was several yards too short to hit the timber wolves, but it did not need to reach them to accomplish its mission. As Jacques swung, the vibrant fire of the blade was flung free, casting flames upon the ground which rose into a blazing wall between Jacques and the pack. From the far side of the fire could be heard the dismayed cries of the timber wolves as they narrowly avoided immolation. Jacques was panting hard from the exertion as he turned to face the great wolf, but he smiled in satisfaction. Not exactly a fortress of stone, but it will do.

With the pack temporarily out of the way, Jacques put his back to the wall of fire, keeping close enough to, hopefully, prevent the great wolf simply trampling him. The gamble seemed to pay off, as the wolf hesitated, wary of approaching the blaze. But the fire alone could not dissuade it, and it leapt forward, attempting to crush him with its paws just short of the wall.

Jacques dodged right at the last second, narrowly avoiding death. He smote the left leg with a backhanded strike, then sliced at its jaw. Neither hit did much damage, but it still caused the beast to rear back, which gave Jacques enough time to bring up his shield to deflect a swipe from its good paw. It was a glancing blow, but the friar still staggered and felt his shield tremble. Sweat dampened his brow. That wall of fire took more out of me than I thought, he realized as he jumped back a pace to avoid another crushing strike. My magic reserves are limited. He slashed the offending paw and darted around to the beast’s side. I must be swift.

The friar sprinted down the flank of the great wolf, his blade cocked back in a two-handed grip. Feeding a little extra magic into the strike, he focused on severing the enchantments and swung for the narrowest point on the wolf’s left rear leg. The burning blade bit deeply into the wood and kept going until it touched air. Howling in agony, the wolf staggered sideways, nearly bowling the friar over and weakening his armor.

Mindful of his dwindling reserves, he ducked around its tail, slicing at its haunches as he passed. His strike elicited another howl, but this time the wolf did more than stagger. Bracing off one foreleg, it pivoted, swinging its other foreleg like a tree trunk at his chest. Jacques managed to get his shield up in time, but the blow connected full force and sent him flying back, his magical construct nearly shattering under the strain.

Jacques landed hard enough to get the wind knocked out of him. He gave a low moan and rolled over, mentally logging his injuries. That felt like bruised ribs, bruised forearm, and quite possibly a bruised buttocks, he thought as he used his sword to lever himself upright. And that shield won’t take another hit; can’t risk using it again, or I’ll suffer magical backlash when it breaks, he realized, recalling Twilight’s cautionary lessons.Looking up, he saw the wolf swinging around to face him, its rear scraping the ground as it tried, and failed, to use its back legs. Promising, but that wall of flame is already dwindling, along with my energy. He staggered to his feet and took the risk of sending a burst of power to his sword. Well, nothing for it, then. The wolf clawed its way forward, snarling hatred.

“Deus Vult!” cried the friar, swinging his blade while still yards away and flinging a ball of fire at the beast’s head. The blaze struck it in the eye, and it shook its head madly, trying vainly to extinguish the flames. Jacques sprinted with all his might and leapt into the air, sword held up for an overhead strike, roaring as he smote its neck.

Once! Twice! Trice!

With an earsplitting crack the head was severed, falling lifelessly to the ground. The enchantment now broken, the body crumbled.

Jacques stood panting amidst the wreckage, his limbs shaking from exertion; his hands trembling upon his sword. It took an act of the will to not slump to his knees. My word, he thought as he panted, it’s been many years since I’ve been this exhausted and not been on the brink of death. A low growl reached his ears, and he looked up to see that the wall of fire had dissipated, leaving the pack remnant free to advance on him. Then again…

The friar was just lifting his sword for another fight when a crimson light lit the arena, spearing the nearest wolf through the head. Jacques almost fell over in shock. “What in the world—?”

A chorus of battlecries rose to his left, the direction from whence he’d come, as six armored ponies charged from the undergrowth. The REF soldiers he recognized immediately, but he was shocked to discover Twilight Sparkle, Applejack, and Rainbow Dash as well.

The ponies hit the surviving timber wolves like a force of nature. Applejack and Morning Song struck the closest, putting themselves between the friar and the pack as they did. Marble and Rainbow Dash sped through the air and cut across the back, slicing at the wolves as they blitzed past. Twilight and Fritters, meanwhile, cut loose with their magic and cut down anything still moving. Caught completely off-guard by the ferocity of the attack, the timber wolves were slaughtered in seconds and Jacques was left to stare, mouth agape.

“Area secure,” reported Marble Slab.

Rainbow Dash did an aerial flip. “Woo-hoo!” she cheered. “That was so totally wicked!”

“Head in the game, Dash!” rebuked Fritters sharply. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

“How very literal of you,” remarked Twilight.

Applejack scanned the treeline. “Ah hear more of ’em coming! We’d best be off ya’ll.”

Song nodded. “Agreed. Friar?” she said, turning to face him with a crooked smile. “I trust you’d like to leave?”

Now that his brain had caught up to the fact that he was being rescued, Jacques sagged in relief. “Quite ready. Merci.”

“Form up!” barked Song. “Bearers around Jacques, Fritters on tail. Marble, you’ve got point. Lead us out of here!”

Dozens of questions burned in Jacques’ mind as they beat a hasty retreat in the face of growing howls behind them, but he had neither the time nor the breath to ask them. It was all he could do to keep up with the ponies, even with them slowing up to accommodate him. He lamented, not for the first time, that they were not large enough to carry him to and from the battlefield. A horse who could think and fight like a man would be an exceptional companion for a knight at times like these. In the end, Applejack and Song half dragged him as he held onto their armor.

It was a stressful withdrawal, but they successfully navigated out of the forest without incident. Once they’d travelled a sufficient distance into the Acres, Jacques cast a glance back to see a score or more sets of green eyes peering malevolently back at him. Then, one by one, the eyes vanished back into the forest.

“Deiu merci!” he exclaimed, finally allowing himself to collapse against the nearest tree. “Dieu merci! That was considerably closer than I like to cut it!”

A smattering of relieved laughter followed his comment as the ponies caught their breath. They were nowhere near as ragged as he was, but, he reflected, sprinting through an evil forest with timber wolves at your back isn’t exactly light exercise. Thank God for good friends, good fortune, and a God who’s so good as to grant victory to my sorry self!

He reached out his arms to the two closest ponies, who happened to be Applejack and Song, and pulled them into an instinctive embrace, armor notwithstanding. “Merci, my friends. I do not know that I would have survived without you.”

“Hah!” laughed Dash. “No sweat, Friar! Saving ponies, er, people is what we do!”

Applejack gave a tired chuckle and patted Jacques on the leg. “Sure is, sugarcube. Just, uh, do us all a favor and don’t make a habit of it, okay?”

“Yeah,” added Fritters with a yawn. “Or at least save your stupid ideas for daytime.”

“I’ll do my best,” he replied. “But, I must ask, how did you know to come looking for me?”

Song also patted his leg, then rose and stretched like a cat, her back popping audibly. “Well, I’ll happily tell you the story when we’re back at the farmhouse. But first…” a predatory grin spread across her features, “I’m afraid you’ll have to face your punishment for wandering off like that.”

Jacques shrugged, unable to find it in himself to be annoyed when things had worked out for the best. “Fair enough. What is my punishment?”

The psychologist pointed. “That.”

Turning to see what she was indicating, Jacques found himself nose-to-muzzle with Twilight, who was standing over him wearing a toothy smile that could only be described as ‘manic.’ Before he could draw breath, his ears were assaulted by a deluge of words that made him briefly wonder if this was not Pinkie Pie in disguise. His tired mind was unable to process most of what the maddened mare said, but he was fairly certain he heard “unlocked magic,” “untapped potential,” “the glories of thaumaturgy,” something about “research grants,” “intensive testing,” and “academic accolades,” and, to his admitted pleasure, a hearty “congratulations.”

The others just watched the display and laughed. “Ya really poked the hornet’s nest this time, Friar,” chuckled Applejack. “Betcha didn’t realize the most dangerous thing you’d face tonight would be Twi.”

Twilight was still speaking, not seeming to hear the others as she bounced happily in a circle. Unable to hold back a smile at the adorable display, Jacques chuckled in resignation and replied, “Eh. C’est la vie.”

Author's Note

Aura hummed a merry tune to herself as she strode up the walk to the main University building. She’d had a rather pleasant walk, and was now ready to resume her work, reasonably confident that Antiquarian couldn’t have gotten into too much trouble in the fifteen minutes she’d been away.

Now, why’d I have to go and think that, she thought with a frown. The laws of dramatic irony are not lightly flaunted, and—

Before she could even finish her mental rebuke, there was a shattering of glass as a stallion was hurled bodily through a third story window. Aura gasped in horror as the heavyset cream-colored unicorn landed with a thud on the grass to her left, where he lay groaning. “Sweet buttery pancakes!” she exclaimed, dashing over to the injured stallion. “Sir? Are you alright? Sir?”

She was about to roll him over to check his injuries when a cold voice from above arrested her movement. “Keep your distance, Aura,” warned Antiquarian.

Aura craned her neck up to see her bloodied employer standing framed in the window, a rapier held in his telekinetic grip. “Boss?” she exclaimed. There was a burst of light, and Antiquarian teleported next to her, weapon ready as he glared at the prone stallion who, Aura now noticed, was similarly armed. “Boss what is—” the stallion rolled over, still groaning, and Aura’s eyes widened as she recognized him. “Is that Professor One Way?” When Antiquarian didn’t answer, Aura shot him a censorious glance. “Antiq, I know you two are rivals, but a duel is hardly suitable for—”

“It is not mere academic rivalry which brought us to blows,” Antiquarian said, cutting her off as he relieved One Way of his weapon and passed it to Aura. “No, as satisfying as it was to finally pay this fool back for his idiotic notion that all of history can be explained exclusively by pecuniary motives, forgetting entirely that sapient beings are both body and soul and that wealth is only one of many material causes, I would not sully my blade for that cause alone.” He menaced One Way with his blade. “Tell my dear friend Aura who you work for, One Way.”

The prone stallion looked beseechingly at Aura. “I work for the University—”

Antiquarian’s rapier point brushed against his throat. “Don’t be coy, One Way. Tenure will not save you from my displeasure. Who do you really work for?”

One Way glared. “I’ll never talk!”

Antiquarian answered with a laugh that was anything but pleasant. “Oh, you’ll talk, my friend. Or else I’ll send a letter to Princess Twilight arranging for her to give you an exclusive, one-on-one, no-holds-barred lecture on the development of tea cups in 4th Century Chineigh.”

Aura gave a sharp breath. One Way swallowed hard. “You- you wouldn’t dare!”

“Wouldn’t I, though?” chuckled Antiquarian. “Miss Aura, take a letter. ‘Dear Princess Twilight Sparkle—”

“Alright! Alright! I’ll talk!” shouted One Way. “The truth is,” he looked away in shame, “I work for… for… Writer’s Block.”

Aura drew One Way’s sword in a flash and menaced him with it. “You monster!” she spat.

“It’s nothing personal!” pleaded One Way. “It’s not just Antiquarian! Writer’s Block targets bad writers too!”

Aura snorted. “You say that as though committing evil against evildoers somehow removes the evil, or justifies committing evil against the good.”

“Though I do appreciate that you both think I’m good,” interjected Antiquarian.

“It’s just business!” cried One Way. “It was my job to stop you!”

“And it was my job to beat you,” replied Antiquarian. “I must admit, it was clever of Writer’s Block to use trouble at work to keep me from writing, but I pushed through all the same.”

“So you did,” admitted One Way. “What happens now?”

“Now?” said Antiquarian, putting aside his blade. “You disappear. You withdraw from the University and from Block’s employ. You live out the rest of your days in peace, and never trouble anypony again. Or else,” he leaned in close, “I’ll tell every writer in the world where you are.”

One Way considered the offer, then nodded, rising slowly to his hooves to limp away. Once he’d gone a few yards, he turned to speak once more. “He’ll keep coming, you know. He can’t be stopped. He’ll send other servants, other infiltrators to strike you, hurt you, break you.”

Antiquarian nodded. “Yes. He will.” All were silent for a moment. “Good day, One Way.”

“Good day, Antiquarian, Miss Aura.” With that, he left.

Aura watched him go, then turned to Antiquarian. “I take it you finished the new chapter?”

Antiquarian brightened immediately. “Yes, actually, and I’m rather pleased with the result. You see…”

***

Woof! This one fought me. For such a short chapter, I had an inordinately hard time getting it right. Writer’s Block really had it in for me and stooped to some pretty cheap tactics to delay release. I think it turned out well, though.

One more chapter, possibly two, and then this particular arc will wrap up and send us into the oncoming nightmare I mean second arc.

In the midst of Writer's Block, I also had to finish Their Neighbors for Memorial Day and work on Homecoming, which is just a story I feel needs to be told.

The bible verses Jacques was quoting taken from Psalm 119, Psalm 23, Psalm 144, and Ephesians 6:10-18, respectively.

Shoutout goes to Circuitous Scholarshipby OleGreyMane. Just a reminder of Twilight’s wonderful eccentricities.

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Q&A

“… and that’s about when Fritters’ magic spear destroyed the first of the wolves,” concluded Jacques, stifling a yawn as they made their way back to the Apple Family homestead. “I believe you know the rest.”

The night was silent for a moment, save for the tramp of hooves and the scratching of Twilight’s quill on paper. I can’t believe she actually brought those on a rescue mission, thought Jacques. With her muzzle buried in her notes, it’s a wonder she hasn’t tripped on anything. The friar found it impressive, but he also thought that it suggested worrying things about how often she must do it. Ah, well, he thought with a sigh. At least her questions keep me from dwelling on all the trouble I’ve caused them this evening.

Song and the others hadn’t elaborated on how they found him, or why everybody was awake in the first place, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Applejack had called for reinforcements. The fact that Rainbow Dash had gone on ahead to let ‘the others’ know he’d been rescued meant that those present weren’t the only ones who’d been woken up by his late-night jaunt.

It didn’t help that Applejack kept shooting him glances as though to assure herself that he was still there. Much like how I needed that same assurance when I woke from my nightmare, he thought remorsefully. I hadn’t counted on their worry. Such foolishness! A man who has lived as long as I should know better by now!

“Fascinating!” said Twilight, her hushed exclamation drawing him back to the present. She poured over her notes, eyes shining with excitement. “It seems that my hypotheses about the intuitive nature of the magic were correct, as well as my belief that gaining a greater degree of mental stability through piety would have a direct correlation to your ability to accept your body’s new magical capacity. How would you describe the aura feedback when you wielded your sword?”

Jacques blinked several times and rubbed his eyes blearily, struggling to parse out what she’d just asked him. It’s no use. My mind is too fuzzy to recall the terms. And her lengthy interrogation hasn’t helped. “I would describe it as something for another time,” he quipped.

Twilight tilted her head to one side. “Another time? What do you mean?”

Raising an eyebrow, he tried again, “It feels like something it’s best to sleep on.”

The mare scratched her head with her quill and pondered his answer. “How interesting. I’ve never heard of magic causing that sort of sensation. Is it a matter of perceiving temporal distortion, or a connection to sleeping? I wonder if there’s a relation between that and the Dream Realm—”

Rolling his eyes, he cut her off, “Twilight?” She looked up at him. “You are taking the wrong meaning from my words. I wasn’t actually describing the sensation; I was saying I’d rather discuss it tomorrow.”

Twilight’s ears fell flat. “Tomorrow?” she asked piteously.

The friar chuckled. “Dear lady, I am exhausted. I’m not sure how to describe it because I’m too tired to consider complex matters. Much as I hate to keep you waiting, I’d prefer to resume this conversation tomorrow.”

Twilight’s eyes, already unfairly large and adorable, now assumed a lugubrious quality calculated to twist the hearts of mortal men. Saints alive, she looks like a kicked puppy! lamented Jacques.

“But… but magic,” she wailed.

Applejack laughed and patted Twilight on the back. “Don’t worry, hon. Magic will still be there tomorrow waitin’ for ya.”

Twilight let out a disappointed “Aw” as she put away her writing materials.

Fritters laughed. “Don’t worry, Twilight. If he wants to keep mum about it tomorrow, I’ll hold him down while you force it out of him!”

Jacques shot the unicorn stallion a sidelong glance. “That won’t be nearly so easy for you after tonight,” he warned.

“Good,” grinned Fritters. “I need the exercise.”

“Okay, boys,” sighed Morning Song, “let’s dial the testosterone back from an eight to a three, okay? At least until morning.”

Fritters looked confused. “But aren’t you Morning?”

Marble Slab and Applejack snickered while Song shot him a glare. “Don’t get smart with me.”

“Small danger of that,” snarked Marble.

Now it was Fritters’ turn to glare. “Last time I checked, I outrank you, Marble. So, if I’m dumb, and I’m your boss, what does that imply?”

“That you called in a personal favor with your old pal Celestia?” offered Marble innocently.

“Hm. Fair.”

Twilight’s head shot up, her earlier sorrow forgotten. “Wait, what?!” She darted around Jacques to walk beside Fritters. “You know Celestia? Like, personally?” Applejack perked up with interest, and even Jacques inclined his head to observe Fritters.

The stallion seemed uncomfortable with the scrutiny and pulled back slightly. “Okay, that is definitely a story for another time. As in the ‘you’ll have to bribe me to hear it’ kind of other time.”

“What kind of bribe?” demanded Twilight eagerly.

“Something of tremendous value,” he said airily. “You’ll have to expand your thinking to meet my high-class standards.”

Applejack raised an eyebrow. “Hey, Fritters.”

“Yes, fair Applejack?”

“Ah have food and booze.”

“Shucks!” exclaimed Fritters, waving one hoof in mock disappointment. “You discovered my high-class taste. I’ll tell you tomorrow.” He gave an exaggerated frown while shooting Applejack a wink. She grinned back. Jacques raised an eyebrow.

Song laughed. “Maybe you should demand a higher price for your bribes, Fritters.”

Or perhaps, speculated Jacques, he simply gave Applejack a special discount.

Unaware of the friar’s musings, Applejack addressed the Konik, “You’ll also have ta tell us ’bout that supercharge thingy ya did. Twi’s been droppin’ hints fer days. Between your special magic and the good friar’s, Ah think she’s about ready to snap from the suspense.”

Twilight laughed unconvincingly. “Hahaha, oh, that’s so silly, AJ. I wouldn’t just snap! I’m not bothered by the delay at all! Who’s a silly pony? You are, Applejack.” The farm pony gave her a flat look. Twilight’s ears fell flat and her voice turned snippy. “Alright, fine! It’s been driving me nuts. I’ve actually lost sleep over it. Happy?”

“Just wanted you ta be honest with yerself, sugarcube,” smiled Applejack.

“Well,” interjected Song, “your answers will have to wait until we’ve all had some shuteye and Celestia raises the sun. Friar Jacques, on the other hoof, will be getting someanswers soon.”

The man tilted his head. “Oh? Why?”

“Because we’re back.”

Sure enough, the party emerged from the orchard to see the homestead within easy walking distance. In his exhaustion, Jacques hadn’t even noticed how close they were, but now that he saw the house, he decided it was one of the most beautiful things he’d seen in a long time.

Applejack seemed to agree. “Ain’t that a sight fer sore eyes. Let’s get in there so I can take off this tin monkey suit.”

“Race you back?” teased Fritters.

“Shaddap.”

As they approached the house, Jacques saw five ponies waiting out front. Upon seeing the returning party, the five came rushing out to meet them. His heart sank when he realized that the remaining Bearers, plus Big MacIntosh, were all awake at this beastly hour on his account. Regret was quickly replaced by confusion as he saw that, in addition to Rainbow Dash, all the other ponies were armed and armored. What possible reason—?

But the friar had no time to speculate, as a certain pink blur raced ahead of the others and clamped onto his legs in a mighty hug, almost knocking his feet out from under him as her armor clanked painfully against his shins. “Oh thank goodness you’re safe!” shouted the party pony. “You went missing and we were all ‘AAAH!’ and then Twilight was all ‘Where’d he go?!’ and Applejack was all ‘He’s gonna hurt himself!’ and Fluttershy was all ‘oh my!’ and Rarity was all ‘of all the worst things that could happen—’”

Wincing at the metallic grip, he attempted to interrupt. “Lady Pie…”

“We were so worried, darling!” added Rarity as she ran up with the others. “Running off in the dead of night like that, I just— we were just— oo~ooh!” She reared up onto her hind legs to hug him from the side, her armor digging into his hip.

Jacques cleared his throat. “Ladies…”

Fluttershy flapped up in front of him, her eyes tearful. “Oh! It was just terrible! You could have fallen in a ditch and hurt yourself, or gotten lost in the woods, or, or, eep!” With that she flung her forelegs around his ribs. Jacques expected the timid pegasus’ grip to be gentle.

It was not.

“Ghak! Ladies!” he gasped as the armored hug squeezed the air out of his lungs. With bulging eyes, he looked for aid from the other ponies. Based on the barely concealed mirth (and, in Fritters’ case, open laughter) of the others, his hope was in vain.

At that moment, Big Mac ambled up, and Jacques felt his blood run cold as the massive stallion looked him up and down. If that behemoth hugs me, I will die. For a terrifying moment, he thought Big Mac would. Then the stallion just gave a knowing smile and patted Jacques’ arm. “Eeyup.”

God bless you and keep you forever, you prince among stallions!

Song trotted up to give Jacques a triumphant smirk. “Feeling the love, Friar?” she asked.

Jacques glared at her, not missing the subtext. This is my punishment for running off, eh? Mother, you would love this mare. She has your love for mockingly ironic justice. “Quite,” he said through gritted teeth. “I especially love all the armor plates digging into my flesh.”

Satisfied that he’d had enough, Songs coaxed the girls into releasing him. They did so, but continued to pepper him with questions about his health. “Fair ladies, I am fine,” he insisted, massaging his ribs. “I came by no injury tonight.” Until you all hugged me, he didn’t add aloud.

“That’s certainly a relief!” said Rarity feelingly. “But… why did you run off, darling? Where did you go?”

“Oh, Rainbow didn’t tell you?” asked Fritters, tutting censoriously. “Typical Chair Corps, leaving out details like that. Well, no matter. I’ll tell you.” He gave Jacques a sly look that sent a chill down the friar’s spine. “It’s no great affair, really. The good friar just took a little walk… in the Everfree.”

Three mares looked up at Jacques with horror on their features. Too late he realized what was about to happen. “Please don’t—”

This time their combined hug did topple him.

Ten ponies and one human sipped tea and cocoa in the kitchen. Jacques’ initial plan to head to bed after hearing the ponies’ side of the story had been nixed by the curiosity of the five who’d stayed at the farmstead. Thus did Jacques find himself recounting his adventures for the second time that night. Having shed their armor, the ponies gathered around the table and listened with rapt attention to his account, even those that had heard it before. Jacques wasn’t sure if it was a cultural trait to be so engrossed in storytelling or if his rescuers were simply being polite, but he was grateful that their interest motivated them to rein in Pinkie and Twilight whenever they interrupted with questions.

Reactions to his tale were mixed. Rarity and Fluttershy were flatly horrified at the risk he’d taken while Rainbow Dash and Pinkie Pie kept wanting him to go into greater detail on the fight. Twilight probed about his magic in a manner that she doubtless thought was subtle. Applejack and Morning Song seemed torn between relief that he was all right and annoyance that he’d been a fool in the first place. As for the stallions, Big Mac was inscrutably stoic, Marble seemed unfazed, and Fritters nodded with non-judgmental understanding. Somehow, I get the impression he’s done worse, mused Jacques.

Once he’d finished, Rarity cleared her throat. “Well, darling, I think I speak for all of us when I say congratulations on unlocking your magic, we are relieved by your victory, and, of course,” she leaned forward and gave him a flat stare, “please don’t ever do that again.”

Murmurs of assent echoed from around the table.

Jacques dipped his head respectfully. “On that we are in agreement. Far be it from me to put God to the test with a second such midnight walk.”

“Not to mention waking the neighborhood,” added Song dryly over her tea.

“That too.”

Rainbow broke down chuckling, leading to the others to cast quizzical looks at her. “I just realized something, Friar. Redheart is gonna be peeved when she finds out about this!”

Fluttershy shot her friend a disapproving glare. “Rainbow! Language!”

Jacques raised an eyebrow at that. ‘Peeved’ is considered foul language here? Merciful heavens, must I now add ‘learn Equestrian vulgarities’ to my duties to avoid causing scandal?

Dash laughed anyway, unmoved by her friend’s ire. “Well, she will be! She practically popped a vein when he sparred with Fritters! When she hears he went backinto the Everfree, she’s gonna have a fit!”

“I mean,” interjected Pinkie Pie brightly, “at least he didn’t come back injured, right? If he’d gotten hurt again, Red reeeeeaally woulda been peev—” Fluttershy shot her a look, “—vvvangry. Yes. ‘Angry’ was definitely the word I was going to say and not something I changed to at the last minute.”

Snorting, Rainbow retorted, “No, if he’d come back beat up, ‘angry’ wouldn’t have cut it. I think she’d pull a Twilight and burst into flame.”

“That happened once,” grumbled Twilight.

Rainbow ignored her. “As it is, Red’s still gonna be ready to wring his neck.”

Applejack let out a tired chuckle. “RD’s got a point, Friar. Ah think ya’d best prepare yerself fer a serious tongue-lashing next time ya see her.”

“Perhaps I should commission a suit of armor first,” replied Jacques ruefully. The ponies laughed at that, though Rarity simply looked thoughtful. “On the note of armor,” continued the friar, “I’ve been meaning to ask – why were all of you girt for war? The rescue party I understand, but the rest of you?”

His question sobered the room immediately. The ponies glanced at each other before answering, as though weighing their possible responses. Which is always a good sign, came the sarcastic thought.

Song, as the senior officer, took it upon herself to field the question. “When we discovered you were missing, I sent Fritters and Marble out to pick up your trail while I got the others armored up. We had plenty of sets; Captain Argent and I figured that getting everypony outfitted would be a good idea long-term, so we requisitioned quite the selection. First Sergeant Brick even left something in Big Mac’s size. When my soldiers found that your trail led to the Everfree, we took Rainbow, Applejack, and Twilight along with us for speed, pathfinding, and raw magical power.” Twilight and Applejack smiled modestly; Rainbow flexed her wings and smirked. “We left the others in reserve, just in case.”

Jacques nodded, seeing the reasoning, but could not help but notice that Song’s explanation left out one critical detail. “I cannot fault your division of forces, and I am certainly thankful for the rescue, but you still haven’t answered my question. Why was everyone arrayed for battle?”

“Yes… that,” sighed Song. “To be honest, it was probably a case of being needlessly paranoid, but I haven’t lived this long by assuming false alarms. As to why I felt paranoid, it’d probably be best if Applejack explained.”

Thoroughly confused, Jacques turned to the farm mare, who looked distinctly uncomfortable to be put on the spot. “Friar, it’s… well…” She scratched her head. “I was sleepin’ all peaceful-like when things sorta…” The mare grimaced and let a snort out through her nostrils. “Remember how we talked about Princess Luna bein’ the Dream Warden an’ all that? Well, it turns out…”

Twilight watched Jacques’ face become progressively grimmer as Applejack explained the nature of the dream and, subsequently, what everypony had already discussed about it. When she finished, the friar sat in silence for a moment, staring at the far wall in a brown study while he drummed his fingers on the table. “This is ill news,” he said at length. “It would seem our enemy is already on the move. The Shades see us, while we see nothing.”

“Technically, we don’t know that this was the Shades,” interjected Twilight, “or that they gleaned any information from the attack on your mind. All we know for certain is that an entity of Dark Magic attacked you in your sleep. For all we know, it could have just been the Everfree acting up. We won’t know more until I’ve had a chance to contact Princess Luna and ask.” She thought about asking him what all his nightmare had entailed but, upon reflection, nixed the idea. Applejack was pretty clear about his reluctance to talk. If I ask him about it in front of everypony, he’ll probably clam up. I’ll have to see if I can tease it out of him later.

Morning Song spoke up. “Hopefully Princess Luna will have some answers for us. However, it would be wise not to expect too much. Even if she can tell us what exactly happened last night, it may not point us to anything we can directly act upon.”

Fritters nodded. “Meaning we’ll still be stuck waiting for the spooks to turn something up.” Noticing that Pinkie had opened her mouth to speak, he quickly added, “Spooks as in spies, Pinkie Pie. Not ghosts.”

The mare chortled. “Oh I know that, silly. I was just gonna say that I bet they have epic Nightmare Nights. I wonder what they do to celebrate?”

Twilight glanced at Fluttershy, expecting the timid pegasus to say that she certainly didn’t want to find out, but, to her surprise, the pegasus remained silent, a pensive expression on her face. Maybe she didn’t hear Pinkie. Or maybe she has something else on her mind. Twilight yawned. Or she could just be tired. It’s been a long night, after all.

“Ugh!” groaned Rainbow. “I hate sitting on my wings! There’s gotta be something we can do!”

Twilight rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Well, if we can’t prepare for the modern Shades directly, we can at least familiarize ourselves with the originals. I didn’t find much in Ponyville, but I do have enough data to give everypony a rough overview, and I sent a letter to Princess Celestia a couple days ago asking her to pass along any resources she can find. She said it may take time, with the old records being such a mess, but we should get something from Canterlot soon.” The thought of reading long-buried historical tomes made her giddy, but she managed to keep her enthusiasm in check by reminding herself that it was impolite to drool in front of alien dignitaries from a distant world. “I’ll get started putting together some lessons for you all. Having a better sense for how they were beaten the first time might make it easier to beat them this time around.”

“Yay history!” cheered Pinkie Pie.

“Yay. History,” grumbled Rainbow Dash.

“Ah reckon it’s better than doin’ nothing,” sighed Applejack, who leaned gloomily against the table. “Knowin’ these Shades are out there is bad enough. Waiting for ‘em to show up is worse.” Several of the others murmured in assent.

Rarity cleared her throat. “Learning about our adversaries is all well and good, but surely there is yet something else we can be doing to prepare.”

“There is,” declared Jacques. The ponies turned to see him leaning forward, gnarled hands folded, a determined look in his pale eyes. “Applejack and Rainbow Dash have already begun.”

“You mean martial training?” ventured Rarity warily.

“Yes,” replied Jacques, “but not only that. It is not enough to know how to use a weapon.” He looked around the table, fixing each of the Ponyville ponies with his gaze. “One must also be prepared to use it.”

A heavy silence followed his words. Twilight and the others exchanged glances. Rainbow was unbothered by the statement; at least, until she glanced at her friends. Applejack looked resigned, the tilt of her head casting her face in shadow. Rarity’s expression was unsure as she looked to the others for guidance, and Pinkie Pie was oddly somber. Fluttershy’s face was hidden behind her mane, but Twilight could guess.

For her part, Twilight was of two minds. The analytical part of her had long ago accepted the rationale of warriors; she’d grown up in their shadow, with a family including both aspiring soldiers like her brother and old veterans like Uncle Lance. Celestia had taught her combat spells; spells which she’d had to use more than once. She was even familiar with some melee techniques. The knowledge that the Shades might force her to use that knowledge with lethal intent had been logged and processed days ago.

At the intellectual level.

On the emotional side of things though… “Friar Jacques,” she said, her voice soft, “you do know what you’re asking of us, don’t you?”

Jacques met her gaze evenly. His eyes were full of compassion, but did not yield an inch. “I do,” he replied gravely.

“I was afraid of that,” sighed Twilight, letting her gaze fall to the table.

Rainbow spoke up, her voice light. Twilight couldn’t tell if it was forced or not. “Come on, girls, it’s not so bad. AJ and I are already training.”

“That’s not what this is about and you know it, Rainbow Dash,” snapped Applejack, the bite in her voice making the pegasus flinch. “This ain’t no small thing ta ask.”

“You can say that again, darling,” agreed Rarity, her voice quavering. “I must say, when the Elements of Harmony chose us, I didn’t foresee this being in our futures.”

“I don’t think any of us did,” sighed Twilight. “But in hindsight, maybe we should have spent more time considering the possibility. Think about it – in all the adventures we’ve had, we’ve never had to… well…” she cleared her throat, “…anyway, how many heroes of legend can say the same?”

“I’m a baker.”

All heads turned to Pinkie Pie, who was staring ahead with a flat expression on her face. Realizing she was the center of attention, the party pony put on a sheepish smile that didn’t quite hide the deep thought in her eyes.

“Sorry. Just thinking out loud. You know me, just sayin’ whatever pops into my head, hehehe.”

Marble Slab cleared his throat. “Maybe it would be best to table this discussion until tomorrow, once everypony’s had some shuteye.”

Rarity gave a bitter chuckle. “Oh, yes. I’ll be sleeping quite well after all this!”

“I only meant that—”

“I know what you meant!” cried Rarity. Marble recoiled and the others stared. Flushing red, the fashionista put a hoof over her eyes. “My sincerest apologies, darling. I become rather short-tempered when I haven’t had my beauty sleep.” Pinkie Pie trotted over to the unicorn and gave her a gentle hug, eliciting a smile from Rarity. “Aw, thank you, dear.”

Twilight cleared her throat. “Even if we don’t get much sleep, I think Marble may have a point. This is a difficult decision to make and—”

“Um… excuse me, Twilight?” The purple pony turned to see Fluttershy staring at her, a resolute expression on her face. “But it’s really not. In fact,” continued the pegasus, turning to face them all, “the decision is really quite simple.”

Being the quiet type allowed Fluttershy plenty of time to think. She didn’t consider herself to be any great mind like Twilight or, apparently, Big MacIntosh, but she did spend a lot of her life deep in thought. Sometimes, those thoughts were pleasant ones. Other times, they were anything but.

Since Jacques’ arrival in their world, her thoughts had taken a darker bent. Celestia’s warning of the danger the Shades posed had struck a sour chord in her mind – a grim note that echoed in a seemingly endless vibrato at the edges of her consciousness.

It was the note of fear. Fear for Equestria. Fear for Ponyville. Fear for her friends and family and animals. Fear for the evils the enemy might inflict, and fear for what she might have to do to prevent it.

What would you do to save the lives of those you love?

Fluttershy had not told her friends about how all-consuming the thoughts had become, or how nothing she did ever truly made them go away. She had not told them about the hours she’d spent unwillingly contemplating death. She certainly hadn’t told them about the nightmares; the ones she’d needed Luna’s help to face.

She hadn’t wanted to burden them.

What would you do to save the lives of those you love?

But now it seemed the burden lay on allof them, and they were as unsure as shewas. The knowledge was comforting in a way, but distressing at the same time. If they weren’t sure what to do, then how was she to know?

Some of the other girls were even suggesting that they discuss it tomorrow after a good night’s rest, and a part of her wanted to agree. The other part of her wailed in terror at the thought of putting it off for even another minute.

What would you do to save the lives of those you love?

How am I supposed to answer that? How is anypony supposed to answer that?

She looked around the table, seeing the worried and doubtful faces of her friends, and she almost despaired of the answer.

Then she saw Jacques – the man who had risked death to save three fillies he didn’t know simply because it was right; who didn’t act for any petty or vengeful reason, but simply out of a desire to be good; who’d seen so much of war, yet remained at heart a gentle soul. There was much she didn’t know about his past, yet there was no ambiguity to his character.

Fluttershy looked into his eyes and saw a man who knew exactly what he was asking of them, and hated that he had to ask. She saw that he would have willingly suffered great agonies if he might spare them this trial; this pain.

But he’s asking us anyway. He has to.

What would you do to save the lives of those you love?

Fluttershy knew the answer, even if it terrified her.

Twilight cleared her throat. “Even if we don’t get much sleep, I think Marble may have a point. This is a difficult decision to make and—”

“Um… excuse me, Twilight?” The purple pony turned to see Fluttershy staring at her, a resolute expression on her face that masked the fear and sorrow lying beneath. “But it’s really not. In fact,” continued the pegasus, turning to face them all, “the decision is really quite simple.”

The room was silent as nine ponies and one human waited to see what she would say next. Their focus almost drove her to hide behind her mane, but she knew, just like she’d known when facing the dragon, that she couldn’t back down now. Taking a deep sigh to collect herself, she continued.

“When a wild predator is threatening other animals or ponies, I can use my gift to calm it down. But, well, most ponies don’t have my gift. Sometimes they can trap the animal or lead it away, but if they can’t,” a lump rose in her throat, “they have to kill it, for everypony’s safety.” Instinctively, she began to stroke her own tail with one hoof, a displacement activity that helped her maintain calm. “The Elements of Harmony are like my gift. They’ve let us handle things without… killing anypony.” She felt moisture in her eyes. “But… with the Shades… we won’t have that. So, to keep everypony safe, we may have to…” she swallowed, “… do things we wish we didn’t have to. B-because, i-if we don’t…”

She was startled to feel a foreleg wrap around her in a familial hug. She glanced to the side to see Rainbow pressing herself against her barrel, smiling encouragingly. Fluttershy blinked at her old friend in silent gratitude. Ever loyal. Her courage restored, she resumed, voice steady.

“We’re the Bearers of the Elements of Harmony. Ponies are going to look to us for protection. If we’re not ready to protect them, and they get hurt, it’ll be our fault. So, the decision is simple: we can avoid this and let bad things happen, or we can be ready, and save the ponies we love.”

During most of her speech, Fluttershy had kept her eyes on the table or the wall. It was hard enough to get the words out without seeing her friend’s reactions. Now that she was done, she hung her head, afraid to see what they might think.

“Wow,” marveled Pinkie Pie after a long pause.

Wincing, Fluttershy sank deeper into her seat. Please don’t be mad!

The pink pony continued in the same awed voice. “That… was… awesome!”

Fluttershy looked up in shock to see Pinkie staring back with wide-eyed amazement and a stupefied grin. “I was not expecting the rousing hero speech to come from Fluttershy! I mean, seriously, that’s usually Twilight’s thing, with AJ doing the ‘practical wisdom’ bit and Dash taking the ‘go team Harmony!’ bit! Way to go!”

Blinking in shock, the meek pegasus eventually managed, “Um… thank you?”

“It was an impressive speech, darling,” agreed Rarity.

Rainbow laughed. “‘Impressive?’ Hah!” She ruffled Fluttershy’s mane, much to the yellow pegasus’ chagrin. “She knocked it out of the park!”

Applejack tilted her hat back to give Fluttershy a searching look. “Speaking from the ‘practical wisdom’ angle, Ah gotta admit that it’s hard ta argue with ya, Shy.” The farmpony sighed. “Ah may not be happy ’bout what we gotta do, but that don’t mean we shouldn’t do it.”

Twilight was giving Fluttershy a look that had ‘Letter to the Princess’ written all over it. “Certainly a well-thought-out, logical case for weapons training. I guess you’re right. The decision might not be pleasant, but it is pretty simple.”

“Eeyup,” agreed Big Mac.

Fritters chuckled. “Quite the personality transformation there, Fluttershy.”

“I guess there’s more to you than meets the eye,” added Marble Slab.

Morning Song simply gave Fluttershy an approving smile and a nod.

Most striking of all, however, was Jacques’ reaction. The old man regarded her with a warm look full of praise and admiration, but there was something else as well – a sober look that may have been sadness. Before she could wonder what that might mean, the friar spoke, “Bravo, mademoiselle! Yours is true courage to face such a painful truth.”

Fluttershy blushed and giggled awkwardly. “A-actually, I was terrified.” I still am terrified.

“I know,” replied Jacques with an understanding smile. “That is exactly what makes you courageous.” Fluttershy’s blush deepened.

Song chose that moment to interject. “It seems you’ve reached a consensus, and, for what it’s worth, I think it’s the right one. However, I think I speak for all of us when I say that the specifics are best left until after we’ve all had a few hours’ more sleep. I propose we all find our way back to the Land of Nod for the next,” she glanced at the clock, “six hours and meet back here at ten to decide how best to proceed.”

“I motion that anypony who gets any bright ideas about waking us up early gets dunked in the nearest lake,” suggested Fritters.

“I second the motion,” agreed Marble. “All in favor?”

A chorus of assents answered him. Song rapped her hoof on the table. “Motion carried. Meeting adjourned.”

“Wonderful,” yawned Rarity as she lazily walked to the door. “Now I can top off the evening with schlepping back to town.”

Rainbow flapped into the air with a tired laugh. “Yeah, I might just crash in the orchard. The trees are pretty comfy.”

Applejack rolled her eyes. “Hold on, everypony. Ya’ll ain’t goin’ nowhere. Wouldn’t exactly be good Apple hospitality if’n we let ya hike on back to town at this hour. We got plenty o’ couches, cots, and blankets, ain’t we Big MacIntosh?”

“Eeyup.”

Jacques rose and stretched, his back audibly popping in a way that made Fluttershy cringe. “I can sleep in that overstuffed chair in my room if one of the stallions wants my bed.” He held up a hand to forestall Applejack’s protests. “I often sleep in a chair for my back’s sake these days. It’s no trouble.”

Fritters stepped forward with a smirk. “I’ll take the bed. You can just put out a doggy bed for the pigmy pegasus.”

Marble shot him a hurt look. “Ouch.”

Applejack gave a smirk of her own. “Well, Winona’s still at the vet’s, so….”

“I say again, ouch.”

Song pushed past them. “Children, play nice. Mama’s off to bed and I don’t want to hear any whining.”

“They started it,” whined Marble, earning a chuckle from his superior officer. Once she’d gone, he simply looked up at Big Mac, cocked an eyebrow, and grunted, “Uh?”

Big Mac nodded and emitted a sound that sounded vaguely like an “eeyup.” Without another word (or grunt), the two of them departed upstairs.

Fritters munched on something he’d raided from the fridge. “Mm. Guess Marble’s gonna sleep in Big Red’s sock drawer. See you up there, Friar. G’night ladies.”

Pinkie Pie bounced up to Applejack, and Fluttershy was happy to see the spring was back in her step. “This is gonna be so fun!I love slumber parties! Are we bunking in your room, AJ?”

“… Ah was thinkin’ more the livin’ room—”

“Oh, cool, so you’re gonna bunk with us in the living room?”

“Well, sure Ah… wait… why do Ah gotta leave mah bed to sleep in the livin’ room? Especially when we only got two couches.”

“I call the green couch!” said Rainbow, zipping into the next room.

“Ooh! Ooh! I want the carpet next to the creaky floorboards!” cried Pinkie, bouncing after her.

“I’ll take the recliner,” said Twilight with a yawn as she ambled after them. “I’m used to passing out in chairs.”

Rarity followed, declaring, “I will also require a couch.”

The farmpony glared at her. “Rarity, we got other rooms besides the living room. We don’t all need ta pile there for a slumber party.”

“Tell that to Pinkie Pie,” scoffed Rarity. “But I shall require the use of your mane care products in the morning.” Applejack rolled her eyes and followed, muttering under her breath that the fashionista was going to be disappointed.

The kitchen fell silent now that everypony had gone. Fluttershy let out a long sigh, closing her eyes and massaging her temples. I can’t believe I said all that, she thought. All this talk of… that… and I’m the one to propose it?! Pinkie’s right, I am the last pony who should have—

“Are you not going to join your friends, Lady Fluttershy?”

Fluttershy eeped and leapt into the air, spinning to see Jacques still standing there, wearing an inquisitive expression.

“Apologies, young lady. I did not mean to startle you,” smiled the man.

“Oh, um, it’s okay, I just sorta… didn’t realize you were still here.” She flapped awkwardly. “That’s my fault, really, I should be more observant—”

“Fluttershy.” His gentle tone cut her off. Striding over, he took one hoof in his hand and gave her a steady look. “I know you have misgivings, but I meant what I said. You truly are courageous to face this. You are stronger than you know. All of you are.” He squeezed her hoof lightly. “Have faith, young one. We shall be triumphant.”

The shy pony beamed at him, feeling tears well up in her eyes. “T-thank you, Friar.”

Releasing her, he stepped back with a shrug. “I speak only the truth, mademoiselle. Now, if you will excuse me,” the friar bowed slightly, “I bid you bonne nuit.”

Jacques started for the stairs, but came to a halt when Fluttershy addressed him. “Friar Jacques? Um… will you be… okay to go back to sleep? I mean, after that scary nightmare you had, whatever it was, not that I’m asking you to say, just, well…”

The old man smiled tiredly. “I believe I shall be fine, Lady Fluttershy, but your concern is much appreciated. Besides,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “if I have another nightmare, I can always use Fritters like one of those stuffed bears I’ve seen foals carry.”

Fluttershy giggled at the mental image. “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t appreciate that.”

“Probably not.” He turned once more to leave, but stopped when he saw her biting her lip. “Something wrong?”

“No, no,” she insisted. “It’s just…” It’s just that horrible ponies are gonna try to hurt us. “…well…” And we don’t know who or where they are. “…it’s silly really…” Silly to think we can do this, that I can do this “…but…” She looked up nervously; he returned her gaze with no judgment. “… could I have a hug?”

Jacques’ smile was fatherly as he opened his arms. “Of course, petit.”

Canterlot, the Pearl District, known colloquially as ‘Lord’s Row’

A massive earth pony approached the manor’s gate, his pale, ash-grey fur only a shade darker than his white suit coat and fedora. He was known to many as ‘Quartermaster,’ but more properly as ‘Kiln.’ At his steps, the black iron gates swung open to admit him.

Kiln was aware of the Blades who watched him from the shadows, but he paid them no mind. Nor did he pay any attention to the statue that had been rebuilt after his minor disagreement with Kuro Ken the last time he’d visited. Such trivialities were beneath his notice.

He entered the mansion without a word. The Acolytes and Initiates he encountered hastened to get out of his way, averting their gazes as they bowed. It was well that they did, for if they had dared to look upon his face they might have been frozen in panic.

Kiln looked… miffed, and for him to display any emotion without deliberate intent was almost as rare as something which could genuinely vex him.

And he was vexed.

He descended to the midnight blue wooden door in the cellar and entered without preamble, his massive frame barely fitting through the undersized entry. Kiln stepped into the little patch of light which so feebly illuminated the first few feet of the room and stood tall, his jaw set. “Inkling,” he said flatly.

The shadows began to swirl around him. “Two visits in such a short time?” the darkness purred. “Oh, Kilny, you flatter me—”

“Stop,” he commanded. “You know why I’m here.”

A disembodied chuckle answered him as the shadows crept onto him. “Why, is it because I am such a beautiful mare that—”

Kiln ground his hoof against the floor, and the shadows were swept away from him as if by a great wind. Inkling hissed in pain as she was driven back. Kiln’s eyes narrowed the barest fraction. “Enough. You will not be playing games tonight, Inkling.”

It took a moment for Inkling to respond. When she did, her sibilant voice was sullen. “As you wish.”

He nodded once, satisfied. “You know why I’m here?”

“I have an inkling,” she replied with an audible smirk. Kiln rolled his jaw and Inkling’s mocking tone wilted. “You’re sad that I went and had my fun with the Dreamers,” pouted the voice in the mist.

“‘Angry’ would be a better term,” he corrected. “You were told not to trespass in the Dream Warden’s domain.”

“Aw, but I was so bored,” moaned Inkling, sounding like a filly whose parents hadn’t let her go to the park with her friends. “It was just a little mayhem! A simple terror turned loose to make some fun!” Her plaintive tone took a more biting edge, its rasp like that of a hungry predator. “I’m bored, Kiln!”

“No doubt you are,” he replied, sounding quite bored himself. “But it will be some time yet before we are ready to strike, and any further childishness on your part will only delay your fun.”

“The Master must be bored as well,” sulked Inkling.

Kiln gave a slight sigh. “The Master has… his own frivolities to distract him. Frivolities which do notrisk exposure as yours do. Keep yourself in check, or I will.”

Inkling’s sigh was like a knife running over silk. “As you command, Kiln.”

“Good,” he replied.

As the earth pony turned to leave, Inkling spoke again. “Don’t you want to know what I discovered, Kilny?”

Kiln paused, but his tone was bored when he spoke. “If you are merely going wax eloquent on the taste of fear, then I have better things to do.”

Inkling’s coy giggle sent a ripple through the shadows, and once more the tendrils danced around Kiln. “Fear not, oh Eldest Son. I have something much more interesting than that. Something even the Master may want to hear.” A dark mist drifted between him and the door, and from its mass a shape emerged, taking on a twisting, snakelike form that reached to the level of his eyes. “My little terror found an interesting creature… unlike any I have felt before. He pulsed with Light, Kilny, a powerful, powerful life…” The form before him quivered, giving a shuddering, hungering sigh. Twin orbs suddenly blazed as eyes, and the shadows around it took on angular definition. “A new friend for me to play with… maybe enough for us all…” The shadows resolved into the visage of a dark mare, with gleaming eyes and glittering fangs. “Do you think the Master would like to know that, Kilny?” she asked with a childlike tilt of the head.

Kiln was silent as he considered her words. “Yes, Inkling,” he said at length. “I believe the Master would.” With a smile that showed entirely too many teeth, he invited, “Why don’t you tell me all about him?”

Author's Note

A representative of the Angry Mob lingered at the door to Antiquarian’s office, pacing back and forth as he waited for the writer to—

“We’re not doing that,” declared Antiquarian, striding out past the stallion and walking straight up to the camera in full violation of the Fourth Wall.

“But—” protested the stallion.

“Nope. This is the fastest I’ve put a chapter out in a while and there’s a chunk to cover if I want to update folks on coming changes without taking all day. My life is very busy right now, so shut up and let me work.”

With reckless disregard for the feelings of the representative of the Angry Mob, who wasn’t important enough to have a name, Antiquarian launched into the explanation, not even bothering with further quotations or any effort at maintaining character.

I know a lot of you were probably hoping for the ‘Redheart-loses-her-mind’ part here, but there were some character and plot elements that it made more sense to wrap up first, rather than have a long, played-out version of it taking up multiple chapters later. This story is already long, and this chapter covering all this now is going to save a lot of time later. Trust me; it’ll be funny when we get there.

As for some insight into why this chapter went the way it did, I realized recently that Fluttershy wasn’t getting a lot of screen-time in this story. Pinkie isn’t getting a ton either (besides comedy) but I already had some plans to deal with that. Fluttershy, though, hasn’t done anything since saving Jacques’ life (no biggee), and that’s problematic. I hate it when the Mane 6 are all supposed to be main characters in a story… and then one or more get sidelined when it doesn’t make any sense to sideline them. Originally, I was going to have Fluttershy be the last one to be convinced of the need for martial training – there was going to be a whole sub-arc with a new character that Jacques would press into service to help her come to grips with violence. Then I considered two things:

1 – I already have a lot of sub-arcs going.

2 – As much as it makes sense for Fluttershy to be the most hesitant to fight, that arc has been played out a thousand times over. Since it’s also possible for things could play out as I’ve written here, I decided to do things differently.

I was probably also influenced by We Need a Medicby Onomonopia. While not without flaw, the story did a great job with (human) Fluttershy. She comes through really well as a gentle soul who abhors violence, but who comes to accept that she can’t avoid it and must adapt to it. Plus, I love Transformers Prime and Onomonopia nailed Ratchet.

Now that I think about it, I’m kind of surprised there aren’t more stories about soldier Fluttershy; it’s a fairly interesting concept. Then again, maintaining her gentle spirit and kind virtues while having her in a warzone is probably hard for a lot of authors, since crappy movies generally make such characters go full edge-lord. Maybe it’s just as well that we don’t see it more often if that’s what we’d get. I’d love to see it, but only if it didn’t flanderize her character.

Anyway, some quick housekeeping: this chapter essentially wraps up Arc 1: the Acclimation to Ponyville. The second arc will pick up with a chapter or two focusing on some of the non-Ponyville characters before jumping back into training and, subsequently, the first encounters between the main cast and the enemy. Ahem. Sorry. The enemy.

Shoutout goes to One-Sided Conversationby Rambling Writer because it is genuinely one of the funniest short stories I’ve come across (that includes non-fanfiction) and to Dictated, Not Read by device heretic because IF I’M GOING TO CRY YOU SHOULD TOO.

P.S. the chapter name reminded me that at one point I floated the idea of doing a Q&A. If people are interested, send me a PM saying so (or just include the question in the PM, so long as you specify that’s what it’s for). If I get enough satisfactory replies, I’ll post the Q&A to the Supplement. Also, I reserve the right to not answer your question in the Q&A if A) it would be a spoiler, B) it’s something I feel would cause an argument in the comment section, C) it’s easily answered with a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and doesn’t seem like it’s relevant to the group discussion, or D) I (in my own estimation) don’t feel like answering it. Just do me a favor and keep the questions clean.

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History Lessons

Celestia rolled onto her side and shuffled the covers for the umpteenth time in an effort to find a comfortable position to lie in. She curled her legs up close to herself and shifted her neck to conform to the natural contours of her pillow. Her wings were tucked tight to her body, pressed into the bed on one side and nestled in the blanket on the other. Even her tail and mane were gathered close to her, their ambient magic dampened so as to subconsciously signal to the rest of her body that it was time to rest. She lay still, and waited for sleep to take her.

And waited.

And waited.

Well, this is a futile effort, she realized with a huff. There was nothing wrong with the position she’d chosen to sleep in, or the bed, or the pillow she’d so carefully broken in. No, the trouble lay in the disquietude of her mind, and no change in position could change that.

Grumbling rather un-princessly things to herself, Celestia threw off the covers and rose to her hooves. If I can’t sleep, I may as well be productive. Before Luna had returned to her nightly duties, the two sisters had discussed the next steps which needed to be taken with Jacques and the Bearers. It was decided that they should be told fully of the dark terror that had attacked Jacques’ slumbers, and that they should be given more details on the Shades of old. To that end, Luna departed to attend to the former while Celestia left instructions to postpone or delegate a number of meetings, thus freeing up time to continue her search for an insider account of the War of the Shades. I suppose now’s as good a time as any to start, she reflected as she made her way to the washroom.

The solar princess briefly considered venturing forth as she was, but quickly quashed the idea. It was one thing for Kibitz or Raven to see her disheveled; it was another thing entirely for anypony else to see her in such a state. Her ponies depended on her to seem in control at all times. She could show a lighter side, a more personable side, even a mischievous side, but not weakness; not to the public, at least. Sometimes, she mused wistfully, thinking of Twilight, not even to my friends. More sourly, she added, And, if there truly is a traitor in our midst, it would not do to give the enemy an advantage by appearing out of sorts.

After taking a quick moment to make herself presentable, she departed her chambers and made for the Secret Archives. The name always made her chuckle inside. ‘Secret Archives’ was exactly the sort of name to drive the conspiracy theorists wild, but what everypony seemed to forget was that everypony knew about the Secret Archives. ‘Secret’ simply meant that they weren’t open to the general public, most often because the texts were ancient, fragile, and irreplaceable.

Sometimes, however, it was because the texts were dangerous in the wrong hooves. The diary of a witch hunter, while historically valuable and of great importance to anypony in that vocation, might contain descriptions of the methods used by the enemy; it wasn’t the sort of thing one wanted to leave out where a foal, or a foalish adult, might stumble upon it.

She acknowledged the salutes of the Archives’ guards, making sure to project an air of calm and regality. Once she was inside and suitably buried in the stacks, she lowered herself into the search. I’ll just search for a little while, she told herself. Just few minutes, and then I’ll go back to bed.

Three hours of fruitless searching later, Celestia was beginning to despair of ever finding what she sought. She’d combed nearly every inch of the Archives and found nothing that Twilight didn’t know already. “How is this possible?” she murmured aloud. “I know that accounts of the war exist!” With a tug of her magic she pulled down another set of tomes. “True, we wrote far less in those days, but for me to find nothing at all…” the sight of a familiar codex lying behind the tomes cut her off. Gently, almost reverently, she lifted the battered book down.

It was a sad little thing, fire-blackened and tattered, but she recognized the script well enough – a title in two languages, both written with the same flowing calligraphy. Taking utmost care not to disturb the delicate contents, in case the old protection spells had failed, she opened the codex.

The left page was written in Prench, the language of the author’s forebears. The right page was transcribed in Ponish. If memory served, the entire book was formatted this way. You were nothing if not thorough, old friend, she thought, emotion tugging at her throat as the memories washed over her. Taking a shuddering breath, she read.

“Praise be unto the Author of Life, the Creator, Source, and Fire of Existence. On December 31st, in the Year of Unification 291, I, Argent Martel, Duke of Normanedy, Lord High Marshal of Unicornia, Steward of Equestria, and most humble servant of the ponies of Equestria and Their Royal Highnesses Celestia and Luna, do undertake to record these Fell happenings which have blighted our fair land. Perhaps another may find my effort to do so presumptuous, as this conflict has only just begun, and our enemy is still known more by rumor than by witness, but I sense a great darkness on the horizon, and I fear that the evil it shall bring will cover the land in shadow. Thus, mindful of the sacrifice that all warriors must be prepared to make, I begin this account now, while I am still able to do so. It is my hope that my words, meager and unequal to the task though they are, may suffice to instruct future generations in the history of this travesty, even if I should not survive to pass along the account.”

Celestia swallowed her grief. “Oh, my faithful Marshal, I wonder if even then you knew how it would end.”

“This tragedy began on the 3rd of December, Anno Coniunctionis, in the northern reaches of Equestria where the Coltic Clans of the Earth Ponies make their abode. I and the knights of my house had been given the honor of escorting Their Royal Highnesses Celestia and Luna in visiting the ponies of the region as part of a grander quest to strengthen relations between all cultures and tribes in our fair land.

Never before had I visited the Coltic Clans, and seldom have I crossed paths with their warriors and traders. Certainly, I had never met them in any great concentration. As such, I was taken aback by the fierceness of the ponies. Whether in singing, fighting, feasting, or farming, they do all with a burning passion the likes of which I have rarely seen. Truly, it is no wonder that my ancestors never succeeded in subjugating them in the days before the Unification. If a people like this were ever to be truly beaten, it would be by their own values becoming corrupted, not by some external force bringing conquest; suicide in lieu of murder.

The night of the 3rd we were reclining at the table of Granite McÚll, Chieftain of Clan Úll and perhaps the most massive earth pony I have ever seen. My own stature is such that I have been mistaken many times for an earth pony, but McÚll stands so tall that I am convinced he is descended from the mighty Rockhoof himself.”

Not for the first time, Celestia lamented that she and Luna had never had the chance of knowing of the Pillars before their disappearance. Still, she remembered McÚll fondly, and smiled at the memory of how annoyed Luna had been when she discovered McÚll was taller than her.

Her smile faded as the account continued into darker recollections.

“The Princesses, Chieftain McÚll, and I were discussing a greater cooperation between the soldiery of the three races when the doors of the great hall burst open. At first, I thought that the blizzard which had been raging outside had decided to make its fury felt within the hall. Then I saw the wounded earth pony who shivered, silhouetted in the door. Breathless and bloodied, little more than a colt, he stumbled into the hall, crying out in a jumbled mix of Ponish and Coltic as he tracked crimson snow into the hall. The entire assembly leapt to their hooves, myself included, and ponies hastened to help the poor lad. Celestia and Luna themselves flew over to his side, forcing my knights and I to sprint after them. When we reached their side, Her Royal Highness Celestia was cradling the young stallion and stroking his mane while an earth pony cleric hastened over. The bloodied pony was incoherent with horror, his eyes darting in all directions while he shook, muttered, and cried, speaking of monsters in whispers and screams. My first instinct was that some horrible beast had attacked and savaged the lad. It was then that I saw the blade cuts upon his flesh, and the black-bladed dagger buried in his side.

While the healer took the lad to the table and called for the apothecary to assist him, Chieftain McÚll grimly told me that the pony’s name was Learunner, from a hamlet called Rose-upon-Ford, some six miles distant.

The cleric and the apothecary managed to calm Learunner and ease his pain, but there was little else they could do. His wounds were mortal. But in the safety of the haven, he had at least regained enough of his faculties to deliver his message. The message he had run six miles through blizzard and blood to deliver.”

Celestia had to wipe her eyes to prevent her tears from damaging the page.

“His voice had grown so weak that he could only speak in whisper, and so his testament was heard only by Princess Celestia and the rugged Chieftain McÚll. He then requested the cleric’s ear for his final moments. As he spoke those last words and heard the consolations of the chaplain, Learunner’s face, so stretched with terror, now softened into peace. Having said his part, he gave up his spirit.”

“Then shall the righteous one be able to say, ‘I have faithfully done that which was asked of me,’” whispered Celestia, instinctively quoting the Codice de Harmonia.

“Bataille, Hache, Glaive, my beloved sons, when you should read this, I want you to take note of brave young Learunner. If I may one day die half so well as him, I should consider it a privilege.”

Celestia bowed her head, knowing that his desire had been granted.

“I do not know precisely what passed between Learunner, my sovereign, and the Chieftain, but it was one of a very few times in my life where I had seen the princess turn ashen-faced. While McÚll called his warriors to arms in his own tongue, Princess Celestia ordered me to have my knights armored for battle. We were going to Rose-upon-Ford. When I asked what we might find there, she replied with a voice made flat untold fury and sorrow. Even these many days since coming to know the enemy, I shudder to write what she told me.”

“‘My ponies have been butchered,’” said Celestia, not needing the book to remind her, “‘by ponies pledging their souls to the Fell powers.’”

“The journey to Rose-upon-Ford was swift and arduous. Though I had questions, I was unable to ask them, as the punishing pace set by the furious earth ponies left even the fittest of my knights without breath. I could not blame the ponies of Clan Úll for their speed, however. Whenever I flagged, feeling that I could not take another step, the face of brave Learunner gave me strength to go on.

The blizzard had settled by the time we reached Rose-upon-Ford, allowing us a clear view of the horrors that awaited us. In my mortal frailty I wish it hadn’t, for there has not been a night since that the dead have not haunted my dreams. Source be my strength as I write this, for the enemy had spared none. Not even—"

Celestia closed the book as the weeping overtook her. She had found what she needed.

Argent Sabre’s armored hoofsteps echoed off the cold stone of the mausoleum in metallic staccato. She shivered against the underground chill of the place. With the sun just rising, it was hardly warm on the surface, but in the Halls of the Dead, buried deep in Canterhorn Mountain, it was enough to chill even one who had been born to Trottingham’s clammy coldness.

She kept her eyes down as she walked, lost in thought. The captain had passed this way so many times that she had no need to look where she was going. The grand mausoleum was a bewildering maze of corridors and passages, catacombs carved into the living rock of the mountain and decorated with frescoes, statues, and hewn arches; yet, for all their complexity, Argent was not lost. The Hall of House Argent, LaSalle D'Argent in her ancestors’ tongue, was well-known to her. Each bend and turn, each step and stop was embossed in her memory.

Given the early hour, it was unlikely that the REF captain would encounter any other visitors to the mausoleum, and she stepped briskly, confident that she would reach her destination without encountering another living pony.

Which was why when she rounded the corner to La Salle D'Argent and saw Celestia, she stumbled to a halt, staring in shock.

The princess was standing statuesque, her ethereal mane rippling around her as a banner hung from a monolith, drifting in an unseen breeze. Her eyes were hidden by the sway of the pastel rainbow, but she seemed to be staring ahead at the far wall. A real statue was the object of Celestia’s gaze – a grand marble sculpture of the ancient pegasi style, portraying three great figures. The leftmost form was a titanic earth pony stallion in Coltic garb and headdress bearing a claymore, a fierce smile on his bearded features. To the right reared a fleet pegasus mare clad in legionary’s armor, her wings spread as though in flight, a confident smirk brightening her features. At the center of the two was an armored unicorn knight in grand plumed helm, with grave eyes and stoic countenance, leaning upon a massive warhammer. A plaque beneath the statue named the figures in three languages: Prench, Coltic, and Pony Latin. In Ponish, the title was rendered “The Companions.”

Argent held her breath. She had no idea why the princess was here, but whatever the reason she was not keen to disturb her immortal ruler. Cautiously picking up one rear hoof, she made to edge her way out, but Celestia’s voice froze her in place. “Good morning, Argent.”

Her voice was quiet, unusually so, and there was a raspiness to it; almost as though the princess had been crying. Argent bit her lip and did her best to speak normally. “Good morning, Your Highness,” she replied, bowing deeply. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

Celestia laughed. “Argent, I am in your family’s hall. I’m the one who should be hoping she didn’t disturb you.”

“It’s no trouble, Your Highness. I was just coming to visit my father.” She started to inch back. “I can always come back later—”

“Stay,” ordered Celestia. Argent obeyed. The princess inclined her head slightly, watching Argent out of the corner of one eye. “Tell me, Captain Sabre, what do you know of Argent Martel?”

Argent blinked rapidly, desperately fighting off her confusion as she tried to process the question. “I know he was the last Lord High Marshall of Unicornia before the Umbrayan Accords further stratified the armed forces of the earth ponies, unicorns, and pegasi, and that he was posthumously awarded the title of the first Lord High Marshal of Equestria. As such, he’s regarded by many as the grandfather of the EUP Guard. His son, Argent Bataille, would later become the first Lord High Marshal to command the Combined Forces, the direct predecessor to the EUP, and ultimately the EUP itself.”

Celestia said nothing, and Argent fought the urge to fidget. Just when she was about to say something to break the silence, Celestia asked, “Anything else?”

Argent swallowed. What on earth is going on here? I’ve never seen Celestia act like this! Why the history lesson? Think, Argent, you must remember something else! “I… I seem to recall he fell in battle,” she finally added, “fighting alongside leaders from the earth ponies and pegasi. It was a major step towards overcoming rivalries and prejudices between the descendants of the Three Tribes, especially amongst the soldiery.”

Once again, her answer was met with silence. When Celestia at length spoke once more, it was so softly that Argent almost didn’t hear her. “And who did he fall fighting?”

The captain bit her lip. I think I owe my old tutor an apology for all the times I told him it was a waste of time to learn my entire lineage. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I remember that he fought the griffons and the minotaurs, but where he fell, I do not recall.”

Celestia made a single noncommittal sound, then returned to her statuesque silence. Argent remained at attention, unconsciously adjusted her armor to rest a little straighter. When Celestia spoke again, the captain almost jumped. “It’s not your fault that you don’t remember, Argent. After all, your family has such a long and proud history of service that it is hardly possible to remember it all. Even I, who knew them all personally and called most of them ‘friend’, must take care to keep them straight in my mind.” The princess’s horn flared, and a tome, burned and battered, rose into view. “To make matters worse, some stories were not passed down as they should have been, in part from neglect, and in part from destruction. There have been many fires and disasters over the years which resulted in the loss of knowledge, particularly… that cursed burning.”

Argent didn’t need to ask which ‘burning’ the princess meant. In the years following the fall of Luna, a cabal known as the Nightmare Court had risen up in opposition to the rule of Celestia. For the most part they’d been foolish young ponies of great words and small deeds, but there had been some genuine monsters in their midst. Several years after Luna’s banishment, one of them had set fire to the great Library of Alhocksandria, annihilated accumulated centuries of lore in a single night. The loss of so much knowledge was a tragedy still lamented by modern historians, and Argent speculated that the mention of it still had the power to bring Twilight instantly to tears.

The princess’s voice broke in on her musings. “Neglect, sabotage, and destruction have deprived us of much, my friend,” she continued, “but that is not the only reason Argent Martel’s name is not remembered.” Celestia took a deep breath, her face once more hidden by her mane as she stared ahead at the ghosts of the past. “No, I fear that his disappearance from history is, in part, my own failing.”

Swallowing her fear, Argent ventured, “With respect, Your Highness, the arson of the Nightmare Court was not your fault, and likewise was the loss of lore in the unrest that followed Luna’s disappearance beyond your control. It is not as though you could simply have restored the lost knowledge from memory afterwards. Even Twilight Sparkle couldn’t have managed such a feat. And say you could have remembered, what then? You had a kingdom to run! Could you have taken time off from reorganizing the government, reforming the military, calming the populace, staving off foreign adventurism, and surviving, how many coups attempts was it? Four? Five?”

“Four,” answered Celestia, a hint of a smile in her voice. “That business with the false Lord Exchequer and the Maruvian Brandy doesn’t count.”

“My point remains,” persisted Argent.

“Perhaps it does,” replied Celestia, her voice at once humored and sad. “And I thank you for your candid effort to assuage my guilt. But you misunderstand – I am not blaming myself for the destruction of the histories committed by others, or even for my inability to recreate what was lost.” The princess turned to face her, a sad smile on her face. “I am blaming myself because I, Princess Celestia, deliberately concealed the last great campaign of Argent Martel and his comrades-in-arms.”

Argent recoiled. “Princess?”

“You are correct in remembering that Argent Martel fought the griffons and later the minotaurs, but it was in war against ponies where his most valorous acts lay, and to ponies that he fell.” Turning her head to face the Three Companions, Celestia continued, “These bold ponies were Argent Martel of the Chevaliers du Trône, Chieftain Granite McÚll of Clan Úll and,” her mouth quirked in a half-smile, “the unusually named Legate Bifrost of the Ninth Royal Legion. They were my battle commanders, my trusted advisors, and my dear friends in one of the most horrific conflicts ever to mar the face of Equestria.” She turned back to Argent, and the captain felt as though the sovereign’s eyes were staring straight through her. “The War of the Shades.”

Argent felt the warmth drain from her body. “Your Highness… you mean…”

“Yes, Argent. Your ancestor died saving Equestria from the Shades. And it is my fault that nopony remembers it.”

The unicorn mare sat in the bottom front row of the tiered lecture hall on the far left. It was her favorite seat in the room. The curvature of the hall enabled her to watch her fellow students’ faces without having to crane her neck, while her placement close to the professor let her observe him without needing to strain. Sitting up front let her obvious attentiveness be on display, yet sitting to one side meant that ponies’ gaze would not be drawn to her unless she tried to gain their attention. In essence, her front row seat was a blend of visibility and anonymity, both largely in her control, with the added bonus of being able to discretely watch everypony in the room.

She was older than the other students – perhaps in her late twenties or early thirties – but her pleasant smile – open and energetic – was the sort to shave off some of those extra years. The mare was lightly built, though more lean than skinny. Her mane and tail were a black/crimson mix, and her eyes were a lighter shade of crimson. A cutie mark depicting a rose of the same color palette adorned her flank. She wore a paired hoof-knit stocking cap and scarf that matched her eyes and contrasted beautifully with her pale blue fur. A set of dark-rimmed glasses were perched on her muzzle, just above a small black beauty mark. The coffee cup at her side was obviously homemade, but decorated with the Starrybucks logo; it smelled of pumpkin and spice. Her name was Scarlet Rose, and most ponies who met her would not think twice about it when she introduced herself as a grad student at the Manechester College of Arts and Science.

It was all a lie, of course. The mare’s real mane and tail were blonde, she had no beauty mark, icy blue was her proper eye color, her vision was better than perfect, and she had magnifying glass for a cutie mark, not a rose. Even the coffee was a lie; the mare behind ‘Scarlet Rose’ liked coffee, and she liked pumpkin, but she had never been persuaded that they belonged in a beverage together. Even if she had, she wouldn’t have purchased it from Starrybucks or poured it into a hoof-wrought mug with their logo on the side.

Truthfully, there was little of her appearance that wasn’t false. Her coat was pale blue, as she’d discovered dyeing it was usually more trouble than it was worth, and she really had made the hat and scarf herself. (In fact, they’d turned out so well that she considered keeping them for personal use after she left). Beyond that, Scarlet Rose was an affectation – a coat thrown over the real mare.

First Lieutenant Close Watch of Equestrian Military Intelligence had worn many such coats in service to her country, some more elaborate than others. Scarlet was a simple disguise, a collection of stereotypes that nopony thought to question because they were so ubiquitous. Like her choice of seat, it was a means of hiding and observing in plain sight without anypony paying her mind if she didn’t want them to. In all, it was one of her easier personas to slip into.

Except for this infernal coffee, she thought with a mental grimace as she took a sip of the horrid liquid. With practiced ease she transformed her gag reflex into a shudder of pleasure, a warm smile on her face as she listened to the lecture.

“… and thus Equestria would remain unstable for some time after the first defeat of Discord and the fall of the old monarchy,” the professor was saying. “This complex web of factors would create an environment ripe for a new power to rise. Taking advantage of the situation, the young alicorns Celestia and Luna were able to step in to assume rule of the country. They did this, of course, intending to restore order, though there had been no precedent for their rule over Ponykind…”

Close Watch kept her face attentive and open as she listened. Professor Page Turner (unicorn, white-coated, greying brown mane and tail, fashionable green turtleneck) had been the academic advisor to a certain Specialist First Class Bound Glyph, who just so happened to be Close Watch’s chief suspect in her investigation of the Shade incursion into Canterlot Castle two weeks ago. Glyph’s records, sparse as they were, indicated that he’d listed Turner as a reference on every resume since university; moreover, he’d cited the professor as an inspiration and mentor in virtually every essay and write-up requesting such an answer, including his application to Fort Lemon Wood’s Magical Ordinance Disposal program. With Glyph’s military career a dead end until and unless Colonel Query could find more ponies who’d served with him, Close elected to turn over a few rocks in his private life, starting with Page Turner.

“… Fearful of attacks by other races, and desiring to maintain their own authority within the new system, the lords of Equestria would agree to provide increasing numbers of troops to shore up the Diarchy. Such edicts as the Charter of the Combined Forces and later the formation of the Earth-Unicorn-Pegasi Guard are shining chief examples of rising executive power…”

The professor had a knowing smile on his face as he spoke. He held forth on the subject with the confidence of somepony who’d been there.

“… common ally of the Diarchy in this process was the Argent family, an old unicorn noble family who maintained authority and influence through the military. Many of them would be named Lord High Marshalls of Equestria, including Argent Bataille, Argent Cavalier, and Argent Crusader, all in the first century after the Unification. The Argent family’s power could also be seen in the political realm, where they promoted policies of military expansion which, conveniently, was essentially the family business.…”

There was a pattern to it, Close Watch quickly noticed. Through loaded wording and implication, Page Turner managed to suggest that Celestia and Luna had used the tumultuous conditions following Discord’s defeat to rise to absolute power in Equestria; yet he avoided ever phrasing it in such a way that came across as a direct attack on the princesses. He was always careful to frame what might seem as a criticism with pleasantries about how they’d operated with Equestria’s best interests in mind.

“… which led to the peace talks with the griffons breaking down, an outcome which favored Argent Cavalier’s expansion of the military establishment…”

Meanwhile, he more directly suggested that the leaders who had shaped the new government with the Diarchs had done so with less-than-ethical motives. The Argent family, in particular, had apparently manipulated the ponies of Equestria with Marechiavellian gusto.

My, my, Argent Sabre, thought Close with a smile of genuine amusement as she pictured REF captain’s reaction to the professor’s lesson. It would seem your family has been quite naughty.

“… of course, the exact nature of the terms is unknown to any but Celestia, as the original copies were lost to history, but the story we’re told is that the terms were agreeable to all parties…”

Such a subtle way of implying that the real terms were different and that the official narrative is white-washing Celestia’s rule, all without actually saying it. He has skill. And that knowing smile plastered on his face really helps sell the bit.

“… The princesses had, understandably, selected nobles who would be loyal to them and would support their agenda. However, this had the regrettable side-effect of creating a body of yes-ponies who possessed tremendous power in the government, which set precedents which we continue to feel to this day…”

Most of the students were listening with rapt attention, many of them nodding with knowing looks that mimicked Page Turner’s own air of superior understanding. Other students simply kept their eyes down, either out of boredom or a desire to avoid attracting attention. A few, however, were becoming progressively more annoyed as the lecture wound on.

One stallion in particular (stoutly built, green coat, functional black manecut, bifocals) looked to be grinding his teeth. After more than an hour of Page Turner’s history, the student finally had enough. “Professor Turner,” he said with forced courtesy as he raised a hoof.

Turner gave him an indulgent smile. “Yes, Carter?”

This should be good, thought Close Watch.

“With respect, Professor, I don’t think you’ve been entirely fair in your presentation.”

“Oh?” asked Turner, his tone humored.

“Oh,” replied Carter flatly. “Firstly, you seem to imply that the princesses used the turmoil following the Discord’s defeat and the fall of the old monarchy to gain tremendous executive power. This falls flat, however, when you consider that, though the executive gained more concrete authority, the result was ultimately more equitable than the previous system because of heavy counterbalancing by a system of checks—”

“Checks by the rest of the ‘nobility’?” scoffed one of the other students. “Oh, yeah, that’s really balancing out the power inequality there, Carter.”

“Checks by the nobility and the Common Courts,” Carter finished, his eyes narrowed in annoyance, “which Celestia specifically instituted to give the peasantry a voice. This more egalitarian system was the first of its kind in the world, I might add.”

Another student snorted. “Yeah, because throwing in a few little consolation courts really gave the working ponies a voice.”

Carter blinked. “I mean… yeah. It did give them a voice. What, you think our representative system just came out of nowhere?”

“If Celestia really wanted to give ‘commoners’ a voice, why didn’t she just do it from the start?” cried a third voice.

The heavyset stallion sighed. “Because systems of governance take time to develop. You could think of the Common Courts and the early days of the Diarchy as an prototype or proof-of-concept—”

“And what about Luna!” interrupted another student. “She really pushed for the Combined Forces, which gave her and her sister a personal military!”

“National military,” corrected Carter, “which was more efficient than having to ask for troops every time we got invaded, was quickly divided from the constabulary to prevent military rule, and actually reduced the danger of civil war which had always hung over Equestria since the Unification, what with rival lords of the three pony races keeping their own standing armies—”

“Standing armies!” spat another. “You mean like the War Dogs of the REF? Celestia’s personal little army, for spreading the Equestrian Empire!”

“Yeah!” agreed another. “‘Helping the Koniks’ my left hoof! Like we had any business in a foreign war – she saw a chance to get herself an army and spread Pax Equestria and she took it!”

Close Watch felt her grip instinctively tighten around her coffee mug. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to relax. That was sloppy of me, she thought, brushing back a lock of her mane. Thank heavens everpony’s too busy watching the show to notice.

“Sheesh, Carter, I didn’t realize you were a Primarchist,” one student was sneering.

“What?” exclaimed Carter, offended. “Are you kidding me? I’m a Centrist, not a Primarchist! And even if I was, that’d have nothing to do with the facts—”

“I just think it’s suspicious that Luna showed back up just when the Populists were forwarding a motion to reduce Celestia’s excess of power!”

“No kidding! And do any of us really think that the Crown Loyalists and the Primarchists are separate parties? I don’t care what Fancy Pants says about them throwing out those hide-bound reactionaries; it’s all a cover for his real agenda! It’s just like the Argents and the First Lords of Equestria, pretending to be rivals while keeping all the wealth and power for themselves!”

The conversation, such as it was, deteriorated rapidly from there. Carter’s objections were routinely interrupted, talked over, or ignored in favor of a collective diatribe of outrage. The actual period of history the lecture was supposed to cover was only referenced as a means of criticizing the modern government and its unwilling proxy, Carter. Close Watch kept waiting for Page Turner to step in and stop the verbal mauling of the beleaguered student, or at least to bring the class back to the original topic, but he didn’t. Instead, he simply watched, his quintessential knowing smile never wavering. Close had expected as much, but it still hurt to watch. I’d jump in, she thought grimly, but that would rather defeat the purpose of my being here, wouldn’t it.

Mercifully, Page Turner did eventually put a stop to the abuse. Less mercifully, he waited until the harried Carter was in the midst of a rather angry comeback to do it, leaving the poor stallion to look like he’d been the instigator. “Alright, everypony,” the professor said with a pointed look at Carter, “I think that’s quite far enough.” Once the students had settled down, he continued speaking broadly, though it was clear to everypony that he was specifically addressing Carter. “I’d like to remind you that one of the most important parts of college is considering other viewpoints. I’d invite you all to broaden your way of thinking.”

Carter gaped back in horror and outrage, and opened his mouth to shout a retort, but in the end, he slumped back in his chair and put his head down. Satisfied, Page Turner resumed his lecture, unaware of the calculating gaze of Close Watch.

Loquacious, persuasive, manipulative, and single-minded in his beliefs, she thought. The dissenters are silenced, and the ideology spread, all with him barely lifting a hoof. You may be a revolting stallion, Page Turner, but you’re darn good at what you do. Taking another sip of her loathsome beverage, Close Watch regarded him through narrowed eyes. The question is, are you just a conceited professor, or something else entirely?

After class, Close Watch wound her way up to Professor Turner’s office. His door was open, and he was unpacking some papers and books from a satchel. He seemed to be pondering where to put them all, and had a half-focused look on his face. Good, thought Close. Distraction makes this easier.

She rapped a hoof on the door frame. Turner looked up and smiled. “Ah, Scarlet. How did you enjoy the lecture today?”

‘Scarlet’ smiled, her face showing a deliberate half-blush as she stepped into the room. “Oh, Professor, it was simply wonderful,” she said with a carefully metered gush. “I’m so thankful I transferred here to finish out my Masters.”

Turner grinned. “I’m glad you liked it. And, please, call me Page Turner.” He turned back to his packing. “‘Professor’ makes me sound like one of those stodgy old fossils in Victor Hoofson’s crowd.”

The slight against Victor Hoofson was to be expected. A noted military historian like Victor is probably Turner’s idea of the Boogeymane. “Well, Page Turner, I must say that I admire your work. I’m glad there are some ponies who are bold enough to challenge Celestia’s empire-building.”

“Oh, I’m sure Celestia means well,” laughed Turner. “She just needs a little push in the right direction.”

“With all the cake she eats, that’ll be a hefty push,” teased Close Watch. I am so sorry, Princess!

Turner laughed. “That’d be a sight to see.”

While they talked, Close examined the room. It had the standard trappings of a history professor (books, maps, a globe), but the most eye-catching contents were pictures. Pictures of Turner with students, pictures of Turner at rallies, picture of Turner at anti-military protests, pictures of Turner with the bespectacled founder of the Populist movement (now deceased), pictures of Turner with Populist MPs… and a picture of Turner with Specialist First Class Bound Glyph. In uniform.

I love it when they make it easy.

Feigning confusion and borderline horror, Close pointed to the picture. “Page Turner, I’ve gotta say, I’m surprised that a pony who knows as much as you do about the corruption of the military establishment would have a picture with a soldier so central on his desk.”

“Mm? Oh, that,” smiled Turner. “Yes, I get that a lot.” He picked the picture up with his magic and passed it to Close. “Bound Glyph is something of a special case – a pony who believes in the need for a reformation of the government and military establishment.” Pride was evident in his voice as he spoke, along with a certain smugness. “He wants to restore power to the common pony, and was bold enough to set out to change things from the inside.”

Close examined the picture. Bound Glyph was a pleasant-looking stallion, with a ready smile and a youthful passion that showed even in the still shot. He looked like he’d stepped out of a recruiting picture for the EUP. The Guard’s always run quite the gamut of ponies. I’ve met ponies who thought like you, Glyph; they’d argue politics for hours, to the point that I wondered why they joined. Then, when it hit the fan, they’d have my back.

The picture smiled back at her.

Maybe that was you at one time. Maybe there’s nothing else to this picture. She gave herself a mental shake. But there are just too many dead around you to ignore; too much coincidence and suspicion.

Her eyes moved to the professor beside him. And you, Turner. You’re an awful professor and your version of history is laughably narrow and revisionist, but that’s no crime. Honestly, I’ve known worse. So, is there more to you than a bad teacher, or am I just jumping at shadows?

Smiling, Close passed the picture back to Page Turner, saying, “I can honestly say I’d love to see what he can accomplish.”

Author's Note

“History is written by the victors.” An old expression, and one that is perhaps true to a point. But why do the victors write the way they do? For what purpose do they record, or fail to record, the narratives they tell? Celestia has her secrets. What are they? Why does she keep them? We’ll just have to see.

***

I would like to note that I am not someone who is blindly in favor of war. I’ve studied too much of it and have too many soldiers who are dear to me to wish unnecessary bloodshed on anyone. And, though I am an ardent supporter of my military, I am also openly critical of the ways my military has been misused at different times in history. The decision to have the lecture take the bent that it did was based chiefly on the setup for Page Turner and Glyph, as well as to show a little about the Argents and how they are viewed in conjunction with Celestia (and, to a lesser extent, Luna). It was also to give folks a better idea of how history can be twisted to give ponies (like the Vox) the impression that Celestia is the head of some nefarious cabal bent on keeping them down. I didn’t put it in to start crap in the comments section; there are parallels between Equestria and Earth, yes, but I’d encourage you to be mindful of how much you read into specific parallels; not all is as it seems, and this chapter is meant to further the narrative, not to make a definitive statement on a complex aspect of said narrative. More is coming.

I do, however, have an ax to grind with the Page Turners of the world – not so much what he specifically believes (as people are entitled to their opinions), but the manipulative way he spreads that belief. That classroom scene was based on numerous true stories at a variety of colleges and other educational institutions. I’ve known entirely too many professors who remind me of Page Turner. Frankly, this scene is toned down from some of the nonsense I’ve observed.*

Over the years, I’ve known many teachers from many systems of belief and all points along the political spectrum. The good ones facilitated conversation, played both sides of any debate (often as devil’s advocate), and ensured a respectful dialogue between all students, even those with unpopular ideas, and even those with ideas the professors disagreed with. These good teachers went out of their way to hide their political beliefs in class and, when it was necessary to give their opinions, always strove to do so in such a way that would allow for open discussion. In classes where a specific set of principles was being promoted (like an ethics class), they strove to make it a class of messages rather than agendas (i.e. they invited students to come to their way of thinking rather than imposing their way of thinking on the students). Whether liberal, conservative, or anything in between, I have nothing but respect for teachers who live and work this way.

In contrast, we have the Page Turners of the world, who have all the trappings of a mob leader minus the pitchforks and torches (these days, facebook and twitter mobs are much more practical for ruining lives anyway). Whatever their political affiliation or personal beliefs, whether liberal or conservative or anything else, there is something profoundly repulsive about anyteacher who belittles students, segregates students, allows or promotes the disrespect of students, or fails to allow for debate and freedom of thought.

Academia is supposed to be a place where people are exposed to new ideas. This challenge to their beliefs forces them to think about what they hold to be true, to change when they find themselves in error, and to hold fast when they find themselves correct. Perhaps most importantly, it’s where they learn to befriend and respect people who hold views opposite their own. A true teacher fosters this.

Those who silence debate, particularly in the houses of learning, harm all their students. The ones who agree with their professors are taught to be narrow-minded, reactionary, and intolerant. The ones who disagree are taught that the world is full of hostile and unreasonable people, and to give up on free debate. Both sides end up radicalized and convinced of the impossibility of compromise, understanding, respect, and conversion.

And we wonder why everyone is at each other’s throats these days?

***

On the note of being at each other’s throats, don’t start crap in the comments section. I know people probably have some feelings about this chapter and that it will be interpreted many ways; that’s fine, because I want people thinking, even debating. What I don’t want is personal attacks or disrespect for people. Most of ya’ll have been good about not being jerks in the comments section and about being respectful even when you comment on a charged issue (and for that I am very grateful), but every once in a while, people start crap.

Just don’t. Courtesy is part of honoring the human dignity and rights of those around you, so please be respectful in your posting, even if you’re making a firm statement about something. Thanks again to all who’ve been doing this already – you’re a credit to humanity, and we need more people like you on both sides of every debate.

***

This was a fun chapter to write – a first look at the original Shades and the ponies who defeated them, along with the investigation into the sabotage of the Canterlot anti-teleportation wards. The hardest part of it was choosing Page Turner’s name; literally took months.

Victor Hoofson is a reference to Victor Davis Hanson, a military historian who I greatly respect, even if I don’t agree with him on certain particulars. For context, he believes that conflict is inevitable and that we must understand it if we are to deal with it (much like how a doctor must understand disease to combat it). If you’re curious, I recommend his book, The Father of Us All: War and History, Ancient and Modern, or some of his videos online.

Here’s an Easter egg hunt for you: Argent may have had the most direct lineage exposition in this chapter, but there are hints of more besides her. If you spot the hints, you’ll get a Metaphorical Muffin** when the truth comes out down the road.

Shoutout today goes to The Commander’s Shillingby Carabas. On top of being an interesting look at why Commander Hurricane would keep Private Pansey around, it’s a fascinating take on conflict, tribes, and culture in the pre-Equestrian era. A moving tale of desperation, survival, honor, the purpose of soldiers, and the true meaning of courage, The Commander’s Shilling is one of my favorite stories on this site. It’s worth your time.

Happy reading!

*The university in this story is not based off of any real-world university. Though, frankly, Page Turner types can be found anywhere, so I could have based it off a real university, even one I like, and left the scene unchanged.

**Metaphorical Muffins (trademark Antiquarian Enterprises) are not actual muffins. Antiquarian Enterprises is not legally obliged to provide actual muffins to the winners of the contest. Contents of the Metaphorical Muffins are entirely subject to the whims of Antiquarian Enterprises.

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Mortal Hearts

La Salle D'Argent, The Halls of the Dead, Canterhorn Mountain

Argent stared at Celestia, a welter of emotions washing over her. The captain knew her sovereign well enough to know that she didn’t do anything without good reason. Moreover, as a soldier, Argent understood the need for secrecy. She’d served a stint in the REF’s Special Operations Regiment, a unit not dissimilar to the Rangers, and most of what they did was not a matter of public record. Many operatives had performed heroic acts that, in a normal unit, would have earned them the highest honors. But what recognition they might have deserved was sacrificed, for the good of the country. It had never sat well with Argent, especially not when many of those soldiers had made the ultimate sacrifice, but she did not argue the point. After all, she and her comrades joined willingly, knowing full well they would live and perhaps die in secret. There were things too dangerous to be common knowledge; it was the lot of the soldier to bear those things in silence, so that nopony else had to.

Even so, thought Argent, the War of the Shades was a long time ago, and it was public knowledge at the time, so what possible reason could she have had for concealing it? How could she have concealed it? It’s not the place of a soldier to question her sovereign, but she did beg the question in the first place by bringing it up. Does she want me to ask? If not, why bother?

“Request permission to speak freely, Princess,” she said before she had time to talk herself out of it.

Celestia dipped her head indulgently. “Granted.”

Argent took a deep breath. “With respect, Princess, what exactly happened? Why did you bury the records?”

“A fair question,” replied Celestia. “But before I answer, remind me – did I ever tell you what I did when Luna fell into Darkness?”

The query was eye-wateringly blunt, and Argent could see the raw pain in Celestia’s gaze at the mention of Nightmare Moon. The captain swallowed. She may be ageless, our Celestia, but sometimes I think her heart is as mortal as mine. “No, Princess, you never told me.”

Celestia smiled sadly. “In point of fact, I did very little. There were few witnesses to our battle, and none who saw exactly how it began or ended. Those who were privy to the identity of Nightmare Moon were ordered not to speak of it, and to the public I simply said that Luna had fallen in battle with a pony who had given herself over to wicked power and been driven mad.” Celestia glanced into the distance and shook her head. “A true enough statement, I suppose, though hardly the full story. Still, it served its purpose. Ponies were reluctant to trouble me for details in my grief, so Luna remained a hero, albeit one who never received her due.” Argent thought she heard a catch in the princess’s voice as she said this, but Celestia moved on too fast for her to be certain.

“For the good of Luna and, more importantly, for the good of the country, I maintained the cloak of secrecy over the true events of Nightmare Night for one thousand years. In that time, Nightmare Moon fell into myth, and the Elements of Harmony with her. This was deliberate, as it allowed me to search for worthy Bearers quietly. The Elements must choose their Bearers, after all, and friendship must be willing for it to be genuine. A parade of aspiring heroes would have achieved nothing, and, worse, may have driven any true candidates away. Then, when Nightmare Moon did return, there would have been no Elements to face her.” Celestia regarded Argent with a look of regal surety. “It was a grave risk I took, but I felt it was necessary, and history has since vindicated my actions.”

“I would say so, Princess,” agreed Argent.

The white alicorn gave a brief smile, then heaved a regretful sigh. “All the same, there were… unintended consequences. Luna had never been properly recognized for her devotion to Equestria. When the country was young and the wars more frequent, she was respected as a military leader, but her mysterious nature and often stoic demeanor intimidated many.”

Argent nodded, but refrained from adding anything. I somehow don’t think it would be politic to mention that a mare who can read your dreams, wield shadows, and generally comes across as either intensely grim or frightfully passionate isn’t going to win as many devotees as the living ponification of the archetypal Mother of the Nation.

Not knowing Argent’s mind, Celestia continued, “After Luna’s disappearance, the country had to change its government and society to adapt to the new status quo. You know enough of your history to be familiar with the upheaval, so I won’t bore you with the details, but when the dust settled I was even more firmly cemented as the princess in the eyes of my ponies…” her eyes closed, and the invisible breeze that rippled through her mane wilted, “… and my dear sister faded into obscurity. As many of the old archives were lost, she became more and more an academic curiosity, eventually remembered only by period historians, avid students of the Founding Era, and those few who happened to come across the knowledge. My sister was forgotten.” The alicorn’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Exactly the thing she had feared.”

It doesn’t take a doctorate in psychology to tell how that makes her feel. Argent’s heart bled. “I’m so sorry, Your Highness.”

“Thank you, Argent.” Celestia smiled slightly. “You should know it has brought me great pleasure over the years to know that your family remembered enough of its history to keep memory of Luna’s existance, even if they knew little else.” With a bitter chuckle, she added, “It certainly helped alleviate the pain I felt every time one of those crackpots claimed Luna was a purely mythical figure, or that she was a composite character of several of my generals.”

Argent couldn’t quite suppress a scornful giggle. “I wish I’d been there to see their faces when Luna reappeared in the flesh.”

Celestia smiled more genuinely. “Believe it or not, some still insist the historical Luna is a fabrication.”

“What?!” exclaimed Argent. “B-but how?! Why?! What?! They can’t possibly—”

“Oh, it’s quite simple, Argent,” deadpanned Celestia. “The historical Luna is either wholesale fabrication or else a composite character, and the modern one is simply a mare I granted wings as a means of using the legend to gain power or choose an heir or some such thing.” The diarch shrugged. “That or I sculpted her from stardust and breathed life into her, much as I did with the Bearers. Honestly,” she teased, “I’m surprised you didn’t guess.”

“I- I…” stammered the captain. “I have no words.”

“That’s probably for the best,” chortled Celestia. Then, more soberly, she resumed the narrative, “Watching my sister fade from memory and knowledge was distressing in ways I can’t properly express, not even to her. Not to any creature who has not felt the long years as I have. Yet, in the end, the pain was worthwhile, for the Elements found their Bearers and my sister was returned.” Turning her head to regard the Three Companions, she grimly declared, “The matter of your ancestor and his comrades is a different story.”

Shaking her head regretfully, Celestia looked back to Argent. “My motivations were essentially the same, of course: the protection of Equestria from evil. In that respect, my decisions make sense. The Shades were not like the Windigos – Fell spirits of hate and misery. Nor were they like the griffons or the minotaurs – invaders who came seeking conquest and spoils.” The princess stepped forward, drawing closer to Argent, and the captain felt the warmth of Celestia’s ambient power wash over her. Usually she keeps her magic more muted than this. Which means she’s either letting her guard down… or she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. Either way, it was an unsettling realization.

“No,” continued Celestia, “the Shades were neither creatures of darkness nor marauding despoilers. At their start, they were Equestrian citizens.” One ear flicked casually. “Commoners, for the most part, but a few soldiers and gentleponies as well. Ponies like Raven, or Twilight, or you. Ordinary ponies as you might find anywhere in Equestria. Ordinary ponies who made one, simple mistake.”

Celestia’s eyes narrowed, and brought her head down to Argent’s level. “They became curious. Curious about things nopony should ever seek to know. And in their pursuit of knowledge, so seemingly innocent at first, they travelled down a path that would lead to a village called Rose-upon-Ford. A peaceful village of fathers and mothers and foals.” Fire blazed in Celestia’s eyes, and the ambient warmth turned harsh. Argent felt sweat break out on her forehead. “Do you know how many survivors there were at Rose-upon-Ford, Argent?”

The captain’s voice was small, “No, Princess.”

Argent could taste the flare in magic on the back of her teeth as Celestia’s mane flashed with the harsh light of the burning sun. “Not. One.”

More than the raw, furious power before her, that declaration stole Argent’s breath away. “Merciful heavens,” she whispered.

“The evils the Shades committed are unspeakable, Captain,” hissed the princess, “and I will not sully the tombs of those who defeated them by speaking of them here, but what they wrought in the shadows was Dark beyond my wildest nightmares.” For a painful moment, the fire in Celestia’s eyes blazed with righteous fury.

Then the flames receded, Celestia straightened back up, and her mane returned to its normal state. “There are few monsters I have faced over the years that sparked true fear in my heart, but I freely admit to you that the Shades frightened me. They frightened me as few things ever have. That the pursuit of knowledge and power could take souls to such a place…” she shuddered, “all these years later, it still chills me to the bone. It became clear to us that not even a shred of such a cancerous ideology may be allowed to remain, lest it return. We had to bury their sins along with them.” The princess nodded in grim satisfaction. “And so we did. We burned their tracts, destroyed their halls, annihilated any hint of their curses and spells, so that even if somepony wanted to follow the path of the Shades, they would have no guides to lead them.”

Argent set her jaw. “I would have done the same in your position, Princess. Such evil is not defeated by half measures.”

To her surprise, Celestia’s face fell into pained regret. “But they were half measures, Argent. Half measures because, in our determination, my determination, to wipe out any memory of their evil, a simple lesson was forgotten…”

Centuries seemed to flash in Celestia’s eyes as she asked, “How can one be vigilant against an evil one doesn’t know exists?”

The answer, Argent knew, was simple. You can’t.

“The danger of the Shades was forgotten, along with the heroism of those who defeated them.” Celestia heaved an old sigh. “I had never wanted the sacrifices of my brave soldiers to be lost to obscurity, but my decision to expunge so much had that effect anyway.” The princess bowed her head. “And now I pay the price for it. The heroes are forgotten, and the Shades return. The irony of failure is bitter indeed.” With that, she fell silent.

Argent stood mute, unwilling to speak even if she knew what to say. What could anypony possibly say? Who else knows the burden of age as she does? Only the Author of Life can truly understand her pain.

The princess maintained her silence, as though awaiting judgment.

And yet, she bears it. She bears it because somepony has to; somepony always has to. Nopony can be perfect, but we all must strive. She’s striven for more than a thousand years. When mortals suffer so many failures, how many must she have suffered?

Still, Celestia did not speak.

Heaven knows I’ve failed many times in my short life, and that ponies have died for those failures. I have no right to judge her.

“Princess,” she began aloud. Celestia did not stir, and Argent took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say. “Do you remember when I was awarded the Distinguished Service Heart for the Battle of Gusty’s March?”

Perplexed, the diarch looked up. “Of course,” she said. “As I recall, you attempted to turn it down because you felt responsible for leading your ponies into an ambush.”

“Yes,” said Argent, a familiar pain tugging at her heart. “My decision to take the platoon into Gusty’s March cost six ponies their lives. I felt I deserved a court martial, not a medal.”

Celestia smiled comfortingly. “I reminded you that leading your platoon into the town had made tactical sense based on the limited information you had, and that, thanks to your leadership, you not only survived the ambush, but won the battle.”

The captain nodded. “Do you recall what else you said?”

Cocking an eyebrow, the princess continued, “I told you that mistakes are inevitable, but that all we can do is strive to be better and learn from them when we fall short. That this is what makes a pony great.”

“Yes, Princess,” said Argent. She did not add anything else, but stared pointedly at her sovereign.

Based on the alicorn’s wry smile, the implicit message was received. Celestia let out a rueful chuckle, then surprised the captain by leaning in for an equine hug, resting her chin on Argent’s withers and bringing up a foreleg to brush an elbow against her shoulder. It was a surprising gesture, but a moving one, and one she returned after a moment’s shock. When they separated, Celestia’s smile was both fond and thoughtful. “You are a wise and insightful pony, Dame L’Argent. I’m certain you and Martel would have gotten on famously.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” flushed the unicorn.

Celestia lit her horn, and the battered tome from before drifted into view. The princess shut her eyes, and the gleam of her horn intensified. Soon the book flashed with light and spun, pages zipping from within to collect in two new shining orbs, both too bright for Argent to look at directly. When the glare receded, three books now hovered in the air, the new ones looking to be mint-condition copies of the original.

“This is a firsthoof account of the War of the Shades,” explained Celestia, “written by Marshal Martel himself.” The original tome drifted down to Argent, and she reverently took it in her magic. It was not a large book, yet it felt like one in her grasp. “As the heir to his legacy, it is yours by right.”

Argent gasped. “Princess, I- I can’t take this! It’s ancient! Irreplaceable! It belongs in a museum, not—”

“It belongs to the heir of House L’Argent,” declared Celestia, her voice weighty with authority, “and it shall stay with her.”

The captain made to protest, but one look at the princess made it clear that would be futile. Having no other choice, Argent bowed. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Celestia’s gaze turned motherly. “Thank you, my little pony.” The princess’s horn gleamed again, and Argent could feel the gathering power of a teleportation spell that would take the princess through the heavy anti-teleportation wards of the castle. “I’ve taken enough of your time, my friend, and shall leave you to visit your father.” The captain was forced to step back as golden energy swirled around Celestia. “Read that book when you are able,” commanded Celestia. “You deserve to know how a noble pony lived, and how he loved the ponies for whom he died.”

There was a brilliant flash of light, and she was gone, leaving Argent alone with the book. The soldier ran a hoof over the cover, letting the tactile sense of the tome’s age shape her thoughts. What long odds that you survived, and what mad Providence to bring you to us now. Feeling the gaze of another upon her, she looked up to see the noble visage of Argent Martel, marble eyes tilted down as though to see what she would do. Words sprang unbidden to her lips. “What horrors you must have seen, that even Celestia should remain so shaken by them.” The statue was unmoved. “Though I suppose if we don’t stop these Shades now, I’ll find out, won’t I, Lord High Marshal?” The marble did not answer, but then, it hardly needed to. Sitting on the cold stone floor, Argent directed her eyes heavenward. “Sorry, Dad. I’ll visit you later. You understand, I’m sure.” With that, she opened the book and read.

Jacques woke from a mercifully dreamless sleep. He straightened in the plush chair he’d dozed in, cracking his neck and sighing with pleasure at the release of tension. Glancing at the wall clock, he saw that his internal timepiece had woken him in time for Lauds at dawn, five o’clock as the ponies reckoned. As it was still several hours before training was to begin, Fritters was sound asleep, so buried under a tangled mess of covers that it looked like he’d made himself a nest.

The friar stroked his beard thoughtfully. I cannot properly sing a hymn even at a whisper with Krucjata in the room, and I seem to recall the threat of being thrown in the lake if I wake anyone. I’ll just have to slip out. He winced at his mental choice of words. I’ll just have to step out, he corrected. Rising as quietly as he could, he took up his sword and crept for the door.

He’d not gone three feet before Fritters snorted and roused behind him. “Eh? Co słychać?” demanded the pony, his muddled voice suggesting he wasn’t properly awake. Jacques winced, freezing in place and turning his head to watch the bed. The covers shifted as the pony within fought his way to the surface. Eventually, a hooded opening appeared in the mass of tangled fabric and swung to face the friar, a bloodshot icy blue eye peering from the darkness. “Wyjaśnisz, Friar,” grated the eye.

Jacques didn’t speak Polish, but in that moment he didn’t need to. “I’m just sli— stepping outside for morning prayer, my friend,” he assured the stallion, “not running off. Don’t trouble yourself.”

The eye glared balefully back at him, then disappeared beneath the mound of bedding with a perfunctory, “Wysiadać. Idę spać,” which sounded just as unintelligible as everything else he’d said, but which Jacques interpreted to mean he had permission (or perhaps a command) to leave. Tiptoeing, the friar slipped out of the room and headed for the staircase.

In the past days, he’d learned which floorboards creaked louder than the others, and so managed to slip into the kitchen without incident. Before leaving the house, he found a piece of scratch paper and a pencil and wrote a note explaining where he was in case some pony other than Fritters was the first up. Marvelous invention, this ‘tape,’ he mused as he affixed the note to the door before departing.

A short walk brought him to the orchard, and he walked amongst the trees, far enough from the house to have some privacy, but close enough that he wouldn’t be hard to find if ponies came looking. Breathing deeply of the cool morning air, colder yet in the shadow of the trees, he prayed the Lauds.

He was just finishing the final prayers when he noticed a patch of shadows that looked denser than the others. Putting a hand to the hilt of his sword, he slowed his pace and took a guarded stance, examining the patch through narrowed eyes. As he stared, the shadows ceased to be those of foliage and became the silhouette of a living creature, tall and equine, standing beneath the bows of a great apple tree. “Step forth and be recognized,” he commanded, his voice ringing in the morning stillness.

“Stay your blade, good sir knight,” replied the figure, her voice elegant and regal. She emerged from the shadows, revealing herself to be a dark-coated mare with ethereal blue mane, a horn, and wings. Meeting his guarded gaze levelly, she favored him with a slight smile. “I am a friend.”

Under the circumstances, Jacques felt a certain justified suspicion when the mare first appeared, but now that he could plainly see her those fears dissipated. If this is who I believe it to be, and it most assuredly is, then I may trust her.

The pony’s bearing was royal, in the manner of those lords and ladies who were noble in character as well as in title. She carried herself with a confidence that was graceful, not pretentious. There was great warmth in her teal eyes, as well as command, power, and something… else. A sadness and pain Jacques knew all too well. Though her shoulders were unbowed by any physical weight, the priest could see she carried a heavy burden. One I can readily guess at, he mused.

The mare’s aquiline features were familiar, and not just because he’d met her sister. No, I have the distinct impression I’ve seen this mare before. His hand relaxed. As in a dream. Releasing the grip on his sword, he gave a courteous bow. “Princess Luna, I presume?”

“You presume aright, Friar Jacques,” the diarch replied. “I am pleased to finally meet you. My sister has told me much of your noble character, beginning with how your first act in this world was to offer your life in defense of three of our littlest subjects.” She dipped her head respectfully. “You have my gratitude.”

Jacques flushed and glanced away in discomfort. “You praise me too much, Your Highness. The victory was God’s. I only did what I pray any man would do.”

Luna raised an eyebrow and quirked an amused smile. “Indeed? Well, if all men of your world are like you then it’s a pity more were not sent.”

An image of Philip IV flashed in Jacques’ mind, and a familiar pain tugged at his heart. “Not all,” he murmured.

The princess tilted her head at his comment, but didn’t press the matter. “I must beg your forgiveness for lurking,” she said, changing topics. “I did not wish to intrude on your meditation. And,” the mare added with a smirk, “I must confess that I wanted to see if you could see through my illusion.”

“So it was magic,” replied the Friar, his brow furrowing. Magic that cloaked you in darkness. I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but… “A bending of shadows it seemed,” he ventured carefully. Luna nodded, and Jacques raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me if I speak out of turn, Princess, but I had thought the magic of shadows was the art of the Enemy.”

“A fair concern,” acknowledged Luna, “and, regrettably, one that is legitimate as often as not.” Her horn lit, and a ghostly image appeared in the air, showing what appeared to be a tapestry telling of the world’s creation, with light streaming down from the heavens upon the ponies who danced below. “When the Author of Life brought our world into being and bestowed on us the gift of magic, shadowmancy was but one of many schools of magic, a means of controlling a normal element of nature, no morally different from the control of fire or earth or the weather. In its proper form, that remains true. However,” she continued with a sigh as the tapestry morphed, revealing Darker things lurking amongst the ponies, “corruption swiftly set in. When the Fell Spirits forsook Harmony and embraced damnation, shadowmancy was the first art to be afflicted with their taint.” The mare shook her head in disgust. “Likely they thought to hide their wickedness from the heavens, but it is best not to dwell on such vile creatures.” The image shifted again, showing shadowy tendrils reaching out from the Darkness to ensnare the unsuspecting ponies. “Whatever their motivations, they perverted the school of shadowmancy in its infancy, seeding foul and unholy incantations in amongst the natural practice and twisting heaven knows how many souls in the process.” Just as the Dark monsters were about to overtake the image, Luna dismissed it. “So prevalent was their bastardization of the school that shadowmancy came to be associated with the Fell, to the point that many texts actually refer to them as ‘Shadows.’”

Jacques stroked his beard. “A great tragedy,” he declared, “yet plainly one that is not all-encompassing, as you yourself seem to use shadowmancy without taint.” At least, I would hope that is what I bore witness to.

“It is possible, but not common,” supplied Luna. “Shadowmancy is a difficult school of magic in its own right, made doubly so by the dangers that dog it. Whether by overt Dark Magic or tiny and insidious suggestions of wickedness, so many evils have permeated the study that finding safe texts and trustworthy tutors is difficult at best. Even when taught properly, there is always the danger that students may become so caught up in their studies that they push forward without proper direction or spiritual preparedness, and find themselves fascinated with things nopony should know. It may not even be shadowmancy itself which opens the gate to sin; it may simply be one’s own weakness.” With a deep sigh, the princess looked away. “I know that better than most,” she added quietly.

Her admission earned a raised eyebrow from Jacques. I have no doubt of that, he thought, but I find it remarkable that you’d admit as much to a stranger. Sensing that she had more to say, he did not presume to interrupt. Instead, the old priest kept his features open and without judgment, waiting for her to speak again.

His supposition proved correct. “I had thought myself a wise pony,” she began, “gifted in lore and magic, with a heart made noble by the obligations of rule and a soul made strong in fighting evil. I had the privilege of learning pure, untainted shadowmancy in my youth, and the Mantle of the Moon granted me a special affinity for it. I faced ponies who’d fallen under the taint of the Fell Shadows – Sombra, the Court of Terrors, the Shades.” She shook her head, her features lined with regret. “I thought I was strong enough to resist the taint of Dark Magic, to delve into the filth and remain clean.” Her gaze, heavy with self-recrimination, drifted back to Jacques. “I was wrong.”

The pair stared in silence for a time, each seeming to measure the other. Jacques could see the rawness of her pain, held back by a visage of stoicism and regality that would likely fool most anyone. But the confessor had looked into the eyes of too many penitent souls to be tricked by a mask. He could see her reluctance, too, and her surprise – verging on disbelief – that she’d allowed herself such vulnerability with him. Yet if she spoke so readily to me, perhaps there is a reason for it. “If I may ask, Princess,” he probed gently, “how were you wrong?”

Luna’s eyes narrowed, shifting slightly as she considered whether or not to answer. In the end, her desire to speak won out. “Pride,” she admitted. “Pride and jealousy. An old and potent combination. I was angry that my sister was so much more beloved than me. After all, I’d sacrificed just as much for Equestria as she had, fought and bled just as hard, and yet she was always the golden sister, the first princess, and I could not seem to escape her shadow.” The lunar mare looked out over Jacques’ shoulder into the distant past and chuckled humorlessly. “In that shadow, a seed of Darkness grew… and festered.”

“Emotions affect magic, Friar,” she continued more clinically, “as I’m sure Twilight has told you. Even without the deliberate practice of Dark Magic, when those emotions are tainted with evil, with hate or lust or envy, twisted things will follow. And, when great and powerful magics are at play, the results may be,” her tone dropped, “maddening.”

Jacques felt the scars on his shoulders itch – the ones scoured there by molten silver. He was all too familiar with the madness power could wreak upon the mind.

The alicorn let out a weary sigh. “I wanted my sister’s power,” she stated, her gaze drifting upwards as she gave a shudder of remembrance. “Oh, how I craved it. Yearnedfor it. Lusted for it.” Tightly, she shut her eyes. “I sought to take a power that was not mine to have. To take it, I nurtured an inner Darkness.” She paused a moment, swallowing audibly. “It warped me, consumed me. It even took a name of its own…”

“Nightmare Moon,” murmured Jacques in the silence.

“Yes,” she whispered. “A name not born of the ‘multiple personality disorder’ the doctors speak of, nor as an affectation of a sound yet wicked mind, but of insanity and vice. I was captive in my own body, enslaved by my basest desires, at the mercy of my sins.” Her eyes snapped open, filled with anguish and desperate emotion. “All vices chain us, Friar, as you well know, but the chains I crafted for myself that dread day were so total that I—” a sob threatened to escape her lips, and she strangled it off, taking rest of the sentence with it.

The priest waited, and, after a deep breath, Luna resumed, her voice made even by an iron will, “Captive in my own body, I attempted to lay waste to that which I had sworn to protect… and to that which I loved.” Her tone turned biting, “I ought to have been slain for my treachery, but…” gentler words replaced her bite, “…instead the Elements banished me into a great slumber in the moon, so that my madness may be made dormant while enough of my mind remained to heal. When I returned, the Elements freed me from the taint of the Darkness. I could finally see the truth of what I have done, and weep for it.” She shook her head, her eyes unfocused and her voice soft, as though unbelieving of the mercy she’d received. “Many long days I spent in the company of chaplains, ensuring that the taint was gone. Yet, for all my sins… I am now restored as Princess of Equestria. My kingdom has accepted me. My sister… my sister has forgiven me.” She let out a shaky breath, unspent grief caught in her throat.

But have you forgiven yourself? Or have you clung instead to your torments? The priest knew the answer without asking. He waited until he was certain she had no more to say before giving counsel, “You have received mercy, and yet you are troubled by this. Why?”

Luna’s gaze snapped away from him, and she bitterly exclaimed, “It is a mercy I do not deserve!”

Jacques let out a low chuckle, drawing her attention back to him. “My dear sister, none of us deserve mercy. That is why it is such a great gift.” Luna frowned, unconvinced, but Jacques had expected that. “Princess, was it not your sister and your people whom you wronged? If that is the case, then is it not their choice whether or not to forgive you?”

“Just because it is their choice doesn’t make it the right one,” she countered.

“And clinging to old pain is?” he challenged. “How much energy do you waste carrying around an old sin? Energy that could be better spent doing good with your life? Would it not be a nobler penance to devote your time to the pursuit of virtue, rather than lingering over an evil which has already been expunged?”

Luna rubbed one foreleg with the other, looking in that moment more like a vulnerable young woman than an immortal ruler. “It is not so simple,” she protested.

“Isn’t it?” he demanded. “How is carrying a crime of which you have been absolved meant to make amends for anything? Who but you holds this sword poised above your neck? Now that the scales have been balanced, who benefits from your unsurety, your anguish… other than the Enemy himself?” A spark of uncertainty flashed in her eyes, and Jacques smiled inwardly, recognizing he’d scored a hit. “If your unforgiveness continues to burden you, robbing you of true, holy peace and happiness, is that not a diabolical craft? Can you honestly tell me that your unwillingness to release the past has not kept you from full reconciliation with those you love?”

The princess winced, but said nothing in response. Jacques allowed his voice to grow stern. “Hearken to me, Highness. It is the work of the deceiver to twist facts into lies. The truth is that the God who made both you and I knows all our sins, even better than we know them ourselves, and He has forgiven us anyway. More, He has bid us forgive each other. If He has decided we are worthy,” he shrugged, “who are we to gainsay Him? To do so is the height of ingratitude. Further, it is the height of arrogance.”

The princess recoiled, outrage flashing across her features. “Arrogance?!”

“Arrogance,” echoed the friar mildly. “Though it is an arrogance all we meager creatures of earth share at some level, for Pride is the first bitter fruit of the Fall.” Luna’s mouth opened and shut as she tried to form some response, but none was forthcoming. Jacques merely smiled, knowing what questions he had to ask. “Tell me something, you who have walked the centuries and remained yet young.” He waited until she met his gaze before asking, “Can you claim that your self-loathing is greater than a sister’s love? Is it true that memories of past sins are of greater importance than the good you might do if you let them go? Do you presume to know more than the One who spoke the very world into being?” Not giving her time to object or look away, he pressed on, “Were you there for the songs of creation, that you might know your vices are grander than the power of Love? In your movement of the moon in the sky, have you learned all the movements of the heart? Do you claim to hold a greater wisdom than the One who breathed life into you?” Her eyes widened as his gaze bore into her. “Tell me truthfully, sister Luna, can you claim this?”

Humbly, huskily, the alicorn whispered, “No.”

A gentle smile graced his lips, and Jacques took a slow step towards her. “Then stop acting as though you can. You have been forgiven,” he promised, taking another step.“Have the humility and love to accept it. I do not say this because it will be easy,” A light laugh escaped his lips. “God knows it isn’t.” He drew closer yet. “Still, we must strive.’

Luna retreated a pace, tears in her eyes and she tore her gaze away from his. “I can’t forget the past!” she cried. “I won’t!”

Jacques halted where he was. “I’m not asking you to forget,” he clarified calmly. “I’m asking you to forgive.” The princess stood in silence, refusing to look at him. The friar sighed. He could guess the pain she carried, both that of which she’d told him, and that which she held so close that she thought no one else could see. The hurt which was whispered to him in his heart. God has granted me insights many times, instincts which have never led me astray. How I wish that this is not what they showed me in this moment. Oh, daughter, he grieved, how you have hurt yourself.

“How long have you tortured yourself?” he asked quietly.

Luna’s eyes flashed with shock, outrage, even fear. “How…” she gasped, “how could you possibly know that?!”

The friar watched her levelly. “I am an old confessor, sister Luna, and no stranger to torture.” He traced the scars on his arm. “Those inflicted upon us,” his hand covered his heart, “and those we inflict upon ourselves. How long?” he repeated.

For a moment, Jacques feared that the princess might fly off, or perhaps strike him. Fear and fury warred in her movements as wings flared and limbs shook, fight and flight both seeking to be unleashed. Then her shoulders sagged, her wings drooped, and even her mane seemed to lose its luster. She hung her head, tears rolling down her face. In a voice barely audible, she breathed, “Three years.”

Three years, Jacques thought with sorrow. Three years of silent grief. Stepping slowly so as not to alarm her, he moved to stand before her. His voice was low and kind, “Three years is far too long to carry such unforgiveness in your heart.” He reached up to gently cup her chin in one hand, wiping her tears away with a gnarled thumb. “Dry your tears, Daughter of God. Let your weeping turn to dancing.”

Fresh tears welled in her eyes and she leaned into his hand, nuzzling his calloused grasp. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, the old priest fell to one knee, and the princess bent forward, resting her chin on his shoulder and crying softly into his ear as he stroked her neck.

After a few moments, her weeping faded, replaced by an even breathing. Jacques waited, intending to give her the first word.

When she spoke, however, it was not what he expected. “I have heard your anguish while you sleep, Friar Jacques,” she rasped. He blinked in surprise at the remark, and she pulled back from the embrace. “You have asked me many questions, so now I ask one of you.” She regarded him levelly through eyes still wet from catharsis. “How can a man who has suffered such cruelty be so kind to someone he has only just met?”

Jacques tilted his head in confusion. “Princess, what man of goodwill would do any less?”

Luna smiled. “You are a remarkable being, sir knight.”

The man couldn’t help but grin as he stood back up. “You’ll forgive me if I find that amusing coming from a magical pony who moves the moon on a whim.”

“Fair enough,” chuckled the mare, drying her tears with a wing. “And to think, I had come to offer you consolation for your nightmares.”

Shrugging, the priest replied, “There is no reason you still cannot.” He smirked. “Far be it from me to prevent you guarding me from dark forces assaulting me in my slumbers.”

Luna returned his smirk. “Then I suppose we shall consider this a means of expressing my gratitude.” Her expression turned grave. “What do you recall from last night?”

Now it was Jacques’ turn to look away. Taking a few paces to collect his thoughts, he addressed the princess without facing her. “An old enemy returned,” came the slow answer. “One long gone, with no chance of returning.” He snorted. “Not that my slumbering mind cared for that detail. In my nightmare, he followed me to this world, having killed the Brothers who cared for me, and, when he arrived here…” his fist clenched, “he brought his murderous blade with him.”

“Your new friends?” Luna asked, her voice suggesting she knew the answer.

“Yes,” he answered softly, emotion tugging at his throat.

Luna sighed. “Friar, I am truly sorry that I failed to protect you from such pain.”

Forcing a smile to his face, he turned to reassure her. “As I understand it, you woke Applejack to rouse me. I would call that protection. Worry not.” He hoped she did not hear the tightness in his voice.

The princess raised an eyebrow. “You are in my domain. It is duty, not worry. And, now that the enemy has revealed itself, I know what to guard against. So,” she bared her teeth in a smile that was shockingly predatory for an equine, “you may sleep better.”

“I believe you,” he replied. “Still, if you would be so kind, I’d like to know what it is you are guarding against.”

Luna’s lip curled in disgust, though it wasn’t directed against him. “A perversion of shadow magic. The dark entity which attacked you last night was an artificial construct, commonly called a ‘terrorsite’ or simply a ‘terror’ – animal in instinct and predatory in nature. It sows misery and pain amongst its victims in the Dream Realm and uses the suffering it causes to feed its master’s power.” Jacques blanched in horror. “While unable to break into your mind, its presence was enough to cause your mind to turn to grief and fear, and transform dreams into nightmares.”

‘Grief and fear.’ Well, I’ve carried much of that, he reflected grimly. The princess is not the only one who must learn to let go of the past.

“It also probes for information,” she continued, “though it must gain actual entry into the victim’s mind to learn much.” Luna made an approving noise with her throat. “Fortunately, your mental defenses are quite robust, and it didn’t learn much.”

Putting aside the disturbing knowledge that his mind had been violated, Jacques forced himself to focus on the strategic picture. “It didn’t learn ‘much’?” he echoed. “Do you know what it did learn?”

“Without interrogating the caster, which I would love to do, I can’t say for certain,” she answered, “but the most he or she could possibly have learned is that you are human and that your magic and willpower were sufficient to repulse the terrosite. Now, the good news is that any knowledge of your magic is limited to a vague sense of your power and the fact that you’re a Curatrix-user. Also, since almost nopony knows what a human is, your identity is safe for now.”

“And the bad news?”

Luna grimaced. “Ponyville is a small community, but it isn’t that small. Eventually, word of your presence will slip out. It may be some time, as Ponyvillians tend to keep quiet about the strange happenings around here.” As an aside she muttered, “Likely because they’re so commonplace as to be mundane.” In her normal tone she continued, “Even so, you won’t remain secret forever. If these new ‘Shades’, and we must assume this was their doing, hear tell of a previously unknown sapient creature, then it won’t take long for them to start asking questions.” She clicked her teeth, looking annoyed. “My sister has long had some subtle defenses in place around Ponyville, but I fear the time for subtlety will soon be passed. You and the Bearers must be ready for battle.”

“We are of one mind in this,” agreed Jacques. “Today begins their training,” he flexed one hand, “and continues mine.”

Luna’s close-lipped smile was martial. “Good. I am pleased to hear that. In fact,” her horn flared, and two books appeared from seemingly nowhere, floating over to him, “I may have something to assist with that.” He took the books and examined them. They were thick tomes, with heavy brown covers and metal clasps. The smaller of the two bore French script on the side. “The larger volume is a compendium of combat and investigation spells, including shadowmancy techniques. Actual shadowmancy techniques, of the sort it’s safe for prudent ponies to learn. Most are rather advanced spells, so I doubt that any but Twilight and possibly the one my sister calls the ‘Mad Konik’ could use them,” Jacques smirked at the moniker, “but they ought to provide an edge in combat. Perhaps more to the point, some of the techniques involve illusions and training dummies which simulate Dark Magic without actually being Dark Magic. Twilight should be familiar with the theory from her battle with Sombra’s traps. Should she learn them, it will make for safer practicing of Curatrix techniques than running madly into the Everfree Forest looking for trouble.”

Jacques kept his expression neutral. Judging by Luna’s tone, she hadn’t heard about the incident last night, but, given her role in Equestria, he couldn’t be sure. “That would indeed be a desperate training regimen,” he replied blandly.

“The second book should be… even more educational,” declared the princess. Catching her flat tone, the friar glanced up with a raised eyebrow. “Just before I left, my sister approached me with a copy of a manuscript written by an old friend of ours – Lord High Marshal Argent Martel, Hero of Brackenridge, Right Hoof of the Diarchy,” her eyes narrowed, “and General of the Army of Retribution, formed to bring justice to the Shades.”

“Oh,” murmured Jacques, the book suddenly feeling heavier.

“Argent Martel was a precise and deliberate pony. He recorded all that happened up to his death at the conclusion of the war. His insights will prove invaluable to you, but,” she regarded him solemnly, “I would recommend that you read the book first yourself, then Twilight Sparkle, and that the two of you teach the others what you have learned. The soldiers may read it, but I would advise against anypony else reading that tome.”

An odd stipulation. “May I ask why?”

Luna pursed her lips. “Argent Martel wrote much of the tactics of the enemy – their strengths, their weaknesses, and even the effects of their spells. To each he recorded countermeasures both magical and mundane which had proven effective against them, all of which will be most valuable to you and the Bearers.” The princess’s jaw tightened. “He also recorded the enemy’s… depravities.”

The memory of the Bearers’ reactions to the prospect of killing sprang to mind, and his heart sank. “I see.”

“I’m sure you do.” Luna indicated the journal with the tip of her horn. “Twilight Sparkle’s gift for magic makes it necessary for her to read this, though you must be there to help her through it. The soldiers have seen such depravities before and, like you, shall bear their weight. The others, though, should be hardened to such things gradually, if possible.” She sighed and shook her head. “It is one thing to read of wickedness in a clinical fashion. Though still disturbing to sensible minds, it is at least insulated enough to be processed more at an intellectual level than an emotional one. To read of wickedness in its raw form however… well,” her elegant features turned sad, “I had hoped to spare the mares who saved me that pain, at least for a little longer. Perhaps forever if these modern ‘Shades’ can be destroyed before their corruption spreads.”

Jacques nodded gravely. “One can only hope.”

“One can.” The alicorn looked up at the sky, noting the height of the sun. “I must return to Canterlot soon, but before I go, I would like to discuss your dreams.”

“Very well,” he assented. “What of them?”

“As I said before, you were blessed with robust mental defenses. With your natural affinity for Curatrix Magic, your instinctive resistance to outside magic, and your own willpower, you needn’t fear an enemy entering your mind without permission.” She chuckled. “I am the Guardian of Dreams, and even I wouldn’t be able to break in without flaying your mind asunder, and possibly my own as well.”

Jacques winced. I’m sure she meant that to be reassuring, but it was not.

She carried on, unaware of his discomfort. “However, the same resilience that keeps out threats also keeps me from helping you against natural nightmares. I would like to request your permission to enter your mind and help you when your dreams turn frightful.”

The question took him off guard, more than anything else that morning. I’ve only barely gotten used to magic in general, let alone my own, and now she seeks leave to enter my thoughts? He massaged his temples with a hand. That is a bit much to take in right now. “Pray don’t take offense, Princess, but I am so new to the concept of your world’s magic that I find the prospect of anyone entering my mind,” he clicked his tongue, “daunting to say the least.”

“Understandable,” said the lunar mare, “but you should know that I have no intention of prying into personal matters. I only ask for access so that I may come to your aid if you call for it.”

Jacques let out a slow breath. “If I am under attack by the dark powers of the Enemy, then, by all means, I grant you permission to wield any holy power you have against them. But for those matters which are but human fears…” he bit his lip, “I would like some time to consider.”

Luna dipped her head once. “If that is your choice, I will abide by it.” Glancing once more at the sun, she said, “And now I must depart. It has been a genuine pleasure to meet you, Friar Jacques de Charette.” Her smile was tender; grateful. “You have given me… much to think about.”

He bowed in return. “The pleasure is mine, Your Highness. I wish you a safe return.” Thanking him, the princess turned to leave, but, before she could, a question sprang to his mind. “If I may ask, Princess,” she tilted her head to look back at him, “why did you choose to share your story with a stranger?”

The dark-coated mare’s eyes gleamed thoughtfully as she pondered his question. Then, with an odd smile, she answered, “A wise old traveler seemed to think you and I would get along.” Jacques cocked his head, confused by her cryptic answer. Before he could ask for clarity, she smiled more broadly and said, “Walk in Harmony, Friar Jacques.” Then she glanced over his shoulder as though she spied someone behind him. He twisted his head to look, but there was no one. Turning back to Luna, a question on his lips, he saw only trees and grass.

“Hm,” he grunted, scanning the trees and seeing no sign of her. “I hope she doesn’t make a habit of that.” Taking a moment to note the position of the sun, he guessed it to be about six in the morning by the ponies’ reckoning. Time to pray the Hour of Prime, I suppose. “Walk in Harmony, Princess Luna,” he said softly. Hefting the books in one hand, he resumed his pacing, murmuring the Divine Office under the rising sun.

Author's Note

(Obligatory Antiquarian short at the end. PSA first.)

This chapter is a lot heavier on religion than I usually do, because, realistically, in the context of this story and Friar Jacques’ character, this is how it would go. With that said, the good friar’s advice on the importance of accepting forgiveness (and forgiving yourself) is vitally important, whatever your religious beliefs (or lack thereof).

None of us are perfect. We’ve all done things we regret. We all need forgiveness. So, when that forgiveness is offered, we are crazy if we don’t take it. Whether we deserve it or not is beside the point. Life’s too short to hold onto hate, whether it’s directed at another or yourself. If you truly want to make amends for what you’ve done, then quit focusing on the past and focus on doing something good now!

Unforgiveness is just wasting your time and perpetuating whatever the original crime was! Don’t give the bad thing more power than it already has. Kill it with progress!

Unforgiveness is a poison. Deal with what happened, learn from it, remember it if you need to, and move on with your life. I don’t say this because I’m dismissing hardship or failure – far from it. I say this because hardship and failure should never be considered the come-all, end-all of our lived experiences. Our tragedies, regrets, and failures may be so significant that they are an integral part of us, but they should never be allowed to define us.

We are more than our worst days.

If you were once shackled, and the shackles have been removed, don’t put them back on by staying in the past. Forgiveness isn’t forgetting or ignoring the past – it’s a way of moving forward, whatever the past may be.

***

On a lighter note, alternative titles for this chapter included “Immortals Have Feelings Too” and “Because Sometimes Alicorns Just Want Hugs.” You get a metaphorical muffin if you remember who the old traveler Luna alluded to was.

I actually know a couple priests who can do what Friar Jacques did here. In the course of a single tearful conversation, they seem to see one’s wounds, and then set about doing everything they can to heal them. It’s an incredible thing to experience. I’ve never really questioned why G.K. Chesterton’s Father Brown was so good at solving murders – good, experienced confessors see so much of the rawness of humanity that their insights often cut right to the heart of things. Friar Jacques is modeled off of men like them. Fittingly enough, the shoutout What We Are Is Not Who We Are by Tinybit92 is about Sunset Shimmer, Sci-Twi, and the importance of forgiving yourself. Talk about topical…

***

Aura found Antiquarian hunched over his desk, a scowl on his face as he tapped a pencil against the heavily marked-up paper on his blotter. All-in-all, it was a typical scene. “A poorly-written paper, sir?” she asked.

Antiquarian chuckled. “I’d be using red for that. Or fire. No, this is a project of Princess Luna’s and mine. We’re getting a support group together for ponies who struggle with forgiving themselves for past mistakes.”

Aura smiled. “Antiq, that’s wonderful! I’m so glad to hear you’re doing that. Only,” she trotted around the desk to look over his shoulder, “why the long face? Legal problems? Trouble finding a venue?”

He shook his head. “Far worse than that,” he said grimly. “We need a name.”

“A… name?”

His chuckle was bitter. “Call me crazy, but names like ‘Pony Up and Forgive Yourself Anonymous’ and ‘Ponies Who Can’t Manage to Get Over Their Muck Ups Anonymous’ don’t exactly sound warm and cuddly.” He shrugged. "Marketing isn't exactly my strong suit."

Aura rolled her eyes, a fond smile on her face. “How about ‘Unforgivers Anonymous.’ And your theme song can be ‘My Past is Not Today.’”

A slow grin spread across Antiquarian’s face and he gave her a paternal kiss on the forehead before pulling out his stationary. “Looks like I’ll have to brag to Luna what a genius I have for a niece.”

“What else is new?” she teased. Then, after glancing out the window, she added with a frown, “Only one problem.”

“What?”

Pointing to the mass of ponies outside, she asked, “Do you think the mob will forgive you long enough to write her?”

Antiquarian glanced out the window, sighed, and passed the stationary to her. “Miss Aura, please take a letter…”

Jump to top

Training Day

Applejack was still toweling her mane dry as she walked into the kitchen. After Rarity had occupied the farmhouse’s sole shower (in the full military sense of the word), the farm mare resorted to dowsing her mane at the pump out back and using a dry brush to clean her coat of any filth from the Everfree that she’d missed in her exhaustion the night before.

Upon entering the kitchen, she found Big MacIntosh hard at work at the griddle, cooking a second wave of flapjacks and eggs. The first wave, cooked by Grannie Smith, was being happily demolished by Applebloom, Twilight, Pinkie Pie, Marble Slab, Morning Song, and the venerable chef herself.

Deciding that her mane was dry enough, Applejack slung the towel over her withers and nodded greeting to the diners before approaching her brother. “Need a hoof?” she asked.

“Eenope.”

“You already eaten?”

“Eeyup.”

“Fritters still upstairs?”

“Eeyup.”

“Fluttershy and Rainbow leave ta take care o’ the animals?”

“Eeyup.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “Good talk.”

“Eeyup.”

She ambled over to the table, plunked herself down in an empty chair to Twilight’s left, and loaded a plate with sustenance. Listening with half an ear to Pinkie Pie and Marble Slab, Applejack gleaned that the pink mare was giving Marble an abridged (and highly fanciful) rendition of several of the Bearers’ lesser adventures. Judging by the stallion’s expression, he wasn’t quite sure if he believed his narrator. Wise of him.

The farmer listened in on Morning Song and Applebloom with the other ear. She quickly realized the soldier was giving the filly an age-appropriate rendition of the last nights’ events, mingling enough details to satiate Applebloom’s curiosity with a firm injunction to not bother Friar Jacques about it. Song seemed to be straddling the line between explanation and privacy rather skillfully, so Applejack opted not to interject, though the long look Grannie gave her suggested she’d be giving a more thorough explanation to the elderly mare later.

While the filly was distracted, Applejack turned to Twilight, who was busily jotting down notes as she ate. “Weren’t ya gonna grab Spike first thing?” she asked.

Twilight nodded. “I was, but Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy offered to swing by and pick him up on their way back. It’s just as well; I need some time to collect my thoughts before I send off a report to Princess Luna. And probably one to Princess Celestia too, just for good measure.”

Applejack craned her neck around the unicorn to see her notes; they were already at least ten pages deep. Ah was only gone a few minutes at most, she thought with a rueful smile. “Ah’m sure they’ll appreciate yer thoroughness,” she said diplomatically.

“You really think so?” asked Twilight, her face a mixture of eagerness and nervousness.

The farm mare sighed inwardly. Land’s sakes, girl, you gotta stop. “Course they will, sugarcube. Yer Celestia’s prized pupil, after all, and it was you that brought us all together ta save Luna.” She winked. “Ah think they’re fans o’ yer work.”

Twilight blushed slightly. “I- I suppose you’re right. Still, this is a big deal, and I don’t want to leave anything out.”

Out the back door, a low voice singing in Prench heralded Jacques’ arrival. Hearing him before she saw him, Applebloom leapt to her hooves and ran excitedly to the door. When the friar entered, the filly bounded up to him, shouting his name eagerly.

Chuckling, the man crouched down so she could hug him. “Bonjour, petit. You seem lively this morning.”

“Well sure Ah am!” cried the filly. “Ah’m just glad her alright after yer niiiiii…” her eyes went wide as she realized she’d strayed into the territory of forbidden conversation, “…iiiight’s rest probably made ya ready fer breakfast, cuz, um, Grannie and Big Mac made it real good. Yeah.” Then, rather proud of herself for recovering from her mistake, she shot Morning Song a wink that was, in Applejack’s reckoning, about as subtle as a barn fire.

To her immense credit, Morning Song managed to bite her lip and nod approvingly rather than laugh in the filly’s face. Jacques, meanwhile, had to cover his mouth to hold back laughter, though he played it off as stroking his beard. After exchanging a few words, the filly trotted off to do her morning chores, leaving only the adults in the room.

Jacques stood and chuckled, gesturing after the absent Applebloom. “I take it you asked her not to pry about last night’s events?”

“Tried to,” said Morning Song, “but you know how children are when they’re excited. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” smiled Jacques. “That was adorable.” He set a pair of what Applejack assumed to be prayer books down on the table and collected a plate, remarking approvingly on the smell of the food and earning a ‘thank you kindly’ from Grannie and a grateful grunt from Big Mac.

Pinkie layered another stack of pancakes on her own plate, topping them with blasphemous amounts of strawberries and cream. “She’s still better at cover stories than her big sister,” quipped the pink mare. “Right, Miss ‘we’re doin’ construction in here’?”

Applejack raised an eyebrow. “Well excuse me if the Bearer of Honesty had trouble coming up with a plausible cover story on the fly when Miss ‘chase-Rainbow-across-ponyville’ came barrelin’ up on me like Ah was hidin’ the fugitive that stole yer secret rock candy recipe.”

Gasping in horror and huddling behind her pancakes, Pinkie glared at her. “Don’t even joke about that!”

Chuckling, Applejack turned back to Jacques. “Thanks for leavin’ us a note this time,” she teased.

The friar paused loading his plate with food long enough to make a gesture that (Song had explained) was way for a swordfighter to acknowledge a hit by his opponent. “I almost caught an earful from Fritters when he woke up, but, thankfully, he elected not to throw me in the lake.”

“Pity,” remarked Marble. “Woulda been fun to watch him try.”

“I’m glad you’re back, Friar,” interjected Twilight holding up her notes. “When Spike gets here I’m planning on sending a letter to Princess Luna, and your input will be invaluable.”

Yeah, Twilight needs an opening for the book she’s got there, thought Applejack as she took a bite of pancakes.

Jacques gave a small smile as he finished loading his plate. “No need,” he said. “I already had a lovely chat with her this morning.”

With that casual remark, he closed his eyes and mumbled a blessing over his food, quite unaware of the consternation his statement caused. When he finished his prayers, he began eating, a benign expression on his face, only pausing mid-chew when he noticed everypony staring at him. “What?” he asked. “Have I said something wrong?”

Twilight, perhaps most startled of all, blinked rapidly before asking, “You mean, like, you took a nap in the orchard and you saw her in a dream, right?”

Jacques swallowed his mouthful and regarded her with a perplexed expression. “No,” he said slowly, “I mean she approached me in the orchard.”

Jaws dropped. Twilight made an incoherent exclamation and Applejack felt light-headed.

“Ya’ll mean ta tell me,” demanded a wide-eyed Grannie, “the princess just up an’ dropped by mah Acres like t’was no big deal?”

“Is that not normal for her?”

“NO!” chorused the ponies

Jacques rolled his jaw as he digested this information, shrugged, and made a non-committal grunt before he resumed eating.

Applejack exchanged shocked glances with the other ponies. “Friar,” she began, “did… did ya just think the princess popped in for apple fritters every Tuesday or somethin’?”

Raising an eyebrow, he replied, “My dear, I don’t know if you’ve realized it, but, as Bearer of an Element of Harmony, you are essentially the princesses’ champion. That makes you, in a sense, a high and trusted member of the nobility, and renders certain honors and statuses upon your land and kin. For one of your diarchs to visit is not unusual in the slightest.” Chuckling, he added, “And, if I am being honest, jeune fermière, your princesses are scandalously casual by the standards of my homeland.”

The three Apples gaped at each other. “Nobles?! T-that can’t be!” exclaimed Applejack. “Ah ain’t no noble lady. Ah’m just Applejack! Faithful friend! Dependable pony! Ah ain’t…” she trailed off.

Jacques was nonplussed by her outburst. “Take it as you will,” he advised, “but you have the princesses’ confidence. All you young ladies do. If I were in your place, I would cherish that.”

Applejack cast her gaze around the room, searching for somepony to contradict the madness that Friar Jacques had uttered. To her horror, Pinkie and Twilight appeared to be just as overwhelmed as the Apples. Morning Song and Marble Slab were almost worse – they looked on with approval.

“But Ah’m not… we didn’t…” she stammered.

“We’re nothing special!” finished Twilight.

The friar smiled. “Dear ladies, none of us are anything special until we are graced to have greatness awoken in us. You accepted that grace. That is what makes you great.” His deep grey eyes held each of their gazes in turn for a moment, then returned to his food. “Since it would appear you need time to ponder this, however, why don’t I tell you a little of what Princess Luna and I discussed.”

“Yes please!” said Twilight in a voice pitched high with eagerness for a change of topic.

“Very well.” He turned to Grannie Smith. “Grand-mère, may I ask—”

Grannie was already standing. “Don’t worry none, Friar. Ah know mah cue ta go find little Applebloom and make sure she stays scarce. You young’uns talk shop.”

Once she’d gone, Jacques said, “I’ll have to repeat this to the others when they arrive, but what she told me of the dream was this…”

As Jacques related what Luna had told him about the ‘terrorsite’ and shadowmancy, Applejack forced herself to focus on what the friar was saying. Serious as it was, it was still easier than thinking about the implications of the power she apparently wielded. Pinkie listened with similar intensity, and Twilight, not surprisingly, lost herself entirely in the technicals.

“Well,” observed the unicorn when Jacques finished, “at least now we have a better idea what we’re up against. Though I’ll really have to brush up on my shadowmancy. Luna’s right about how easy it can be to stray into dangerous territory. Last time I tried to use it…” her ears fell flat, “I made some stupid mistakes – tried to copy Celestia’s shadowmancy technique without really understanding what I was doing and left myself vulnerable to Sombra’s dark magic.” She shuddered. “If Spike hadn’t been there to snap me out of it, I don’t even want to think about what could have happened.”

Pinkie zipped over and enfolded Twilight in a fierce hug. “Aw, it’s okay Twilight. Everypony makes mistakes!”

“Yeah?” snorted Twilight. “How many of them of cast spells they don’t fully understand?”

Pinkie shot her friend an unusually somber look. “Two words: Mirror. Pool.”

Twilight blanched. “Fair point.”

Marble Slab tilted his head curiously. “What’s the mirror pool?”

“You don’t want to know,” chorused the Ponyville natives.

“As to the challenge of shadowmancy,” said Jacques, “the princess foresaw that exact problem and provided for it. She is quite keen that you study only holy magics.” He winced at his own choice of words. “How I wish that you folk had picked a different word than ‘magic’ for your God-given powers,” he murmured, “if only to make the distinction between these natural powers and the demonic clearer. As there are no parallel natural powers in my world, I’m not sure what such a word would be, but it would be preferable to ‘magic’.” Shaking his head, he resumed in his normal tone. “Regardless, Princess Luna gave me a book to help us in our time of need.”

Instantly, Twilight perked up. “PrincessLunagaveyouabook?!” she squeaked.

Applejack chuckled. “Woah there, girl.”

Jacques held up one of the two books from he’d entered with. “A compendium of combat and investigation spells, including shadowmancy techniques. Mostly it will be useful for Twilight and Fritters as far as application goes—” the friar jolted as Twilight teleported next to him, snatched the book from his hand, and began poring over the contents, “—though it will benefit us all in learning how to counter such techniques,” he finished with a leery look at the young mare. Big Mac trotted over and patted him on the shoulder as though to say, ‘you’ll get used to it.’

Twilight practically squealed with joy as she flipped through the book. “This is incredible! Mentor’s Misdirection, Arc’s Arcs, the Seven Illusions of the First Clover the Clever— I haven’t even heard of some of these!” Her chatter rapidly increased in speed after that, to the point that it faded into incomprehensible background gibberish.

Marble Slab rose and began clearing the plates of those done eating. “I think giving her a new toy to play with right before training might have been a mistake,” he observed.

“Quite possibly,” agreed Jacques.

Applejack regarded the tome thoughtfully. “Ya said there were illusions in that book?”

“Yes.”

She chewed her lip for a moment, then nodded. “Well, Ah guess Ah’ve sort of run out of excuses, then.” When the others (sans Twilight) shot her curious looks, she explained, “Fritters said Ah can maybe tap into my Element to see through illusions an’ offered ta teach me. Ah’ve been puttin’ it off, on account o’ not havin’ an interest in… well…” she rubbed the back of her neck. On account o’ the fact that it’s just one more reminder what Ah’ll have to use it for. On account o’ Ah never asked for any o’ this. “… anyhoo,” she continued, “Ah been thinkin’ a lot about it lately, to the point that him trainin’ me is startin’ ta come up in my dreams an’ daydreams. Ah guess it’s just sorta time to buck up an learn from ’im.”

“Dreams and daydreams, eh?” asked Pinkie, who was suddenly beside Applejack. The pink mare leaned in close, her voice coy and her features sly. “Been thinkin’ a lot about a certain charming warrior stallion, AJ?”

Applejack felt the heat rise to her cheeks as a pit settled in her stomach. “N-no! No! Ya’ll don’t— Ah’m not! He— Ah—"

Pinkie chortled merrily and patted her on the head. “Oh, AJ, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. What mare among us hasn’t fallen for a strapping young Konik stallion assigned to stay in our town to guard the mysterious otherworldly visitor who lives in our farmstead while we happen to be bonded to a magical element that allows us to spot deception and destines us for glory?”

“If that description applies to literally anypony other than Applejack,” interjected Morning Song, “I am really curious about her story.”

“There ain’t no story!” protested Applejack hotly, pushing Pinkie Pie back. “Pinkie’s just talkin’ nonsense!”

Friar Jacques smirked and remarked to Twilight, “Methinks Madam l’Applejack doth protest too much, eh, Madam l’Éclat?”

Much to Applejack’s horror, Twilight was looking up from the book with a cheeky grin. “Methinks so, good sir knight,” agreed ‘Madam l’Éclat.’

“It ain’t like that!” shouted the farmer.

“What ain’t like what?” asked Fritters.

Applejack felt her stomach shrivel up and die as she looked to the doorway and saw a yawning Fritters silhouetted there.

Externally, Applejack stared mutely.

Internally, Applejack shrieked bloody murder.

“What ain’t like what?” repeated the guileless stallion.

Applejack’s heart sang. Oh, sweet Celestia, he didn’t actually overhear anything! Quick, Applejack! Say something to distract him! Something! Anything!

“Pancakes!” blurted Applejack.

You stupid mare! You stupid, stupid mare!

Fritters cocked an eyebrow. “‘Pancakes?’” he repeated.

Why did you say Pancakes?! What could you possibly say to make this worse?! “Eeyup. Pancakes. Ah was sayin’ they ain’t… gonna be enough ta feed yer six stomachs.”

PERFECT! LET’S INSULT HIM TOO! BRILLIANT MOVE, APPLEJACK!

Fritters gave her a long, searching look, then picked up a plate with his magic and began filling it with a truly preposterous amount of food. “Well, it’s a good thing Big Mac made eggs too then, isn’t it?” he said smoothly.

Applejack stared mutely as he sat and began eating, a bemused expression on his face as he watched her. The farm mare felt herself smiling. “Yeah, Fritters, Ah reckon it is.”

The rest of breakfast passed without note. Rarity finally emerged from the shower (and, for once, Applejack was abundantly thankful the mare took so long to get ready) right around the time Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy returned with Spike. The newcomers were filled in on what they’d missed, after which Spike and Jacques were assigned to pry the book loose from Twilight’s grasp (which they accomplished by means of Spike’s ability to distract and the friar’s ability to nullify magic) while the rest adjourned to the barn. From there they retrieved the stored weapons and moved them out to the sparring area. The process allowed Applejack to see, for the first time, just how impressive the armory truly was.

When the REF ponies had first sought permission to quarter their weapons and armor at the Apple Family Homestead, it hadn’t seemed that extensive. Most of it was boarded up in crates or secured on compact racks. Even last night, when they’d raided the armory for basic kit for everypony, it hadn’t seemed like much.

Now that it was unpacked and spread out against the arena fence, however, Applejack could finally see the arsenal she’d had stored in her barn, and it made her wonder if perhaps the REF didn’t possess some of the same physics-defying power that let Pinkie Pie pull guitars and crowbars out of her mane. The scope of the arsenal had caused her to cast more than one suspicious glance at Song. Ah know she said she and Argent sent this along ‘just in case,’ but this is a heck of a lot o’ weapons for ‘just in case.’ Heaving a mental sigh, she adjusted her hat. Oh well. No point worryin’ about it now, ’specially since it looks like they were right.

The farm mare, her brother, and her friends sat facing the armory, with Jacques standing just to her left and the soldier ponies, sans Fritters, sitting by the weapons. Fritters, for his part, stood between the weapons and the civilians, pacing back and forth. Like a stage performer preparing for a soliloquy, his steps had the affected quality of repeated practice and considered showponyship. His face held such exaggerated severity that Applejack found it almost laughable.

And yet, his eyes are deadly serious, she realized. But… wait… why is he pretendin’ to be serious if’n he really is?

Before she could wonder at Fritters’ line of thinking, the stallion began his soliloquy. “Behind me,” he barked, gesturing with his spear, “is a cross-section of weapons crafted, bought, or ‘alternatively procured’ by the REF from all corners of the world and over a score-and-a-half distinct martial disciplines. You will each have the opportunity to select weaponry which will suit your own strengths and weaknesses, a selection process which I and my fellows will aid you in. First, however, you will meet the first and most hallowed of all weapons.”

“Here we go,” muttered Marble Slab, rolling his eyes.

Roundly ignoring him, Fritters held aloft his spear. “This, dear fillies and gentlecolt, is the Spear. Mother of Service Weapons, Bane of Duel-Wielding Edgelords, and Thwarter of the Rule of Cool. The First Lady of Fury. She is honest in her lethality, generous in her reach, kind to massed formations of friendlies, and loyal to those who master her arts; she never fails to bring me laughter when she bests the ornate blades of those foolish enough to challenge her, and her capacity for being a superior weapon in virtually any situation is nothing short of magical. She is, in truth, the Weapon of Harmony, the lost Seventh Element, the Alicorn Princess of Flank-Kicking.”

Applejack was so distracted by his display that she almost didn’t hear Song remark to Marble, “That last bit was new.” Marble nodded approvingly.

“This weapon,” continued Fritters, “Has been the mainstay battle weapon of virtually every professional army in the world since primitive ponies first discovered that pokey sticks make the bad things go away. It has maintained that title for the very simple reason that it works. Its flaws are few and its strengths are legion. Better still, one need not be a natural athlete or a highly trained professional to wield it effectively. A pony with a basic understanding of its utilities may hold his or her own against a far more skilled opponent armed with an inferior weapon.”

He swept the point of the spear in an arc, taking in all six trainees. “Each of you will choose a weapon today. Some of you may choose more than one. Whatever you choose, however, I will be instructing you in the Way of the Spear so that, should darkness fall upon you and the only light be the desperate hope thrust into your hooves by a long and sharpened pole, you will be able stand fast in the knowledge that you hold the greatest weapon ever crafted by sapient beings.” With that, he shouldered his beloved weapon. “Any questions?”

“Yeah,” snarked Rainbow Dash, “how long did it take you to come up with that speech?”

“Oh, that was nothing,” laughed Marble. “Fritters, why don’t you tell ’em what you said to me that night in Tailbruk?” All composure seemed to drain from Fritters and he glanced at Applejack, fear in his eyes. “You know,” continued Marble blithely, “that bit about what spears and pretty mares have in common.”

Applejack raised one eyebrow. Oh?

Fritters took on a ghostly pallor. “Hahaha!” he laughed nervously. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about Marble, and that we should drop it immediately and move on with the lesson.”

Marble grinned impishly. “But why, Frit? I mean, sure, you were a little tipsy when you said it, but it wasn’t crass or anything. Just quirky. I’m certain these fine ladies—”

“Celestia help me, half-pint, I will spoil the ending of the next Sherclop Hooves book if you don’t shut up!”

The pegasus clamped his jaw shut. “Cheater,” he grumbled, dropping the subject. Applejack wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

“Now, hold on a moment, darling,” said Rarity, a kittenish gleam in her eyes as she addressed the Konik. “If you are truly intent to teach us in the ‘Way of the Spear,’ as you put it, should you not tell us your, ahem, analogy? In the interest of clarity and martial understanding, of course.”

“Yeah,” agreed Rainbow, her voice playful. “What’d ya say?”

Oh, girls, don’t push the poor stallion! protested one voice in her head.

Yeah, Fritters, what’d ya say? demanded the other.

“Look,” said the stallion placatingly, “it really wasn’t that funny. Just a stupid analogy I made after underestimating the potency of the local brew. You really aren’t missing anything.”

“Then it won’t be any trouble to tell us, darling.”

The Konik looked beseechingly at Friar Jacques, but found no help there, as the man’s grin betrayed no sympathy. "You might as well tell them, Fritters,” he advised. “Whatever they’re imagining is probably far worse than what you actually said.”

Fritters cast his gaze heavenward and muttered, “Pomóż mi! What I said at the time was… oh Source help me… what I said was ‘I like my spears like I like my mares – strong, rugged, and sharper than me.”

A brief silence followed his statement, which was broken by Friar Jacques when the big man threw back his head and roared with laughter. Pinkie and Rainbow soon joined him, and even Twilight and Fluttershy tittered guiltily into their hooves. Rarity, looking much amused, made a remark Applejack couldn’t quite make out. The farmer, for her part, simply watched Fritters, who seemed to want to die of shame. She felt sorry for him yet, at the same time, she found a certain heat rising to her cheeks as it occurred to her that she just so happened to be a strong, rugged mare. Sure, she didn’t consider herself the sharpest pony around (she was friends with Twilight after all), but she was smart, with plenty of down-home wisdom, which seemed to be what Fritters liked anyway and woah there, cowgirl, where is this comin’ from?

“Okay, great!” said Fritters hurriedly, rapping one hoof against the weapon rack to get their attention. “You’ve had a laugh at my expense, nopony was offended, and we can move on now, yes?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” interjected Morning Song, her voice demure. “I think you should tell them the rest of what you said that night about mares and polearms.”

“There’s more?” laughed Rainbow. “Sheesh, Fritters, what is it with you and comparing mares to deadly weaponry?” Marble made to speak, then thought better of it.

Fritters’ shoulders slumped and his ears fell flat. “Proszę nie, boss,” he muttered to his superior.

“Don’t be so glum, Fritters,” Song teased. “It was really rather sweet.”

“What’d he say?” came the question. It took Applejack a moment of Fritters looking at her in horror to realize that she’d been the one to ask it. Oh, horseapples.

Fritters swallowed and closed his eyes, steeling himself to speak. “What I said next,” he said slowly, his voice quiet, “is that a polearm is like a mare of simple natural beauty wearing too much makeup – a bunch of extra stuff that does nothing but cover the beauty beneath.”

A chorus of aw’s greeted his statement, while Applejack found herself reflecting that she seldom bothered with makeup at all, and that when she did it was usually a modest amount intended to ‘accentuate the positive’ as her Aunt Orange always put it and sweet Celestia why am Ah even thinkin’ about this right now?!

Rarity smacked her lips thoughtfully. “My oh my, Fritters,” she said coyly, “it would seem that your tastes are rather…” she glanced meaningfully at Applejack and winked, “earthy.”

At that moment, Applejack felt redder than Big MacIntosh.

Friar Jacques glanced in her direction and a somewhat contrite expression crossed his features. In moderate tone he ventured, “As amusing as this has all been, what say we resume the lesson, eh?”

“Yes, let’s!” exclaimed Applejack.

And Fritters.

Simultaneously.

They stared at each other for a painfully awkward heartbeat before retreating beneath the respective brims of hat and helm.

Jacques did feel somewhat guilty about how out-of-hand things had gotten with the conversation. He’d meant what he said to Fritters that it was better to speak up and avoid speculation, but he hadn’t anticipated just how embarrassed the soldier would be. Nor had he expected Applejack to turn beet red and cow beneath her cap. A lapse in judgment on my part, he acknowledged. Though, I must admit, I do hope this will prompt them to spend a little more time considering matters of the heart. They are a fine young pair.

Still, it would be wrong to push too hard, and, in any case, they had work to do. Ably aided by Marble and Song, he steered the group’s attention back to the task at hand.

Once Fritters regained his composure, he did an excellent job guiding the students through the various weapons and armors, with their multifarious pros and cons. Then came the process of actually choosing arms and armor.

Rainbow Dash had the easiest time of it for the simple reason that it was unnecessary. She already had her Air Corps-issue rig: wing- and hoof-blades, light mixed plates on her barrel and hooves, and what resembled a German sallet helm modified to have goggles and muzzle-shield instead of a standard visor. The fiery mare spent most of her time impatiently waiting for the others to be done. Likewise, Applejack was already equipped, though, at Fritters’ suggestion, she wisely added a short dagger to her kit.

Big MacIntosh was the first of the new blood to fully outfit himself. The REF ponies, shockingly, found multiple sets of armor that fit the massive draft pony. In the end, he settled on a full suit of plate armor with an armet helm. In all, it looked much closer to the armor of a knight than the more Romanesque style favored by the Solar and Lunar Guards. Like Applejack, he took a dagger, though his mainstay weapon proved to be a massive halberd. He chose the weapon because it “felt like a pitchfork.”

Twilight, ever pragmatic, elected to take a spear as her primary weapon, though she supplemented it with an arming sword and a dagger, all of which she had some limited proficiency in thanks to her brother. Her armor plates were not as extensive or as thick as Big MacIntosh’s, but they still covered most of her frame, and her crested burgonet, though visorless, protected her head and neck well.

Pinkie Pie… Jacques took his eyes off of Pinkie Pie for a few seconds, and when he turned back he saw her perched on a fencepost wearing a brigandine and a kilt, her face painted like a Celtic warrior and a double-hooved sword held aloft, saying something in a Scottish accent to the effect of “They shall take our lands, but they shall not take our cupcakes!” This prompted a lecture from Twilight on historical accuracy, which prompted Rainbow Dash to put in her two bits based on some action novel she’d read, and the situation deteriorated rapidly from there. Jacques elected to leave the matter to the ponies, thinking them best equipped to handle the pink madmare. The last he saw, Pinkie was holding what Fluttershy meekly informed him was a ‘katana’ and saying something to an increasingly exasperated Fritters about gathering seven samurai to defend Ponyville.

Rarity, not surprisingly, took a considerable amount of time selecting her armor, largely because nothing appeased her sense of aesthetics. Marble, ever patient, repeatedly pointed out that armor was one of those areas in life where function mattered infinitely more than form. He eventually won her over, leading her to select a light coat of plates and a plumed open-faced sallet helm, but the mare was far from happy about it. Diplomatically, Morning Song suggested colored surcoats and accents to beautify the armor. This led to Rarity asking Spike to “be a dear and fetch some fabric for me,” to which the smitten dragon readily agreed.

That lad’s infatuation will need addressing sooner rather than later, mused Jacques.

For weapons, the fashionista opted for a short recurve bow, explaining that the precision of archery appealed to her. For a sidearm she chose a shortsword. This expanded to include a bandolier of knives when Morning Song and Fritters impressed into her the versatility of her telekinesis and its utility when combined with a dozen or so compact blades.

Fluttershy had the greatest difficulty choosing a weapon. Morning Song managed to coax the timid pegasus into donning a brigandine and a morion helm, but no further. The pegasus obediently considered each weapon placed in front of her, then shuddered at the thought of using it on a living creature.

Jacques’ heart bled for her, but he knew it would be misplaced compassion to not teach her self-defense. Ultimately, inspiration came in the form of a story that flitted through his mind – a legend Andrew had once told him about an English Crusader-turned-outlaw freedom fighter named Robin of Locksley. The famous ‘Robin Hood,’ though chiefly known for his skill with a bow, had also been known for his mastery of the sword… and the quarterstaff.

The blunt shaft of wood, about the length of a polearm, looked like little more than a walking stick. In the right hands (or hooves), however, it became a dangerous weapon, readily adapted to attack or defense.

Fluttershy, though not wild about picking up any weapon, had been amenable to using something that didn’t involve shoving a flattened piece of metal into another creature’s flesh. Perhaps inspired by Rarity’s decision to take a ranged weapon, she also collected a sling and stones.

And, with her outfitted, that only leaves—

“I think I’ll take an axe!” exclaimed Pinkie, till wearing the brigandine but now with a sloped kettle helm in lieu of warpaint. She hefted a large battleaxe in one hoof and a rounded metal shield in the other. “Or maybe I’ll take a few axes! After all, mares love axes!”

Fritters facehooved. “Pinkie, that ad’s talking about a stallion’s cologne.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s mares who love axes.”

Jacques shook his head. I’m still not entirely convinced that mare isn’t simply a trickster in mare’s skin, whatever Twilight and the others insist.

“Hey, do you think I could put an axehead on the end of a katana?”

They can tell me the truth and admit she’s a trickster. I’ve adjusted to this world. I can handle it.

Rarity trotted up next to him and chuckled. “I must say, I’m terrified to spar with that mare,” she observed honestly. “Pinkie has a tendency to quite literally pull things out of her mane when she has a mind to, and I get the impression that even if I disarmed her she’d produce a mace and chain from the ether.”

As though to prove that point, Pinkie set the end of the axe beneath her helmet, where it could not conceivably fit, and proceeded to push it into her mane and out of sight. Lapsing into French, Jacques observed, “”

“” concurred Rarity. The fashionista turned her attention to her armor and adjusted the straps with an irritated tug of magic. “Oh, I do hope Spike returns with those fabrics soon. This plain steel is just begging for the right accent.” Jacques smiled at the irrepressible mare. “Though I suppose it is my own fault he is delayed,” continued Rarity, “as I asked him to stop by the hospital first.”

Jacques’ face fell. “You did?”

“Why of course, darling. To collect the Lunar Guards, Medevac, and Red—” the mare’s face turned to a knowing smirk. “Ah. You are worried about suffering Nurse Redheart’s wrath, aren’t you?”

The friar sighed. “I don’t want to cause that poor mare grief, but I fear that she will react to the news of my midnight escapades… poorly.”

Rarity chortled. “Well, with all these weapons, we can probably buy you enough time to clear the fence and make a break for the orchards, perhaps to lose her in the trees.”

He snorted. “I am not a callow youth caught stealing strawberries from the priest’s garden to go leaping over hill and dale like a frightened deer. After facing a house-sized timber wolf, I do not believe a single mare can make me run for the hills, however irate she might be.”

“FRIAR JAAACQUES!!!”

Jacques’ blood ran cold as the fearsome roar shook the very air around him. Apples fell from their trees and the ground seemed to rumble with the deafening power of wrath.

Slowly, as though sudden motion would unleash the furies upon him, Jacques turned his head to the direction from which the earth-shattering bellow had come.

There, in the distance, standing silhouetted upon a hill on the meandering path to the Acres, was the Mare. Her white coat was lit with a dreadful light, and her ordinarily pink mane blazed with fiery intensity. Though the Mare was at the edge of his vision, he could see her snarling features and gleaming eyes as though she was right on top of him.

In the gleaming eyes of the Mare, he saw the combined righteous fury of every mother, every grandmother, every elder sister, and every religious sister in history who had ever looked upon the conduct of their wards and found them wanting.

In the gleaming eyes of the Mare, he saw the faces of millions upon millions of maternal figures uttering those dreaded words, “I’m disappointed in you.”

The Mare raised a hoof like a Roman Imperator ordering decimation, pointed to him across the distance, and, with death-knell voice, thundered, “YOU!!!”

“Wow,” observed Rarity mildly as the group watched Nurse Redheart pursue Friar Jacques over hill and dale. “Rather impressive that he leapt the chicken coop in a single bound.”

“Eeyup,” agreed Big Mac.

“You think he’ll escape?” asked Spike.

“FRIAR JACQUES, YOU GET BACK HERE AND FACE THE MUSIC!” bellowed Redheart.

“Eenope.”

Vox Mannorum Training Hall, Canterlot Industrial District

Sandstone narrowly avoided a jab from his opponent’s practice spear. He attempted to jab back at his enemy, but found his attack blocked with ease. Before he could reposition for to press the attack, his opponent reclaimed the initiative and forced him back. Only a lucky deflection saved him from losing another match.

“Loosen up your hoofwork,” ordered Cloak from the sidelines. “Your movements are still choppy.”

The hard-pressed Sandstone couldn’t spare him so much as a nod, but he did his best to follow Cloak’s instructions. Almost immediately, he saw improvement. He wasn’t winning by any stretch, but he wasn’t on the verge of losing anymore either.

“Better,” commended Cloak.

Sandstone smiled. It wasn’t the first time Cloak had told him to loosen up, but Sandstone had a hard time not tensing up when he sparred. Still, he was improving.

“Stop flinching from your enemy’s spear. If you’re afraid, use that. Let the adrenalin push you past your limits.”

Cloak and Dagger had been drilling the Vox hard the last few days, but they’d made a special note of helping bring Sandstone, Sea Breeze, and the other weaker fighters up to snuff. For all their showponyship, the brothers were superb fighters and patient teachers.

“Keep your speed up. Remember, the spear is a momentum weapon.”

Cloak in particular had helped Sandstone overcome his jitters and get into the flow of combat. Odd though he was, the black-robed, cadaverous pony seemed to have taken a personal interest in the Vox becoming the best fighters they could be.

“Don’t rely on brute force you don’t have. Redirect his strikes and counterattack off the deflection.”

Sandstone took the advice just in time. His opponent overextended on a strike, and as Sandstone turned the point aside with his own weapon, he saw his opening. Pushing forward, he clipped his enemy’s leg with his spear. The other pony yelped and backed up too rapidly, tangling himself in his own hooves. A savage joy lit Sandstone’s heart as he reared back and prepared to deliver the winning blow—

—only to see the frightened eyes of a helpless and bloodied guard staring back at him under the light of a blood red moon.

The image lasted a fraction of a second before releasing Sandstone back to reality, but in that moment he hesitated.

It was a moment too long. The other pony recovered and knocked Sandstone over, jabbing him in the ribs with a ‘killing blow.’ Sandstone sighed and slumped. He’d lost again.

Cloak let out a slow breath through clenched teeth, then ambled over. “Take five, Cobbler,” he said to the other pony. “I need a moment with Sandstone.”

With a respectful nod, Cobbler trotted off. Cloak stood over Sandstone, his face inscrutable. Sandstone sat up and waited, trying to avoid the hooded pony’s piercing gaze.

“You wanna tell me what the buck happened there?” asked Cloak, his voice deceptively quiet.

Sandstone scraped at the ground with one hoof. “I lost?”

“Horse hockey,” retorted Cloak flatly, the expletive ringing in Sandstone’s ears despite the subdued tone. “You had Cobbler dead to rights, but you hesitated. Why?”

The young Vox bit his lip. “I just…” he glanced around to make sure nopony else was in earshot, then muttered, “Look, I believe in the Revolution, okay? The Diarchists and their stooges have been keeping the common pony down for centuries, and the Founder always said it might come to this. If Brother Thornberry says violence is the only way to set things right, well, I believe him. Just…” He forced himself to meet the other pony’s gaze, “I don’t wanna kill anypony.”

Cloak said nothing, but for just an instant something cold and hard flashed in his eyes. Sandstone flinched.

Then the hooded pony sighed and sat down across from him, his features betraying a hint of sympathy. “Look, kid, I’m gonna level with you. The first one is the hard. Mine certainly was.” Sandstone’s eyebrows went up at that. Though he and the other Vox had always speculated that Cloak and Dagger had spilled blood in their day, this was the first explicit confirmation he’d heard of it. “But,” continued Cloak, his tone hardening, “you can’t let that stop you. If you really want to overthrow the tyranny of the Diarchy, you have to be hard. You have to be strong. You have to put aside your innocence and do what needs to be done for the good of Equestria.”

Sandstone looked away. “I know that, but… I don’t know if I have it in me.”

The other stallion clicked his tongue. “Kid, look at me.” Sandstone obeyed. Cloak fixed him with an accusing gaze. “Do you love Sea Breeze?”

“Of course,” replied Sandstone, slightly offended at the implication that he might not.

“Then imagine this,” ordered Cloak, his gaze sharpening. “Imagine Sea Breeze lying in the street, her flesh torn open by blades, her throat spilling out blood, her eyes locked on her killers, begging for a mercy that won’t come.”

Sandstone recoiled. “Why the buck would I imagine that?!”

“Because that’s exactly what will happen if you aren’t strong enough to kill,” declared Cloak coldly. “That’s the price of survival. If you love her, you’ll have to buck up and pay it.”

“But—”

Cloak swept to his hooves with inequine speed and loomed over Sandstone, his eyes hidden beneath the darkness of his hood. He leaned close, whispering Sandstone’s ear, “Picture that scene, Sandstone. The blood. The death. Everything you love being stripped away from you by your enemy.” Sandstone trembled and a heat rose in his chest. “What do you feel when you think of her killers, the Imperialist dogs, smiling cruelly down at your murdered beloved?” demanded Cloak. “What fire wakes in you when you think of that?”

The young Vox shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. He wanted to jerk his head away from the poisonous words, to flee from the dark predictions of his teacher, but he could not. He could not fight the brutal images that captivated his thoughts. Nor could he escape the hateful flames which erupted in his heart.

“Rage,” he gritted.

Even without seeing it, he knew the hooded pony was baring his teeth. “Good,” hissed Cloak, his voice bitter and proud. “That, my little pony, is the power to survive. Hold onto that rage. That hate. Nurture that fire within you. Tend it well. Feed it with every scrap of anger you can conjure up, and you will find the strength to protect the ones you love.”

For a moment, Sandstone fancied he tasted a hint of the bloody-minded ruthlessness that drove his teacher on; it was as attractive as it was frightening.

Then the moment passed. Cloak pulled back, his face returning to its earlier stoicism and his gaze turning neutral. “Have you got that?” he asked, as though he’d been instructing Sandstone on his hoofwork.

The awful flames that had burned in Sandstone’s chest retreated, becoming a tiny blaze that smoldered in his heart, waiting to be called upon. Somewhat breathless, Sandstone replied, “Y-yes.”

Cloak regarded him with an unreadable expression, then nodded. “Good,” he said shortly. Turning away, he began walking to the stairs. “I’m stepping out for a bit. Carry on with your sparring and remember…” he paused and half turned, his eyes gleaming beneath his cowl, “it’s not about politics – it’s about survival. Hers. Do whatever it takes.”

Sandstone swallowed hard and nodded. Satisfied, Cloak made his way to the exit, whistling for Cobbler to rejoin Sandstone.

Forcing himself to stop shaking, Sandstone resumed sparring. Every time he felt himself falter or fumble, he drove his hesitation away with the thought of what he would do to keep Sea Breeze safe. What lines he would cross. The hot embers of rage drove him on, and he pushed Cobbler back, disarming the other Vox and beating him soundly.

Sandstone smiled grimly down at the defeated pony, pride swelling in his chest. Then, as he stood over the beaten Cobbler, he became aware of another pony staring at him. Casting his gaze around the room, he caught sight of Cloak, lingering by the base of the steps. Sandstone beamed at his teacher, expecting an approving nod or maybe applause.

Instead, Cloak’s features were somber, and in his eyes he saw—

Another pony moved between Sandstone and Cloak. When the pony moved again, Cloak was gone. Sandstone blinked in confusion. I did what he told me to, he thought. Why would he look so…

“Sandstone?” called Cobbler. “We going again?”

“Um, yeah,” replied Sandstone, taking a battle stance. “Ready when you are.”

As they sparred, Sandstone tried his best to put Cloak out of his head. I was just imagining things, he told himself. He’s a hard pony to read. The shadow of his cowl must have distorted the look on his face Sure, he didn’t smile, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t pleased with me. A trick of the light. That’s all that was.

After all, why would Cloak look sad?

Author's Note

Aura finished the manuscript and passed it back to Antiquarian. “Well?” asked the stallion.

“Flows well enough,” she replied, “but I didn’t get why the bit about mares loving axes was a joke.”

Antiquarian chuckled. “Well, you see there are these ads—”

“I mean, everypony knowsmares love axes.”

Antiquarian paused. “… what?”

Aura held up an axe. “I have sixteen. Professor Petunia has twenty-seven. Mares love axes.”

“… what?”

***

To be clear, I am not hating on women wearing a lot of makeup. Applejack just strikes me as the sort of person who would be most complemented by a minimalist approach, and that happens to line up with what Fritters finds attractive. No deeper implied commentary exists.

***

In case it wasn’t clear from the chapter (and let me know if it wasn’t so I can fix it), my belief is that neither Twilight nor Celestia ever used dark magic in the show. Rather, I have always interpreted it that they both used the morally neutral manipulation of shadows and illusions. In season 3, when since Sombra was using dark magic (and his dark magic involved a lot of twisting shadow magic to evil purposes), the inexperienced Twilight brushed up against something she was not spiritually prepared to handle. This fits better with Twilight’s long-standing zero tolerance policy against dark magic and Celestia’s centuries of opposition to evil than the idea that either of them would condone practicing the Dark Arts for ANY REASON. Both of them are smart and experienced enough not to make that sort of bargain.

As Friar Jacques has pointed out many times, the frustrating part for him (and, consequently, for his writer) is that there isn’t the equivalent to the morally neutral magic of MLP in the real world. Imagine how hard it must be for him when every time someone says ‘magic’ he instinctively (and quite reasonably) thinks ‘oh, crap, demons!’ I suppose he’d face similar challenges in LOTR, as I mentioned when I first addressed the theological complexity behind this, because the same words mean different things. It wouldn’t be such a big deal if it were something like ‘chips,’ which means two different foods in the US and UK. Instead, he has to put up with a word meaning ‘natural’ in one context and ‘hellfire and damnation’ in another. Instead of side orders, he deals with souls. Fun times.

***

On the note of learning to fight, try the hilarious Martial Bliss by Skywriter. For something more somber, I recommend The Weakby Wisdom Thumbs.

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Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Canterlot Castle

To passersby it appeared that Luna veritably glided down the long corridors, her hoofsteps seeming a mere courtesy to gravity rather than a necessity.

Luna was quite conscious of her elfin stride. Her conversation with the good friar had done more than lift her spirits. It had lifted a palpable weight from her withers.

Still, precious few are the wounds that heal in an instant, and Luna had yet more steps to take. Her lightness was not for any lack of significance to her journey, but for the knowledge that she had reason for hope once more. Hope which would be further inflamed by speaking with the pony who had never given up on her.

The lunar princess’s strides took her to the Rosewood Room, an opulent if small meeting chamber favored for private meetings amongst the Royals, cabinet members, and other notables. According her schedule, Celestia should be there by now.

Acknowledging the salutes of the guards with a grave nod, she entered the room, causing the occupants to look up in surprise at her abrupt arrival.

Some concealed their shock better than others. Celestia appeared so calm that, if Luna hadn’t known better, she would have sworn her sister to be utterly nonplussed.

Aquiline-featured Minister of Trade Edmare Burke blinked in shock at the sudden entrance, but otherwise displayed no reaction. The fiery-maned, cream-coated unicorn was a savvy statespony, despite her youth, and acted with the aplomb expected of a seasoned Tory.

The grizzled old Minister of Commerce Gerhardt Griff, late of the Griffish Patriotic Movement and more recently a leading member of the Centrist Party, openly gaped, making no effort whatsoever to conceal it.

Chancellor Exchequer Plum Pit had been in the middle of sipping his tea when Luna swept in, and appeared to have bitten his tongue in surprise, though the venerable earth pony was doing an admirable job of hiding his pain. Luna mused that his self-control probably had a great deal to do with Whig pride, as the green eyes of the nearby Tory would bear witness to any impropriety in his reaction.

Senior Members of Parliament from the Crown Loyalist, Centrist, and Labour Parties – the three groups that made up the unconventional Tri-Party Government that had taken power two elections ago. They represented a compromise struck between former rivals in response to the growing power of the Primarchists, the Equestria First Party, and, of greatest clout, the Populists. Between them, the three MPs, and the coalition Government they represented, wielded considerable power. But they were not the only ponies attending to Celestia at that moment.

Mason Grey sat at the small round table across from Celestia. Though neither an MP nor a lord, the vast reach of his business empire and the deep roots of his personal connections made him a wealth of information, including information that Their Majesty’s Most Loyal Opposition might not want the sitting Government to be aware of. As such, he was sometimes invited to Cabinet meetings.

Though his presence was not unusual, however, Luna had not expected to see her friend here, and found herself mirroring her sister in hiding her surprise.

Mason, for his part, reacted with a bluntness that put even Gerhardt’s open gawping to shame. “Alright, who put Princess Through the Mirror Darkly on the agenda and forgot to mention it?”

It took a great deal of effort for Luna not to burst out laughing at the scandalized horror displayed by the three MPs. Before Pit could have an aneurism or Burke order the businesspony shot, however, the younger princess replied coolly, “The same pony who failed to mention to me that we were inviting a disreputable peon such as yourself. How are you, Mason?”

“Oh, well enough, Luna,” he answered casually. “Pretty peeved that some strike-happy unionists have shut down half the shipping on the east coast and brought the economy to a halt and a good chunk of my empire along with it, but well enough aside from that.” Still ignoring the outrage from the MPs, he waved her over to the table. “Pull up a chair; we’ll fill you in.”

Luna raised an eyebrow. “I believe you are in my customary chair, Mason, being that it is across from my sister.”

Mason bounced experimentally in his seat. “Are you sure? Because this chair really feels like it’s perfectly conformed to my r—”

“Get out of my seat, Mason.”

He smirked. “Only for you, Princess.” Shifting to the next chair over, he gave her a searching look while she sat. “Say, you look like you’ve got something weighty on your mind. Do we need to postpone? Maybe go get a manicure and talk about our feelings?”

Luna glanced over at the grey stallion, taking in his quizzical features. I can’t tell how much of that was a genuine offer and how much was his typical irreverence. Still, he is an insightful pony, isn’t he. She turned her eyes forward, meeting Celestia’s intent gaze. And he is not the only one. “It’s nothing that won’t keep until after the meeting. Please, bring me up to speed.”

As it happened, the meeting had not been in session for long when she arrived and, beyond the specific details of which docks, which unions, and which ponies were in play, the actual briefing was fairly simple: labor unions all along the east coast, as well as non-union workers from a number of businesses, had shut down a full third of the harbors. Some of the workers’ grievances were admittedly valid, but the use of strikes, much less strikes on this scale, was entirely disproportionate to the grievances.

Luna frowned. If the reports are to believed, many of the union leaders opposed these strikes quite vehemently. In fact, with their connections to the Labour Party and the openness of the sitting Government and local businesses to talking terms, they’d been making significant progress getting some concessions before this started.

Interference from the main Opposition parties further complicated matters. Primarchist MPs had, to the disgust of all, thrown their weight in behind the most openly corrupt of the business owners – the ones whom everypony else, including fellow business owners, roundly condemned. The Equestria First Party was supportive of the closing of the docks, nominally out of concern for the workers, but realistically because it advanced their nativist agenda by curtailing foreign trade. And, most significant of all, the Populists doing everything short of openly endorsing the strikes lent legitimacy to the protests.

Unfortunately, taking direct action was a dicey business. The legitimate grievances of some of the dock workers made it easy to paint the entire affair as being a point of Populist moral high ground, and EFP support brought many supporters to bear who might have otherwise remained ambivalent. As for the Primarchists, their absurd posturing only served to make everypony angrier.

And in the streets the Vox Mannorum, that gathering of passion and youthful potency that served the Populists as agitators, kept the train of outrage moving steadily along the tracks, silencing all attempts by moderate union bosses, workers, business owners, and Government officials to seek compromise.

These strikes are just impeding the negotiations and making ponies angrier, mused Luna. In fact, the conduct of the Opposition MPs and their lackeys seems entirely geared towards inflaming the situation as though somepony wants an outraged mob. She ruffled her wings. If that’s true, then the timing is rather… ominous.

Glancing at Celestia, it was plain that both sisters were of one mind.

Less obvious was the appropriate response. Burke and Gerhardt both wanted to crack down hard on the illegal strikes, and to resist the legal strikes with a firm halt to negotiations until the ports were reopened. Plum Pit, though plainly unhappy, pointed out that the moderate union bosses who opposed the strikes would likely be forced to back the strikes if the Government played hardball, or else be ousted in favor of more ruthless bosses. Mason Grey suggested blackmail, though he made it clear he’d been joking when the others censured him.

Luna largely restrained herself from suggestions. Though she was certainly capable of political maneuvering, the finer nuances of such things were more Celestia’s forte than hers. One thousand years in absentia for the lunar diarch had only made her sister’s deft mastery of statecraft grow, while Luna was still learning the unspoken ins and outs of modern Parliamentary decorum.

Instead, she focused on pondering the possible involvement of the Shades. The timing seemed just too great a coincidence to be accidental. But to what end? Political agitation was not the way of the old Shades. They were open practitioners of dark magic, not crafty political schemers. Then again, this new breed may be cut from a different cloth. Perhaps this is a recruitment tool for them – dissatisfaction with those in power and a desire to wield that power oneself are powerful incentives for crossing otherwise unthinkable lines, as I well know. Or mayhap the unrest is simply a distraction to keep us off balance while they concentrate on their true objective. But are they pulling the strings, or merely playing them to their advantage? And what of the various Opposition MPs? The Vox? How do they fit into the board? Are they pawns, kings, or a mix of both?

To her displeasure, she was unable to parse out their strategy without knowing more. Still, it might be worth our while to take a closer look at the major players in this exchange of fury, in case any of them are more than what they seem.

Eventually the meeting wound down, with Pit assigned to work his contacts in the unions, Gerhardt preparing to make overtures to the moderate bosses through intermediaries in the Griffish Isle unions, and Burke promising to wrangle the conservative MPs, both Crown Loyalist and otherwise, to push back against the Primarchists while still opposing the strikes. Grey, meanwhile, would see what he could dig up on the various faction leaders in the hopes of exposing the plans underpinning the entire affair. Celestia and Luna would keep the Crown at a distance for now, urging compromise and moderating meetings between the factions, ready to take more direct action if needed.

They dissembled not long after, with the MPs bidding formal farewell to the princesses and Grey casually saying, “Say, Luna, you’ll be sure to let me in on your deep introspection over a bottle of ’73, right?”

Luna couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll consider it.”

Once they were alone, the two sisters faced each other somberly. Luna felt a lump rise in her throat, and her ill ease began to trickle back in. Fortunately, Celestia sensed her mood and suggested that they retire to Luna’s private quarters, where she might relax. A quick teleport later, the two were seated on plush divans, their royal accoutrements cast aside.

Luna mutely opened and closed her mouth several times before the words finally came to her. “I spoke with Friar Jacques today, as you know,” she said. “He is quite an… insightful man. He helped me to realize something that I should have realized a long time ago.”

Celestia waited in silence, but her curiosity was palpable.

“I realized that I have long confused my experiences for my identity. I have looked upon my past sins and thought that those sins are who I am.” Tears welled in her eyes. “But they aren’t. They are my sins, yes, but they are not me. I…” she swallowed and looked up at her sister, who likewise had tears in her eyes, “I am Luna, not Luna’s sins, and I- I know you forgave me, but—” her voice became taut, “—but now I am finally ready for you to forgive me!”

In an instant, Celestia crossed the room and wrapped Luna in the warmth of her embrace, her tears staining her sister’s mane as she stroked her back and soothed her with words of love. There would be more tears on both their parts as Luna opened up, telling her the truth of the wounds she carried, the self-hate, even the Tantabus. And, sobbing, Celestia apologized over and over again for failing to see, while Luna repeated again and again that it wasn’t her fault – that she’d hidden the scars from everyone, even herself.

And they talked. Talked as sisters should. Talked about all the things they kept bottled up inside, out of the light of the other. Talked so long they had to tell Kibitz to clear their morning schedules. Their speech did not by itself erase the heartache, but it was a step along that path, a much-needed milestone on the journey of life. There would be more steps, more hardships, more milestones ahead. But, now that forgiveness had opened the floodgates of grace, the journey could be braved with hearts made strong by the reconciliatory power of love.

Both mares would be forever grateful to the noble friar who had given them such a gift.

Sweet Apple Acres, Ponyville

Training at the Acreage was indefinitely delayed while the assembled worthies observed the flight of Friar Jacques. Even with a head start, it was plain that the biped’s attempt to escape the dread wrath of the earth pony would be futile, but the audience noted with approval his skill at using the terrain to his advantage in thwarting the enraged Redheart.

“Ducking into the orchard and using both tree and undergrowth to slow her pace and force more turns,” noted Marble. “Not a bad maneuver.”

“Yeah,” agreed Applejack, “but Redheart’s weavin’ around ’em pretty well. Woulda made a good rodeo pony.”

“THERE IS NO ESCAPE FOR YOU FRIAR!” roared the pony in question.

“Still, I’m surprised how long he’s lasted,” said Twilight. “By my initial calculations, he should have been caught approximately one point three minutes ago. When Spike gets back, I’ll have to have him update my notes on human speed and endurance.”

“Your wish is my command, milady,” quipped Spike, who picked that moment to amble up with Medevac, the Lunar Guards, and a small cart of fabrics for Rarity in tow. That Jacques had lasted long enough for these stragglers to arrive was, the herd agreed, and impressive feat.

While Twilight dictated to her Number One Assistant and Rarity set about matching color to armor, Ironhide, who had been pushing Oaken’s wheelchair, set the parking brake and helped the injured stallion out so he could work on his exercises. “I’ll be honest with you all,” observed Ironhide, “after today, I think I’ll forever be more compliant with a nurse’s instructions.”

“Any nurse, or just Redheart?” asked Rainbow.

“RUNNING WILL ONLY MAKE THIS WORSE!”

Ironside swallowed. “Any of ’em, just to be safe.”

Oaken chuckled as he began stretching under the watchful eye of Medevac. “The real irony, of course, is that she’s angry at him for overexerting himself… and she’s chasing him across the country.”

“Maybe somepony should point that out,” suggested Spike.

An enraged and incomprehensible shriek ripped through the air, striking fear into the hearts of all present.

“Be my guest,” offered Medevac shakily.

It was then that the friar’s luck finally ran out. Redheart managed to flush him out the far end of the tree cover he’d been using, and in the open ground he had no chance of outpacing her. He attempted to slide down a hill to gain momentum, but only succeeded in giving Redheart the high ground.

“It’s over,” declared Fritters.

Redheart pounced like a panther, bringing him to the ground and pinning him to the dirt. Helpless beneath her hooves, he had no defense against her ire. The exact details of what Redheart exclaimed to him were too rapid and distant to make out distinctly, but Twilight still instinctively covered Spike’s ears. Fluttershy, who had the sharpest hearing of them all, flushed a deep red and mumbled “Oh dear.”

Fritters, like a policepony keeping a crowd back from a crime scene, started ushering them away from the impromptu viewing party and into the training arena. In a horrific Trottish accent, he called out, “Move along, folks, step lively now, nothing to see, nothing to see. Pay no attention to the massacre behind the curtain. Step lively now.”

“Aw,” whined Pinkie, shoving her box of popcorn back into her mane. “Spoilsport.”

“Yes, yes, the Sarge is evil for making us get back to work. Now marsz!”

Redheart’s pace was clipped as she and Jacques made their way back to the group. She kept her eyes fixed forward, refusing to look directly at the friar. Even so, she could see his contrite expression on her peripheral, and it took an increasingly active effort to maintain her anger.

“Je suis désolé, bonne sœur,” he said for the umpteenth time.

She grimaced. Especially when he keeps apologizing so genuinely.

“You are sorry,” she snapped. “You’re not a young man, Friar, whatever you may feel like. Act your age.”

“I did not intend to cause you grief.”

“Oh, you didn’t?” she asked sweetly. “Well, you did a superb job!”

“If it’s any consolation, when I was fighting the timber wolves—”

“When you were being an idiot,” she corrected.

“Yes, when I was being an idiot,” he corrected, complying with such speed that she almost smiled, “and I was about to be injured, like an idiot,” again, she almost smiled at his compliant statement, “I prayed that God may spare me the injury for the sake of not angering you further, and He granted me that prayer.”

The thought of Jacques, in the midst of fighting for his life, praying to avoid an injury because she’d be angry with him earned the briefest of fond smiles. Which she quickly smothered. No! Bad Redheart! You’re still angry!

“Well,” she said snippily, risking a glance in his direction, “you would have avoided my anger entirely had you not been an idiot.”

“Me not know how to smart think good,” he deadpanned.

That did it. The laughter bubbled up inside, and she couldn’t choke it down fast enough. “You’re impossible!” she managed through her chuckles.

“So I’ve been told,” he smiled. “Am I forgiven then?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she waved him off. “Just do me a favor and try to keep the stupidity to a minimum.”

“Me do best.”

As they approached the sparring arena, they saw that all the others (sans Medevac and Oaken) were hard at work with various weapons and stances or, in Spike’s case, with taking notes. Jacques explained that, after last night’s events, it had been deemed prudent for them all to learn martial arts. Redheart sensed there was more to it than that, but guessed that the friar would not be forthcoming were she to ask him about it.

When they reached the enclosure, Medevac waved to them with one wing while he helped Oaken through his physical therapy. “Howdy, Redheart, Friar,” he said innocently. “Did ya’ll have a nice jog?”

“Yes, thank you,” replied Jacques calmly. “It was quite bracing.”

“Glad to hear it.” He gestured to their surroundings. “For me, I just feel privileged to have witnessed it.”

Redheart snorted.

Jacques tilted his head inquiringly. “Yes, I had a question about that – how is it you two are able to spend so much time out here? Does it not interfere with your work?”

Medevac and Redheart exchanged a glance. “Funny thing about that,” said the retired Marine, “we got a very nicely worded ‘request’ from the princess to be on call for the lot of you as much as possible. Which set off my Above-My-Paygrade-O-Meter something fierce, but hey, I’m just a lowly medic. Who cares about the big picture?”

“I do,” grumbled Redheart.

“That will fade with time.”

Jacques addressed Oaken. “And how fare you, good fellow. Healing well?”

The stoic Oaken’s face remained neutral, but both Redheart and Medevac winced. “It’s slow going,” replied Oaken, “but I’ll get there.”

“The dark magic is proving trickier to untangle than we’d expected,” explained Redheart. “Even its lingering effects are preventing him from healing properly, and we’re not entirely sure why.” She snorted in frustration. “This is why I hate horse pucky like this – it doesn’t play by the rules.”

“Yes, how dare the evil magic not follow the law,” remarked Jacques dryly. “Still,” he mused, walking over to crouch in front of the injured earth pony, “I… might be of some assistance here.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully as he studied Oaken; the guard bore his scrutiny with the same stoicism he bore everything else. “Yes, yes I believe I can,” murmured Jacques. “Twilight?” he called.

The purple mare excused herself from the training and trotted over to the rail. “Yes?”

“I thought you might want to witness this. With Oaken’s permission, I’m going to attempt to heal him of the residual dark magic.”

“Really?” asked Twilight, beaming.

“Really?” asked the nurses, skeptical.

“If you’re willing to trust me,” Jacques was saying to Oaken, “I believe I can remove whatever lingering effects plague you.”

Oaken quietly mulled the question over, then nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

Medevac blinked. “Wait, really? That’s it? Some guy just says, ‘hey, I’d like to use experimental magical healing on you’ and you’re just all ‘yeah, okay’?”

The soldier shrugged. “Sure.”

Shaking his head, the retired Marine laughed. “Criminy, Red, we missed an opportunity to try all kinds of crazy nonsense out.”

“To be fair, Friar Jacques has been training with Twilight Sparkle,” interjected Redheart. “Still, are you sure you’re up to this, Friar?”

“I am.”

Redheart glanced at Medevac and received an acquiescent smile in return. “All right, then. Just don’t push yourself too hard.” Her gaze hardened. “Or else.”

The friar had the grace to looked abashed. “As you command, bonne sœur.”

She turned to go pull the medical bag from the cart that carried Rarity’s fabrics while Twilight loudly called, “Spiiiike! Friar Jacques is going to heal Oaken and I need you to take notes!”

By the time Redheart turned back to the group, everypony had arranged themselves on the fence as an audience to the friar and his patient. “You’ve drawn quite a crowd,” she observed.

“If they came to hear me sing, they’re going to be disappointed,” said Jacques, who had knelt down in front of Oaken. Bidding the earth pony to sit, he closed his eyes and reached his hands out to touch the wounds. In reverent tone he murmured words under his breath. Though Redheart could not hear what was said, she still felt a certain calm in listening.

Then Jacques’ hands began to gleam. It was a pale light at first, like the first gleam of dawn over the horizon. To Redheart’s surprise, she felt a warmth swell in her chest, soothing, as being held in a loving mother’s embrace. As the glow intensified, she felt the warmth spread to her hooves, and sensed the life germinating in the soil beneath her. At first she thought it simply to be a more intense awareness of her earth magic, but it wasn’t. Not entirely. No, this is… more somehow.

Brighter still the friar’s magic gleamed, and Oaken shut his eyes, gritting his teeth and wincing. Medevac started forward, but Redheart held out a hoof to stop him. “Wait,” she ordered. “Give it a moment.”

Medevac looked at her in confusion, but said nothing. Redheart was grateful for that. If he’d asked her for an explanation, she wasn’t sure she could give one. Not one that could be put into words, at any rate.

The reason for Oaken’s pain revealed itself a moment later. Thin tendrils of blackness smoldered from his wounds. They looked like smoke, but Redheart knew they weren’t. There was a wrongness about them that words could not describe. The light in Jacques’ hands drew them forth, searing them white until they were vaporized into nothingness. The instant they were gone, Oaken’s face visibly relaxed, as though balm had been applied to burned flesh. He let out a long, relieved breath as the light soothed him. Then Jacques withdrew his hands, the light dimmed, and both opened their eyes.

“Well,” said Jacques, sounding breathless, “how do you feel?”

Oaken stood, experimentally moving his limbs. Smiling, he answered, “Like someone just gave my blood a good cleaning.”

“Bon,” grinned the friar, shifting his legs to a sitting position. “Because that was a very strange sensation and I wasn’t sure how to describe it myself.”

The pair chuckled, and soon the crowd was congratulating Jacques on his work and peppering both healer and healed with questions. Ironhide in particular was ecstatic to have his ‘battle buddy’ back in ‘working order’, and thanked the friar even more heartily than Oaken had.

Redheart, for her part, silently pondered what she’d felt when the friar used his healing magic. She laid a hoof on her chest where the warmth had first touched her and wondered what it meant.

And if she could ever do the same.

Jacques’ newfound ability did delay the training somewhat, as the ponies pressed him for details. Mostly it was Twilight, which he expected, but Medevac and Redheart also had their share of questions. In the former’s case it seemed to be simply a professional interest – one healer to another. In the latter’s case, however, Jacques was not so sure. There was a contemplation to her gaze that seemed more than mere technical curiosity, and he made a mental note to ask her about it later if she did not bring it up herself.

Still, a day’s work could not be gainsaid even for such good news, and soon Jacques and the soldiers urged the others back to their labors. Oaken was instructed in no uncertain terms not to overdo it, as his muscles were out of shape from two weeks of hospitalization, but under Redheart’s watchful eye he was permitted to assist in the training. Medevac, freed up from needing to so closely monitor Oaken, likewise assisted.

The drills shifted back and forth between group and individual training, but mostly consisted of grounding the trainees in the basics of spearfighting, grappling, and bare-hoofed techniques. For several hours they labored in the sun until Grannie Smith and Applebloom came out with food and drink for the weary combatants. A halt was called to the training so that they might sit and eat in the shade of the orchard.

While he reclined and ate beneath the boughs of an apple tree, Jacques felt Redheart’s gaze upon him. He endured her scrutiny patiently, waiting for her to break the silence.

He did not have long to wait. “Friar Jacques, if you don’t mind my asking, is that healing magic of yours… exclusive?” she asked. He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Unique to you as a human, I mean.”

Jacques set aside his food and shook his head. “Not at all. True, I was granted some special gift for it, though whether as a priest or as a man I cannot say, but it is not unique to me. In fact, many of the early practitioners of such arts were earth ponies.”

Redheart blinked in surprise. “Really?”

“Indeed,” he replied. “Many of the great healers of the pre-Equestrian and early Equestrian era were earth pony monks. And, as their more intuitive use of magic mirrors mine, the technique I used was more heavily informed by theirs than any other race.” Though, the priest added mentally, the annoying tendency of earth ponies to do things intuitively and thus to be light on the specifics of their abilities did make for somewhat confusing research.

“I never knew that,” admitted Redheart. “I mean, there were plenty of earth pony doctors and nurses I studied, but most of their advances were in medicine or surgical technique or technical invention, not straight magic.”

“From what I read, it appears largely to have become a lost art,” lamented Jacques, “practiced mostly in isolated communities or amongst the Orders. It is little wonder you never heard tell of their methods.”

“Still, it’s a shame.”

“Indeed.”

Redheart fell silent, but Jacques guessed she wasn’t done with her inquiries. Sure enough, after a moment’s hesitation she asked, “Friar, do you know if it’s normal for bystanders to… feel something when you’re working healing magic?”

Jacques’ bushy eyebrows went up. “From what I understand it is most uncommon.”

“Oh,” she murmured, lips pursed.

The friar canted his head to the side. “Am I given to understand that you felt my power while I worked?” Redheart nodded. Jacques sat back and stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Then it is probable that you have a natural affinity for it. Who knows,” he smiled, “perhaps you are meant to restore this ancient art to the region.”

Redheart glanced away. “I don’t know about that,” she deflected, “I’m nopony special.”

“I disagree,” he said with a kindly smile.

“Flatterer,” she smirked with a blush. Then her face sobered. “Still, I would like to learn it, if you could teach me.”

Jacques chuckled. “My dear little sister, I barely understand what I’m doing, let alone how to teach it!” Her ears wilted and tugged at his heartstrings. Oh, how wretched their adorable features, he thought ruefully. “Still, I suppose we could always learn together.”

Instantly, she brightened. “Really?”

He spread his arms genially. “Who am I to hoard magic, bonne sœu—oof!”

Apparently, Redheart took the spreading of his arms as an invitation to hug. She zipped over and, as near as he could tell, did her level best to compress his ribcage.

“Ohthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!” cried the nurse.

“You’re welcome,” he wheezed.

“Aw,” moaned Pinkie nearby, “I wanna hug!”

Marble Slab chuckled. “Did you just get her a present, or is this part of your ongoing punishment for scampering off into the woods last night?”

Redheart, beaming, released the poor friar and eagerly exclaimed, “Friar Jacques and I are gonna learn healing magic together!”

Most of the ponies nodded approval, but Twilight appeared offended. “Friar!” she wailed, “You were going to learn magic without me?” Her lip curled in an adorable pout.

Jacques shut his eyes a moment so as not to fall prey to her cuteness. “You are, of course, welcome to sit in, Lady Sparkle.” Like Redheart, the purple pony lit up, to the point that he could see her excitement through closed eyes. “But,” he said firmly, cutting off the questions he heard forming on her lips, “I believe it is no longer my turn to face your inquiries.” He opened his eyes and, with a wicked smile, pointed out a certain brown-coated unicorn. “That honor, I remind you, now belongs to our dear friend Fritters.”

Fritters looked up from the fearsome sight that was his half-demolished mound of food, a pair of pancakes loosely flopping from his open mouth. “Mmgbh?” he inquired, hearing his name. Seeing Twilight’s knowledge-starved gaze upon him, a resigned Spike putting quill to parchment at her behest, and the interest of the other ponies backing the lavender mare up, he slumped and grumbled, “Kghfrgbh,” which likely would have been quite inappropriate if it had been spoken firstly in Ponish and secondly without a mouthful of pancake in the way. He held up one hoof, saying “Whn mhmhnt,” before tilting back his head, swallowing the pancake as though throwing back a dram of hard liquor, wiping his hoof across his lips, and sighing contentedly. “Ah, Grannie Smith, I’m going to need to Shanghoof you for the campaign trail. Your grateful nation thanks you in advance for saving us from the tyranny of the regimental cooks.”

Grannie cackled. “Yer a charmin’ one an’ no mistake, young’un.”

“I try,” replied Fritters before turning to Twilight. “Okay, I’m going to give you the very abbreviated version and just direct you to peek at my medical file for the specs. Sound good? Sounds good,” he asked and answered without waiting for reply. Then he launched into his explanation:

“Basically, I have a messed up magical field and, by extension, a messed-up physiology that I’ve learned to turn to my advantage. It started with my twin sister, Dozorca. When we were still in the womb, we started having weird bleed-over between her magic and mine. And I mean a lot of bleed-over, way more than is typical in cases like this.” He scratched the back of his mane. “Doctors still aren’t entirely sure what happened, but the end result is that we both wound up with a lot more magic to call on than unicorns typically get, and we sort of ended up sharing our special talents.”

Twilight happened to be taking a drink of water right then, which led to Fritters getting a faceful of spray, an event which Spike helpfully transcribed to the parchment. “Wait, what?!” she exclaimed. “B-but two ponies don’t just share a special talent!”

Fritters gratefully accepted a towel from Fluttershy and, after thanking her, answered, “We don’t share a talent. Or don’t exactly share one, or maybe sort of do, or—” he shook his head. “It’s complicated. In simplest terms, we each have our special talents separate from the other, but the aptitude for each other’s skills we more or less share. Or, maybe we do partially share a talent because we’re twins, and our destinies are linked or some such. Like I said, the doctors really aren’t sure what happened, and I do not want to get into conversations of Providence or cutie marks right now.” He winked at Applebloom. “Sorry, kid.”

“Aw, shucks!” she pouted.

“Whatever happened, it wasn’t full-power,” he continued. “Dozzie got some of the fire in my belly and head for bloody-minded charges, especially with spears, and I got her ‘True Sight,’ which helps me see through illusions, deceptions, deceit, and Morning Song’s wickedly believable bluffs when we play poker or fight.”

Morning Song nodded. “It makes him equal parts perfect and infuriating as a sparring partner.”

He winked. “You know you love me. Anyway, before any of you start gushing how good Dozzie and I got it, this power boost is not without some serious drawbacks. You see, we both ended up with more magic drawing on our systems than our systems were actually supposed to handle. It’s not quite as pronounced as if somepony with, say, Twilight’s power level was to draw on an ordinary unicorn’s magical field, but… it’s still not pretty.”

Twilight and Rarity both made exclamations of horror, as did the nurses. The rest of them looked on blankly. “Um, somepony wanna clue the rest of us in?” demanded Rainbow Dash, who, in typical fashion, was flapping in a hover above the rest.

Medevac looked up at the other pegasus. “Rainbow, when you work out, your body burns calories, fat, and so on, right?”

“Yeah,” nodded the stunt flyer. Then, striking a pose for him, “Not that I’ve got much fat on me.” Jacques noticed that Redheart’s expression soured.

“Sure, sure,” continued Medevac, paying the posing no mind. Redheart’s sourness faded, and Jacques’ lips curled in amusement. “So, knowing the need for energy, if you’re working out a lot, you carbo-load for that energy boost.”

“Right.”

“And you do that because if you don’t, and your body needs to burn something for energy, it starts burning things you don’t want it to burn.”

“Right,” nodded Rainbow. Then, with widening eyes. “Oh. Oh.”

Twilight took over the explanation. “A creature’s magical field is part of the body, but also partially a separate system with its own energy level, consumption, and recovery. Generally, while the two interact with each other and can help or harm the other, one doesn’t empower or draw from the other at a grand level. However, if the magical field isn’t up to the task, it will sometimes ‘borrow’ energy from the rest of the body, leading to exhaustion and hunger as those calories are burned by casting instead of physical exertion. I’ve burnt myself out with magic use more than once on our adventures,” she turned to Fritters, wincing, “but what you’re describing sounds like your magic is constantly overdrawing on your physical body.”

“Yup,” grimaced Fritters. “Now you know the secret to how I stay so stylishly thin. I literally can’t put on weight, because my magic is in a perpetually hyperactive state and consumes energy too fast for me to store much of it as fat. Dozzie didn’t get it nearly as bad as me, as her magical field was more powerful to begin with, meaning she’s not under as much strain, and she didn’t absorb as much of my power as I did of hers. Even so, she’s never had any trouble staying trim.”

The listeners sat back in awe. “So that’s why you eat like a starving hog at a Hearth’s Warming Feast!” exclaimed Applejack.

Fritters chuckled. “Pithily put, but yes.”

“That… sounds rough. Ah’m real sorry, Fritters.”

He shrugged. “It is what it is. And it’s not without advantages.” The unicorn winked and engulfed another pancake. “I have an excuse to eat more of your family’s fabulous cooking without worrying about my glamorous figure.”

Pinkie looked up from inhaling a plate of pancakes. “Who worries about that?” she said around a mouthful of pastry. Rarity, Morning Song, and Redheart face-hoofed.

Twilight leaned forward, intent. “You mentioned other advantages as well, earlier? ‘Turning it to your favor’ you said?”

“Ah, yes,” smirked Fritters. “That. Well, funny thing about your body constantly shunting energy to your magic field – you get used to doing it. Eventually it hit the point I could do it on command, and with far greater efficiency than most. At first it was just a way to make it so I wasn’t as painfully hungry all the time – more energy getting through means I’m less undernourished.” He grinned wolfishly. “Then I figured out I could weaponize it.” He reached into a pouch on his armor and pulled out a small cube of some edible substance that Jacques recognized as the singularly unappealing emergency rations the Guard issued. Having tasted one out of curiosity a few days before, he thought of them as ‘penance cubes.’

“Get me a good hearty meal,” bragged Fritters, “or at least some ultra-dense E-rats, and I can supercharge my magic for a short skirmish. Also, because magic can provide physical enhancements, I can make that supercharge a two-way street.” He sat up and spread his forehooves dramatically. “Behold! Krucjata Włócznia, the Konik Juggernaut!”

Jacques and the ponies chuckled at the display, especially when Applejack poked him lightly and he immediately blubbered, “Owie!”

Twilight, still intent on science, continued her questioning. “Even if you’re used to it, though, that’s got to be painful to do.”

“Oh, it is,” he replied bluntly. “But it’s a worthy sacrifice as far as I’m concerned. There are a lot of ponies, griffons, zebras, and more who are alive today because of what I can do. What’s a little discomfort in the face of that?”

“Life is about figuring out what’s worth sacrificing for,” added Song soberly.

“Exactly,” agreed Fritters, taking a bite of an apple. “But then, you all know that, ye grand Bearers of the Elements.”

The friar found his estimation of Fritters had increased considerably. However much he played it off as ‘the way things were,’ the unicorn lived with what amounted to a deep illness. Rather than let it inhibit him, however, he’d found a way to turn it to a strength.

Jacques reflected on his own crosses – how grief at his sister’s death had taught him compassion, how defeat at the hands of the Saracens had taught him humility, and how helplessness before and after his rescue from Philip had taught him gratitude.

What strength would we have, if never exercised by trials? reflected the old monk.

Twilight finished up her notes on Fritters’ condition. “Fascinating, all of it!” she gushed. “You’ll definitely have to let me see your files.”

“Happy to help,” he replied. “We done now?”

“Not so fast,” said the mare with a predatory look. “I believe we’re still owed an explanation of how you know Celestia personally.”

The Konik drew back. “Oh no!” he said defensively. “I was promised food and booze for that story, and all I see here is food! No story!”

“Fritters?” said Applejack mildly. When he looked at her, she held up a bottle with no label on the side. “Ah got booze.”

“Oh,” replied Fritters, deflated. “Well, ponyfeathers.”

“Cider?!” exclaimed Rainbow Dash. “You’ve been holding out on me, AJ!”

“Not cider,” corrected Applejack. “Whiskey. Along with the last of Fritters’ excuses. Out with it, you scruffy reprobate! Ah’m sick o’ seein’ Twi sittin’ there like a dog whining for a treat.”

“I am not!” whined Twilight.

Fritters sighed. “You girls don’t let up, do you.”

Pinkie trotted over and patted him on the back. “It’s okay, Fritters. Just think of it as a supplementary story. Besides, even Friar Jacques is interested in your backstory!”

Jacques nodded. True enough.

“Fine,” relented the Konik, taking the bottle in his hoof. “Once upon a time, in a magical land a fair ways east of Equestria…”

The blue-coated unicorn gritted her teeth in impatience, pulling her hood farther down against the sweltering sun at the dig site while she waited for the laborer to fetch his boss. Three years ago, she would not have endured the wait, nor the scorn with which she’d been treated by the dig team.

But that was before her life had been stripped from her by that little witch! Before all her hopes and dreams had come crushing down around her and left her ragged and wandering, with only one thing keeping her warm against the chill of the night.

Revenge!

So the mare endured the biting sands, the sweltering heat, the indifference of the locals. Travel had long since hardened her to physical discomfort, and hate had steeled her against wavering. Years of searching and sacrifice had led her here. She was not about to abandon her prize when she was so close!

After what seemed in interminable wait, the laborer returned with a curt instruction to follow him to meet the boss. Ordinarily, the mare would have been offended, but it actually served her designs better to meet the stallion in private.

The worker ushered her into the portable shack that served as the office for the dig site and left, leaving the mare alone with the site boss, who was sitting at a desk littered with diagrams, charts, and forms. He was a thin, middle-aged stallion with unremarkable features and trustworthy features. At first glance, at least. The mare had known enough disreputable ponies to spot a shifty character when she met one, and her research ahead of time only confirmed what she could tell by looking at him.

“What can I do for you, miss…?” he asked, plainly seeking her name.

“You can answer a few questions,” she responded, ignoring his implied question. “Starting with who you hock the antiquities to on the side.”

The stallion recoiled from her cold bluntness. “I- I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

She sneered. “Don’t play coy. Your workers were quite happy to tell tales all about your little ‘side business’ once they’d been plied with coin. Honestly, it didn’t take much,” taunted the mare. “You’re not especially popular here, and your wages are a joke.”

“I pay a fair wage!” huffed the stallion. “And I don’t know the first thing about this illegal trade you seem to be insinuating—”

“Not ‘seems’,” she interrupted, “‘am’ insinuating. And it’s less of an insinuation than an accusation. Most recently you made off with a black and silver amulet set with a red stone. It had the figure of a winged unicorn.” His eyes widened and she smirked. “Your employers likely wouldn’t be happy to know you’re selling the artifacts they’re paying you so handsomely to unearth.”

To her surprise, the stallion laughed. “And who are you going to tell about it? The authorities? We’re not in Equestria, little mare, and the locals barely have enough of a government to enforce their own laws, much less run down the petty thievery that you accuse me of. As for my employers, who do you think they’ll believe? Some surly local workers, or the contractor they’ve trusted for years!”

The mare shrugged. “True enough, which is why this isn’t a threat. It’s an offer of trade.” She pulled aside her cloak to reveal a bulging money pouch. “Money for a name. Business for you, business for your fence. Everypony wins.”

His eyes lit up at the sight of the money pouch, but he quickly quashed his enthusiasm. “Sorry, lady, but I don’t know you. I’m not about to give you the name of a hypothetical business partner just because you flash some coin and a load of hearsay.”

Her eye twitched. “Very well then,” she said calmly, “how about a trade of a different sort.” She lit her horn, and an ornated begemmed cylinder roughly the length of a writing quill floated from her pouch. “One artifact for another.”

The stallion regarded the item with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “What is that?”

“It’s easier to show you,” she replied, striding around his desk. When he pivoted his chair to face her, she struck, grabbing him with her forehooves and slamming him against his desk. With a flick of her magic, she extended the blade concealed in the cylinder and brought it within an inch of his eye. He cried out in alarm, but was silenced when the dagger came within centimeters of his eye. “It’s a negotiating tactic,” she snarled, bringing her face close to his. “Now, you can answer the question and we can both go our separate ways with the knowledge that we’ve made a wise business decision, or you can make this difficult for both of us.” He whimpered as she pulled him muzzle to muzzle. “Who. Is. Your. Fence?”

“C- Curio!” he shouted. “The guy’s name is Curio! He runs a shop on the lower east side of Manechester!”

For a moment, she held him close, ensuring that he was telling the truth. Satisfied, she let him fall to the ground and stepped back, dusting herself off and retracting the blade. “There, was that so hard?” she asked pleasantly. “Fear not – you’ll soon be getting your cut from the sale of that amulet you traded to him. No hard feelings, eh?”

She left him cowering on the floor and stepped out into the sweltering heat. The wind had picked up, sending the biting desert sand to whip in her face. Even so, she smiled as she strode back to her cart.

Everything was coming together. Soon, Trixie Lulamoon would have her revenge!

Author's Note

Luna’s realization made me think of a quote I once came across.

"The devil knows your name, but calls you by your sin. God knows your sin, but calls you by your name."

Ricardo Sanchez

***

Aura regarded the manuscripts in front of her with pursed lips. Eventually, she looked up. “Politics? Really?”

Antiquarian shrugged. “For all that people moan about it in the Star Wars prequels, I think most actually prefer to have some context. I’m trying to provide just enough to get by. If they want it more in depth, they can read the Supplement.” He glanced at the camera, violating the Fourth Wall. “They can also read the Supplement for Fritters’ backstory, which is mostly a lore history lesson, and this blog about the heroism of Poland which inspired him.”

Aura shook her head. “That’s not my concern. I just don’t think you want to have your comment section turn into a political minefield.”

“Ah, but it won’t,” he replied. “For two reasons. Firstly, Equestrian politics are based primarily off of fiction and off of British politics. Same with the unions. Any real-world inspiration, moreover, is at least 70 years old, as I think the most recent inspiration I used was from about 1945, maybe 1950.

“Secondly, and of even greater importance,” he looked dead at the camera, his tone cold, “I flatly forbid any discussion of modern politics in the comments section. Please, feel free to dialogue about any parallels between this fictional world and contemporary reality, but don’t do it here. You may post invites to such dialogue, but if I see so much as a whisper of Brexit, Barr, or Beto in the comments section, I will teleport to your house and enfilade you with magic missiles.”

“Antiq,” reproved Aura.

“Fine, fine, I’ll delete your comment and send a strongly worded reprimand.” He makes eye contact with you. “But, seriously, don’t start crap my the comments section. I have a zero tolerance policy on this. I hate deleting comments, but I will make an exception in this case. Take it outside. I crafted a cooperative government between liberals, conservatives, and independents united against extremism on all fronts – let it be what it is. Your cooperation is gratefully appreciated.”

***

So… Trixie, huh? This’ll be fun. The board is set, and all the pieces are in motion. Heads will be getting knocked.

With Veteran’s Day/Remembrance Day coming up, I’d like to reiterate my recommendation of The Flower Mare and The Flower Mare: Unbroken by Flammenwerfer. They are excellent.

And, to my more bloodthirsty readers, don't worry, the stabbing starts next chapter. Boy, that's creepy to say.

Happy reading!

P.S. Seriously, don't start crap.

Jump to top

Movement in the Shadows

Manechester, the Mug Club coffee house, two weeks later…

“Thank you for taking the time to have coffee with me, Turner,” said Close Watch, injecting a careful dose of post-grad exhaustion into her tone as she sat down at the café table across from Dr. Page Turner. “I just feel so blessed to be able to learn from an expert like you.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, Scarlet,” the professor assured her. “I’m just happy to make myself available to ponies who need me.”

It was early morning between classes. Page Turner and Close Watch were seated in one of the many coffee houses that had sprung up around the Manechester College of Arts and Science. The Mug Club wouldn’t have been Close Watch’s first pick (she much preferred the Bent Barista, which sold Black Crossbow coffee), but it was exactly the sort of place that ‘Scarlet Rose’ would frequent.

Or, as my brother would put it, a place where the ponies who ‘don’t follow trends’ and ‘don’t let other ponies tell them how to think’ can wear the same clothes, get the same manecuts, have the same peer-approved opinions, and engage in the same socially acceptable conversations.

Close took a deliberate sip of her latte and willed the deplorable mixture of pumpkin spice and coffee to smother the thought before it could affect ‘Scarlet’s’ demeanor.

“So,” said Turner, bringing her back to the present, “what can I help you with today?”

“I’d like some insight into the Vox Mannorum,” the mare replied. “As you know, I’m writing my thesis on the rise of the Populist party, and, well,” she chuckled, “you can’t very well talk about the Populists without the popular activists who support them.” Popular agitators more like, corrected her inner voice. She took another sip to shut the voice up. “I’m especially interested in their founder, Dr. Ardor.”

“Ah, Errant Ardor,” said Turner fondly. “Now there was a pony with a grand vision! He was my mentor, you know.”

It’d be hard not to know with all the photos on your desk and the way you name-drop him in half your lectures. Close Watch resorted to biting her tongue to shut up the distracting thoughts and resolved to tell her brother that his sarcasm had infected one of her cover identities the next time they spoke.

“Errant Ardor had a brilliant mind,” praised Turner as Close took notes. “He saw the corruption of the system and resolved to bring ponies together against the forces keeping them down. And not just ponies, either. If his vision had taken root the way he’d hoped, the whole world would be one step closer to collective harmony! I remember reading his Activists’ Almanac when I was still an undergrad…”

What followed was the fairly standard white-washed version of Errant Ardor’s life that Close had heard more than once from followers of the deceased pony’s vision. It painted a rosy picture of a utopian future for Equestria and, eventually, the world. Though she took notes as Scarlet was expected to, she wasn’t hearing anything she hadn’t really heard before about Ardor. Nor was that her primary objective. Rather, she hoped to glean context from the personal anecdotes that Turner supplied, and from them to paint a better picture of the lives of Page Turner and his associates. It was her experience that such discrete fishing expeditions tended to trick ponies into revealing more than they realized. Of almost equal importance, it helped maintain her cover.

By the time Turner was reaching the end of his story, Close hadn’t heard anything fresh about Ardor (other than the fact that he had a prosthetic hip), but she had taken note of two classmates of Turner’s who had gone on to pursue parliamentary careers.

The intelligence officer was just finishing her notes and preparing to wrap up the conversation when things took an unexpected turn.

“Yes, he truly was a visionary,” sighed Turner. “A tragedy he was ‘lost at sea’ before he could spread the ideals of collective harmony to the four corners of the world.”

Close’s pen paused mid-word. Technically, nothing Turner said was beyond the scope of public knowledge and personal opinion, but the way he said ‘lost at sea’ stuck out to her like a horn on a pegasus. “Sorry, Turner, maybe I’m just imagining things,” began the agent carefully, “but it almost sounded like you put ‘lost at sea’ in air quotes.”

Turner appeared mystified. “Did I? Well, I assure you it was unintentional. True, there were always rumors that ponies who feared his radical ideas might have silenced him, but who can really take such conspiracy theories seriously.” He chuckled to himself. “Ridiculous!”

His tone was convincing. Close wasn’t convinced. She smiled as though she was. “Yeah, ridiculous,” she agreed. “Ponies believe all kinds of crazy things, don’t they?”

The pair parted ways not long after that. Close took a circuitous route back to her apartment, nominally to run errands, practically to ensure that she wasn’t being followed. The university knew where she lived, of course, but it paid to take precautions in case the threat came from a different angle. It didn’t hurt that she genuinely did need to run by the library, which happened have plenty of convenient spots along the route to ditch a tail. Once she’d picked up the books she needed and determined that nopony was dogging her shadow, she returned to her apartment.

Close entered the second story three-room flat and checked that the security measures she had in place, both magical and mundane, were undisturbed. Satisfied that nopony, or any other creature for that matter, had breached her perimeter, she hung her hat and scarf, drew the window shades, and trotted over to her dining room table.

It appeared to be an ordinary oaken affair of no particular note, if a little overlarge for a single occupant, until she lit her horn and touched it to the table’s surface. Recognizing her magic signature, a previously invisible seam appeared down the middle of the table and it opened like a triptych, revealing a complex tac-board connecting pictures, scribbled notes, locations, dates, newsclippings, and the like. Applying her magic to her ottoman in the sitting room gave access to personnel files, while the back of her well-stocked larder held a stack of analytical reports. Additional files and a signal flare (the latter of which stayed put) lurked in a concealed compartment in the liquor cabinet behind the vodka.

More important than any of that, however, were the books she’d picked up from the library – compendiums of news reports from papers that covered Errant Ardor’s life and, more importantly, his death.

‘Lost at sea’ she repeated to herself. Whatever Turner says, he doesn’t think it was just a boating accident. But what does he really think happened? And is he right?

In all probability, it didn’t matter one way or the other. Errant Ardor had died over fifteen years ago when he’d been swept overboard by a wild storm that battered his yacht. The body was never recovered, but the investigation found, among other things, a snapped safety line and blood in the splinters of a smashed railing. It was concluded that he’d hit the railing as he went overboard. Any missing ponies case like this held plenty of unknowns, but this one was broadly considered open-and-shut.

Moreover, there was no evidence tying Ardor to the Shades, other than that he was a mentor to many ponies, one of whom happened to be Turner, who happened to be a mentor to Bound Glyph, who might be a traitor.

It was tangential at best, and conventional wisdom dictated that Close Watch spend her efforts pursuing other leads. Previous conversations with Turner and other faculty and staff had yielded the names of three current or former members of the EUP Guard besides Bound Glyph that Turner closely mentored, as well as more than a dozen who went into government employment and other lofty positions. One had even gone for a master’s degree at Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns.

Then there was Glyph himself, a stallion who was loved by professors who shared his worldview and who most other professors politely refrained from commenting on. Everything she discovered about him seemed to confirm what little she knew for certain, but nothing was enough to make it clear if he simply had radical views or if he’d been radicalized. Turner, for his part, was equally ambiguous. Both parties bore deeper investigation.

Even with Close Watch sending reports on all ponies of interest to Earnest Query at EMI headquarters, she was still better placed to gather intel from the source. Other agents likely would have focused on doing just that and dismissed Turner’s remark as irrelevant opinion.

Close Watch was not those agents. Her gut told her Ardor’s death mattered. She wasn’t sure why, but she was sure it did. So she opened the first book and began to skim for relevant data.

Page after page of old news reports proved useless, running the gamut from sanctifying the deceased pony to practically breaking out into song and dance over his death. The latter gave Close a bad taste in her mouth. His views were deplorable, but death isn’t something we should regard cheaply.

As time wore on and the stack of publications dwindled, Close began to despair of finding anything useful in the papers. Then a single sentence from the Haystings Chronicle made her sit bolt upright in shock. Well now, she thought, smiling slowly, isn’t that an unexpected wrinkle. She lit her horn and jotted down a coded message while simultaneously packing away the tools of her trade in a burst of telekinetic power. As soon as she was done, she grabbed her work-out bag and headed to the gym, apparently to exercise. In reality, it was to use the dead drop in the mares’ locker room.

It would take time for the message to reach Canterlot. The dead drop wouldn’t be checked for another hour, and the system of couriers it would take to transport the message, though well-hidden, still took the better part of a day to make the trip. By the time Colonel Query and the Royals got the message, Celestia would have set the sun.

But we finally have something fresh to pursue, Close thought with satisfaction as she trotted to the gym. She wasn’t sure what that something was yet, but she was certain it was important.

For it just so happened that the Detective Chief Superintendent who’d investigated Errant Ardor’s presumed accident at sea had been an EUP Guard veteran. Not long after Ardor’s disappearance, this investigator had returned to the EUP and served for several years before retiring, moving back to Haystings, and suffering a fatal ‘accident’ of his own not long after the Shade attack on Canterlot.

His name was Captain Well Met, and he’d been the one to assign Bound Glyph to the Solar Guard.

Canterlot Castle, late that night…

Argent bit the inside of her cheek. She was backed into a corner and she knew it; outmaneuvered, outfought, and out of time. Her enemy smirked at her from across the table. The square-jawed stallion didn’t even bother to hide his smugness. She longed to wipe that smirk off his face, but knew that she was powerless to stop him. The only way I’m getting out of this alive is if he lets me, and I very much doubt that is what he intends. She had only one play left – a desperate bid to save herself. It wouldn’t work. But she had no other options.

“What if I traded you three wheat and two wood for that brick?”

First Sergeant Brick shook his head. “Sorry, Cap. Brick needs his brick. And you’ve got nothing I want.”

The unicorn mare slapped her cards down on the table in impotent rage. “Miserable plebian,” she hissed.

Laughter rippled through the other five ponies seated around the table. “Ooh, Sarge, she called you a plebian,” tutted Corporal Thresher with a cheeky grin on his face. “Could it be that our beloved captain is secretly a Primarchist sympathizer?”

Argent’s blood boiled at the mention of Lord Highcastle’s cabal, and she shot a baleful glare at the NCO. “You’re already on thin ice for bringing up the matter of the hydra in front of the Bearers when we were in Ponyville, Thresher. Don’t push what little luck you have left.”

First Lieutenant Snapshot examined his own cards with a dissatisfied frown, adding to the conversation without glancing up. “He brought up the hyrda in public and still has luck left? My, you’re feeling generous, Captain. What are the odds of my getting leave?”

“About the same odds as one of us stealing this game from Brick,” replied Argent bluntly.

“Thought I’d ask.”

Sergeant Miru sagged back in her chair with a groan, her wings flaring out. The diminutive brown pegasus addressed the ceiling with her thick Austailian accent. “What drongo ’ad the stupid idea ta play Cartaan anyway?”

Brick smiled at the junior sergeant. “I think Settlers of Cartaan is a great game, Ru.”

“Rack off, Sarge.”

“Now, now,” chided Chaplain Trench, the kindly earth pony’s Connemaras lilt rising as he adjusted his glasses with a peach-cream hoof. “There’s no need ta get testy o’er a friendly game.”

Miru sat up and raised an eyebrow at Trench. “Rev, you honestly gonna tell me ’is winning streak don’t bug ya?”

“Well, I didn’t say that,” admitted the stallion. His gaze shifted to glare at Thresher. “O’ course, Brick might not ’ave such a lead if somepony had been willing ta trade me tha wood I needed ta cut off ’is roads.”

“Hey, I offered you all the sheep you could ever want,” protested Thresher.

Miru practically lunged over the table. “For the last time, Thresher, nopony wants your stupid sheep!”

Brick chuckled throatily. “Ponies, ponies, if you really think it’s such a forgone conclusion you could always just forfeit—”

“NO!” chorused the other players.

“I just don’t understand it,” said Snapshot, glowering at the board as he ran a hoof over his receding maneline. “The rest of us all have settlements and cities on brick hexes with better odds than his. Eights, sixes, fives… and none of them get rolled! Only his stupid four ever gets rolled!”

“It must be his cutie mark,” said Argent dryly as she ended her turn passed the dice to the next player. “His special talent nets him all the brick he’ll ever need. We’ve been playing at a disadvantage since we started.”

“Next week we’re going back to Appaloosan Hold ‘Em,” declared Miru. “At least I’ll have a chance at winning with Morning Song stuck in Ponyville.”

“Or maybe bridge,” suggested Brick with a sly glance at Thresher. “We could finally have a run at the captain when her favorite partner is absent.”

“Fine,” Argent replied, unfazed. “Instead of Song, the reverend will be my partner.” Trench smiled wickedly.

“Hm,” grimaced Brick. “Maybe not then.”

“Ugh!” moaned Miru, gazing at the board in despair. “Even watching you four dags play bridge all night would be better than this slaughter.”

“You know what would make this better, Miru?” challenged Thresher. “If you rolled the dice.”

“A’right, don’t get yer knickers in a twist, Thresh, I’m rolling the bloody— OH BUCKING TARTARUS!”

Similar cries of dismay echoed around the table, supplemented by Brick’s roaring laughter. “Another four?!” Thresher’s voice was practically a shriek. “How?! How the buck is that possible?!”

“Fate must hate us,” sighed Argent.

Miru pushed the dice away as though she were afraid they might bite her. “Rev, you want to adjure these dice? Make sure they aren’t cursed?”

“I’m beginnin’ ta consider it,” admitted Trench.

Further banter was cut short by a knock at the door. “Captain Argent?” called a voice of the company clerk.

“Come in, Booker.” The door opened to admit a thin, bespectacled unicorn. Booker’s uniform was immaculate, with not a strand of clothe out of place – a sharp contrast to the opened coats, missing ties, and rumpled appearance of every other pony in the room except for Argent. Even the chaplain had loosened his collar and rolled up his sleeves for the weekly game night. Next to their motley assembly, Booker looked downright starched.

Not that he seemed to mind. The stoic clerk was long-accustomed to the informality displayed by much of the REF. Especially since my command seems to have attracted a disproportionate number of reprobates. Excepting the chaplain, of course. “What’s the word, Booker?” she asked.

“Sorry to disturb your game, ma’am, but Princess Celestia has requested that you and Chaplain Trench meet her in her study immediately.”

Argent glanced at the clock in surprise. It was well past ten o’clock, and the Princess seldom conducted formal business so late. And why the both of us? She gave a mental shrug. Ours not to reason why. Standing up from the table and giving her uniform a fastidious (and unnecessary) once-over, she started for the door. “Well, you heard the stallion. Let’s be about it.”

“O’ course,” said Trench, a slight waver in his voice at the prospect of an audience with the princess. The humble stallion had met her before on a number of occasions, but it remained something of a daunting experience for him all the same. Then, with a rueful smile, he observed, “I can’t really complain about bowing out o’ this banjaxed game. Brick’s got us beat.”

At the mention of the game, Argent turned a quizzical gaze to Booker. “Corporal, have you ever played Cartaan before?”

“No, ma’am.”

“And you were supposed to stop working hours ago, were you not?” she added a touch more censoriously.

Booker was silent for a barely perceptible second. Caught red-hooved. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Then you’re taking over for me,” she declared with a smirk. “It’ll do you good.”

“But ma’am, I don’t know how to play!” he protested.

She patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Booker. You can’t possibly do any worse than I did. And, besides,” she flicked an ear in Trench’s direction, “you’ll get his assets as well.”

“How come he gets the chaplain’s stuff?” groused Brick.

Argent rolled her eyes. “Because even with our assets combined, you’re still ahead, Sergeant. So keep a stiff upper lip and dry your tears. There’s a good lad.” The other players chuckled at Brick’s expense. “Have fun, Booker. That’s an order. And, gentleponies,” she said, glancing back at the others. “Go easy on the poor boy.”

The captain and the chaplain set out for Celestia’s chambers, acknowledging passing Lunar Guards as they made their way through the darkened castle. Trench fumbled to get his uniform presentable as they walked. Taking pity on him, Argent lent him magical assistance. “No need to worry, Trench,” she said as she straightened his lieutenant’s bars and the heart-and-sword badge of a combat chaplain. “You’ve met Celestia before. She’s hardly a sphinx waiting to slay you for a mistaken answer.”

“Easy for you to say,” replied Trench with a nervous chuckle. “She may be princess and commander-in-chief ta the both of us, but she’s my spiritual superior!”

Argent was forced to agree. Trench was a chaplain of the Solarian Order, one of the ministerial communities dedicated to spreading Harmony throughout Equestria and beyond. They were tasked with caring for the spiritual and temporal health of any creature found under their care, whether that meant teaching the Way of Harmony, officiating marriages, performing funerals, counseling the wayward, or simply being guides on the oft confusing journey of life.

The Solarians were one of the oldest orders, founded by Celestia herself. As such, they answered directly to her. And, while Argent and Trench both knew the princess to be among the most forgiving of taskmistresses, the captain could appreciate that reporting to one’s Princess on matters of the flesh was doubtless a different sort of anxiety than reporting to one’s Mother Superior on matters of the soul.

“Deep breaths, Trench,” said Argent with a gentle smile. “You’ll get on just fine.”

They came to Celestia’s chambers and were greeted by the veteran Lunar Guards on duty. Once they’d answered the challenge, one of the Lunars knocked on the door to announce their arrival. “Enter,” ordered the princess from within. Argent shot the nervous Trench one last reassuring glance before entering.

Celestia’s sitting room was surprisingly small for a royal chamber. Its only furniture consisted of a pair of sideboards for drinks and writing materials, an overstuffed divan, and several plush chairs. The rug looked comfortable enough to sleep on, and a truly impressive fireplace dominated the right wall. Several tapestries of thick weave depicting various elements of the cosmos hung upon the walls. Every stitch of cloth was masterfully embroidered, and every stick of furniture ornately wrought, yet the room had the close, intimate feel of a cozy reading nook. And, while the intricate décor was quite beautiful, it was entirely too richly colored and the sitting area entirely too comfortable to adhere to the current High Society’s definition of ‘proper.’ Without effort Argent could have listed a few dozen faded lords and ladies who would have called the princess’s sitting room ‘plebian;’ the attempt of a ‘New Money’ pony to emulate the ‘true’ High Class. Which is a not inconsiderable part of why I like this room so much.

Celestia herself was laying on the divan, and looked to have been reading a letter before their arrival. Argent gave a slight start when she saw the princess, as the alicorn had dispensed with all her royal regalia. Not that she looked any less regal – the lack of adornment did nothing to undercut the effortless power, grace, and beauty that radiated from her with an almost visible intensity – but Argent had always felt that seeing the princess without her crown was akin to seeing General Red ‘Blood Red’ Rampart in his bathrobe. It made her uncomfortable to see Celestia lounging on a couch like a common mortal, ethereal mane and alicorn physiology notwithstanding.

The princess smiled as they entered. “Ah, my friends. Please, sit.” The two bowed and did as they were bade. “I am truly sorry for taking you from your weekly game. I trust you were enjoying yourselves?”

“As much as any officer enjoys losing to her rapscallion first sergeant,” replied Argent. “I probably ought to discuss the uncharitable thoughts I was harboring with the good reverend here.”

Trench raised an eyebrow. “I have a feeling I’ll be hearing from all tha other players before tha week is out.”

Celestia’s laughter was musical. “Well, I think it is wonderful that you all take the time to maintain such a tradition.” She looked to the side to watch the fire for a time. “It is all too easy for such things to be lost in the chaos, especially in harsh times. But I believe that those are the times when such simple, honest joys become most vital.”

She was silent for a time after that. Argent glanced at Trench, who gave her a confused shrug. Once the quiet had stretched on for what Argent judged to be intolerably long, she cleared her throat. “Begging your pardon, Princess, but why did you summon us?”

The alicorn did not reply immediately, but instead watched the fire as though seeing something that only she was privy to. Argent was half-tempted to cast a detection spell on the blaze to see if there was something that only she was seeing and went as far as to start running through the spell formula in her head when Celestia finally spoke. “Trench, you served for many years in foreign missions before becoming a Guard Chaplain, yes?”

The stallion was startled by the sudden question. “That I did, Your Highness.”

“You also served as an Adjurist in those times, a task which I understand came to include some… intermittent witch-hunting.”

Trench’s face sobered. “Yes.”

“How did you feel about that?” she asked. Trench hemmed and hawed over his words and the princess turned to face him with a gentle smile. “I know that’s a rather broad question, Trench, but you should feel free to answer it however you see fit.”

The chaplain chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment before answering, “The foreign missions were grand, Princess. Ya find good sorts all over the world, an’ there’s a lot o’ places I woulda been happy ta put down roots. As for the other work, well…” he glanced at the fireplace, then back at the princess, “I’m proud o’ the work I did. It was bone deep satisfyin’ and I’d do it again if needs be. And,” he interjected with a slight chuckle, “from what the captain tells me that’s not much of an ‘if.’ But I won’t lie an’ pretend it didn’t wear on me.”

“I’d be surprised if it didn’t,” replied Celestia. “If any pony suggested that such work was easy, I’d have to guess he was, how do you Connemaras put it, ‘not the full shilling.’”

Trench smirked. “That or drunk off ’is tail, but yeah.”

“But, as you say, you’d do it again if needed.”

The stallion shrugged. “O’ course, Your Highness. I may not be a warrior like the captain here, but I came up boxing. I know how ta take a punch.”

Argent raised an eyebrow at Trench. ‘Not a warrior,’ eh? Tell that to the Bronze Star you got for rescuing those troopers in Yprance.

Judging by the smile on Celestia’s face, she didn’t believe Trench’s assertion any more than Argent did. “Whatever the case, Trench, I’m glad I saw fit to assign a scrapper like you to Argent’s command. Whether at home or abroad, you have a lot to offer the unit and those they protect. I had a feeling they’d need a chaplain of your moral fiber.”

Argent smiled. “We’ll have to get you a thank-you card, Princess.”

The blushed and looked at the floor. “You’re too kind, Your Highness.”

Celestia’s face darkened and she glared with mock severity at the chaplain. “Too kind, you say? So, are you accusing me of poor judgment or deceit?” Trench stammered, tripping over his tongue as he tried to backpedal from his accidental ‘offense’ to the sovereign, but Celestia didn’t let him suffer for long. “Forgive me, Trench,” she said with a reassuring grin, “but I am a bit of a tease.”

Trench sagged with relief while Argent shot her diarch an arch look. “Couldn’t help yourself, could you?” the captain asked.

“I must find humor where I can, Argent. Surely you know the feeling, being that you suggested colt bands to my sister as the subject of my dreams.”

Argent blanched. Celestia’s pleasant demeanor hadn’t shifted, but suddenly Argent felt like she was sharing a room with a cobra. “In my defense, Your Highness…” She stopped herself from saying ‘I didn’t count on your sister having an evil streak as long as yours’ and settled on, “…Krucjata is a terrible influence on me.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” granted Celestia. “Returning to the matter at hoof, however, I would like to borrow your chaplain tomorrow and likely the day after for Friar Jacques’ Canterlot visit.”

It’ll be good to see the friar again, thought Argent. Even if it’ll play havoc with my schedule for the next few days. Ah well, at least he’s coming in on the 1100 train tomorrow and not the 0500.

Celestia held up the letter she’d been reading. “In preparation for his arrival, Twilight wrote to me today with an in-depth report on Jacques, both the progress and the difficulties.”

Argent’s eyebrows shot up. “Has little Twilight truly reached the point where such a report would only fill a single page?” she asked in astonishment.

The captain had heard Celestia laugh many times, but it was always a dainty, ladylike laugh – the sort of polite, regal thing that would be expected of the unflappable Ruler of the Day. What she had not heard was Celestia descend into gales of laughter that rocked the princess on her divan, brought tears to her eyes, and almost caused her to fall out of her seat.

That is, until now.

Celestia laughed like Argent had trotted in Don Ponette to do his Chineighs Buffet routine after the princess had taken one too many drinks. The volume of the laughter was such that Argent bacame half-convinced that there was a ‘Royal Canterlot Guffaw.’ Had Argent been less surprised, she likely would have joined in the laughter. As it was, she (and Trench, for that matter) were too stunned to do more than stare.

Eventually, when Celestia could breath again, she managed to answer the question. “You… you think this is it?” she gasped, her voice still tremulous with mirth. “N-no, Argent. This… *snort* … this is just the endnote page. This…” her horn lit and a scroll with the approximate girth of an apple tree’s trunk levitated from the floor behind her divan, “… is the report.”

“Ye-es,” replied Argent, drawing the word into two beats. “That’s a touch more believable.”

“In any case,” continued Celestia, wiping tears from her eyes, “it seems that Jacques would benefit from talking cleric-to-cleric with one of ours, especially one with your experience both in dealing with other cultures and in dealing with the darker realities of the world.”

Trench nodded. “O’ course, Princess. I’m ever at your disposal.”

“Thank you, Trench,” she said warmly. “You may return to your game night if you wish; no doubt you will need to quell any violence that has broken out in your absence. I’m going to keep Argent a moment longer so that you have time to settle things without getting the commanding officer involved.”

She said it casually, jokingly even, but Argent knew that she wouldn’t have been pulled from her game at this hour over something minor; seeing Trench at the same time had likely been a matter of convenience as much as anything. Trench graciously took his leave, apparently guileless of the subterfuge. Or perhaps he knows exactly what’s happening and simply recognizes a hint to bow out. He has a great deal of depth behind that humble exterior, and innocence is not the same as naivete.

Once he’d gone, the captain raised an eyebrow at the princess. “Am I correct in supposing that you didn’t ask the rev to trot off so that you could show me the latest budget cuts inflicted upon the Guard by our civilian overlords?”

Celestia shot Argent a look that was half-censorious, half-amused. “I believe you do the sitting Government a disservice, Argent. They’ve fought very hard to keep you supplied in peacetime.”

“And, despite repeated recent threats to upset that peacetime, Their Majesties’ Most Loyal Opposition has fought even harder to defang us, if you’ll pardon my saying so, Your Highness,” replied Argent coolly.

The diarch’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “All the more reason to be appreciative of the efforts of the Prime Minister and the Tri-Party Alliance against them.”

Argent’s ears folded. The statement had been a rebuke, however politely stated. “I’ll be sure to send Fancy a fruit basket then,” she said with a meek smile.

Celestia gave a slight smile, accepting the unspoken apology. “You are correct. I did not ask you here to discuss budgets, however entertaining it may be to watch you gnash your teeth.” She levitated a field report into view. “How familiar are you with Errant Ardor?”

The captain’s lip curled at the name. “The chap who thought the best way to advance the cause of activists was to vilify one group and pit everypony else against them? Founder of those rabble-rousing Vox Mannorum and all their distasteful knee-jerk anti-anything-they-see-as-the-establishment drivel? I’m familiar. Can’t say I shed any tears when he shuffled off this mortal coil.”

“Yes, well,” Celestia passed her the report, “Close Watch says there are those who think he may have received some help on that shuffle.” Argent frowned and read through Watch’s detailed analysis of the professor’s words, as well as the contextual revelations of her investigation. When she finished, Celestia asked, “Well, what do you think?”

Argent rolled her tongue along her teeth as she pondered how to answer. “It’d seem like quite a leap to make, if not for all the sobering connections between Ardor, Well Met, Page Turner, and our suspected mole. But, even if Page Turner’s right and somepony did give ole Ardor the heave ho, who offed him?”

“A good question,” said Celestia. “There was certainly no love lost between Ardor and ponies like you or I but, whatever my detractors may think, I am not in the habit of having political enemies assassinated.” Dryly, she murmured, “Not that it’s never crossed my mind.” Argent snorted as the princess resumed her normal tone. “I suppose it’s possible that one of my agents went rogue, but neither Ernie nor I think that’s likely. Far more likely is that one of Ardor’s other enemies killed him and made it look like an accident.”

The captain grimaced. Now I wish I’d been paying more attention to the political situation at the time. “And who might those enemies be, Princess?” she asked aloud.

“The Primarchists, obviously,” answered Celestia, “Ardor threatened their wealth, power, and isolationism, so they had plenty of incentive to silence him. Then there are the radical nativists who hated him for his globalist dreams. He received more than one death threat from ponies who later became part of the Equestria First Party. There are other individual enemies he made, but those are the two biggest cabals of powerful ponies who had known reasons to kill him.”

“I suppose they’re as good a place to start looking as any,” admitted Argent. “Only… what does this all have to do with the Shades?”

“Ah,” smiled Celestia, “now that is the real question. To be quite frank, this could all be purely coincidental. Well Met wasthe Haystings DCS at the time, and Ardor’s yacht went missing in his jurisdiction. Even if Captain Met was dirty, that doesn’t mean that every case he ever worked on is suspect. But…”

“…but then there’s the matter of Ardor’s connection to the professor who, in turn, is connected to Glyph, who is connected back to Well Met.”

Celestia passed over another pair of files for soldiers named Goldenrod and Blue Blade. “There’s more. Ernie ran the names Close Watch sent back. He discovered that Well Met handled the background checks for two other students who were also mentored by Turner.”

Argent huffed. “This is a real shambles, then, isn’t it? Of course, there’s not much ponies like you and I can do about it directly without attracting attention. Which leaves us stuck keeping an ear to the ground in the hopes of getting lucky while the spooks work their magic.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Celestia.

“Typical,” sighed Argent. “Well, best to just carry on if there’s naught else to say.” She passed back the files. “Can I assume fact that we’re having this conversation without my senior staff present implies that I won’t be sharing this little tidbit with them quite yet?”

“Correct. While I respect the REF’s capacity for discretion, I’d feel more comfortable playing this close to the chest for the time being. Ernie and I felt it best that the entire inner circle be briefed, however.”

Argent quirked a smile, amused despite the gravity of the situation. “Ah, so I’m part of the ‘inner circle,’ then? Well, if the tabloids have taught me anything, I’ve moved from being a humble War Dog to one of the secret masters holding the leash of our subjugated nation. When do I get initiated into the secret rituals to dominate the minds of the populace and bend them to our Marechiavellian machinations?”

“Tuesday,” replied Celestia with an impressive deadpan. “We always perform our unspeakable rituals on Tuesday.”

“Hm. I would have thought Monday more appropriate.” The princess tilted her head in mute query. “Well, everypony hates Mondays, after all,” explained Argent obligingly.

“True,” nodded Celestia, a thoughtful expression her face. “True indeed. We ought to raise that at the next staff meeting.” Her horn lit and she levitated over a battle of brandy and two snifters. “A toast to our underhooved schemes?”

“A most excellent proposal, Your Highness.”

The next morning, Outskirts of Ponyville, near Sweet Apple Acres…

Nurse Redheart picked her way along the path towards the sound of the voices. The speakers were obscured by trees, but easy enough to pick out – a deep-voiced country drawl, and an even deeper-voiced French accent.

“Ah can have the basic structure up by the time you get back,” the first voice was saying, his smooth tone rolling over the words. “That ain’t no trouble. Started work on them carvings ya wanted for the inside a few days ago. Should be done about the time Gold Leaf finishes that taberwhatsit for ya.”

“Tabernacle,” clarified the second voice. “And I must once again commend you for your speed, my friend. T’would take far longer for any human artisan to craft both the carvings and their chapel, especially working alone.” His tone dipped. “I feel I am cheating you of your due offering so little in payment. I wish you would accept more.”

The first speaker snorted. “Now Ah already told ya, Friar, any friend o’ the Apple family’s is a friend o’ mine. Besides, ya saved the fillies. What kind o’ stallion would Ah be chargin’ ya full price after that, ’specially since ya wouldn’ta gotten so banged up in the first place if’n Ah’d cleared out that neck o’ Everfree a day sooner. Way Ah see it, Ah owe ya some cheap labor in return.”

I wonder how many times he’s had basically this same ‘you don’t have to thank me – I’m thanking you anyway’ conversation since he showed up, Redheart thought with a chuckle as she drew closer to the clearing where the two chatted.

“You blame yourself unnecessarily, my friend. Even with all the work you do to keep the timber wolves in check, you cannot be everywhere at once.”

“That don’t change the fact you got banged up.”

Redheart emerged from the woods to see Friar Jacques speaking to a dark-coated stallion sporting a brown stetson, a blue bandana, and a bristling grey mustache. The pair were conferring over the wooden frame of a small timber structure that had begun to take shape in the small clearing they now occupied. A blueprint was propped up on a makeshift drawing table detailing plans for a personal project of the Friar’s.

Jacques looked up at Redheart’s approach and smiled as he replied to the stallion’s statement. “Pray, don’t fret on it any longer, Monsieur Oak. I think it all worked out the way it was meant to.” He gestured to Redheart. “After all, had I not been so injured I would not have made such wonderful friends as the good nurse here. Bonjour, Redheart.”

“Bonjour, Friar,” she answered. Turning to the stallion, she added, “Burnt Oak, good to see you again.”

The lumberjack tipped his hat politely. “Miss Redheart. Always a pleasure.”

“Likewise. So, how’s the chapel coming along?”

“Quite well,” said Jacques. “It should be ready to use in a couple days, and the décor completed in a week or two.” He shook his head in wonderment. “You ponies never cease to amaze me.”

“Oh, it ain’t much,” said Burnt Oak modestly. “Ah happen ta be a fair hoof with the plane and lathe. Knockin’ together somethin’ smaller than most Ponyville houses is a vacation for me.”

Jacques folded his arms. “And making the wood carvings for the interior?”

“Icing on the cake,” smiled the stallion as he folded up his blueprint. “Ah gotta head back into town ta pick up supplies.” He tipped his hat to each of them. “Friar. Miss Redheart.” With that, he departed.

After bidding farewell to the lumberjack, she turned to Jacques and asked, “He undercharging you that much?”

Jacques rolled his eyes. “Oh, it’s not just him. It’s Gold Leaf for the tabernacle, Silver Inlay for the crucifix, Iron Fittings for the iron fittings…” he threw up his arms in frustration. “It’s as though everypony in this town has a vested interest in not allowing me to pay out my substantial largesse.” Redheart smiled at the man’s ire as he continued, “I enlisted Big MacIntosh’s aid in distributing my money to charities, instructing him to leave some aside for a simple chapel and my armor, thinking that would be the end of it. Then he went and grew my account by investing it in something he called ‘mutual funds’ – the ones he picked apparently donate to various charities while also accruing interest for me, which then leaves more money to invest in more such sem-charities…” he waved a dismissive hand,“or something to that effect. Heaven’s sakes, we Templars were bankers for a time and I don’t understand half of what he’s doing! Honestly, I think I might have more money now than when I started giving it away! Never before have I had such difficulty living a vow of poverty!” Redheart tittered into her hoof, earning her a long-suffering look from the man. “Et tu, little sister?”

“I’m sorry, Friar, I just find it ironic that you’re trying so hard not to be wealthy. You better be careful who you tell about this – you might give some ponies whiplash.”

The friar grunted. “Yes, well, as amusing as my unintentional affluence is, that’s not why I asked you to come find me before I left for the weekend.” He reached into his satchel and pulled out a sheaf of handwritten notes. “Meditations and spiritual exercises,” said the friar, handing her the bundle. “Compilations of various musings I’ve had that helped me understand my healing magic, as well as things I felt would be particularly helpful to you.”

Redheart took the notes and flipped through them. For the past two weeks, she’d been trying to learn the old earth pony healing magic whenever she had a spare minute. It had proved… difficult to say the least. Earth ponies, regrettably, were not known for documenting their techniques with the same rigor as the unicorns or pegasi. Even their mages seldom wrote much. This was in part because most of their methods were more intuitive than analytical. Getting them to work was more a matter of mindset than formula, something which annoyed Twilight to no end.

And it doesn’t exactly lower my blood pressure either, admitted Redheart ruefully.

Furthermore, healing magic of the sort that Jacques was using was heavily tied to the tenets of the Way of Harmony. It wasn’t enough to simply know the mechanics, the old texts insisted. One had to have one’s soul ordered to righteous purpose.

Fortunately, Jacques was a man of science and spirituality. Leading souls to righteousness was his chief vocation. His solution to Redheart’s limited progress had been to introduce her to meditation and spiritual exercises. The purpose was not to empty her mind of thought, he told her, but to elevate those thoughts – to contemplate with wonderment the higher calling of her life and let loose her imagination to ponder the ‘how’ and ‘why’ of her existence.

“I believe these will be of some help to you,” Jacques told her, tapping the packet he’d given her with a gnarled finger. “Your calling is that of a healer. Pondering the deeper mysteries of life will show you the way forward. I included principles taken from the Desert Fathers and Mothers of my world, mystics like Saints Basil and Syncletica, as well as the great minds of Aquinas, Augustine, and a few others.” Reaching down, he flipped ahead a few pages. “I also took the liberty of including the words of various spiritual masters of your own land.” He tapped one passage with a finger. “This one I found especially illuminating.”

‘When a pony needs to start a fire, at first she gets choked by smoke, and she tears up,’ the text read, ‘but her perseverance rewards her with flame and warmth. It’s the same with a pony who wants the Fire to light in her heart – she’s gotta be willing to put in the tears and hard work.’ Redheart checked the citation and saw that the original quote had been penned by a healer mage named Meadowbrook. Smiling at Jacques, she said, “Thank you, Friar. I’m sure this will be a big help.”

“I’m glad,” he said warmly. The priest reached into his pocket and pulled out a stopwatch, a gift from Twilight. “And I’m afraid that’s all we have time to discuss. I need to get to the train station and you need to get to work.”

Redheart’s face fell. “Do you really have to go to Canterlot?”

He waved his hand. “It’s only for a couple days. I’ll be back before you know it, never fear.”

The nurse raised an eyebrow. “Friar, whenever somepony around here says something like ‘never fear,’ something bad always happens.”

Laughing the man tapped her nose gently with a finger. “Lucky for us, I’m no pony.”

Redheart snorted in irritation. “Please don’t give me reason to worry.”

“When have I ever done that?”

“Do you want that list in alphabetical or categorical order?”

“Bah! You exaggerate.” He checked his watch again. “And we really must be going or else we’ll both be late.” The old man gave a slight bow and a jaunty wave. “Au revoir, Nurse Redheart. I shall see you upon my return.”

She trotted up and gave him a quick hug. “Take care of yourself, old man.”

“Go with God, bonne sœur.”

They parted ways after that, Jacques walking to the station and Redheart to Ponyville General. As she walked, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy. It wasn’t a sensation that she was certain she could put into words, but somehow she just knew that something was going to go wrong. Even when she reached town, the feeling wouldn’t leave.

In part to distract herself, in part from curiosity to see what else the friar had prepared for her, she flipped to a random page of the notes. A moment later, townsponies were staring as Nurse Redheart laughed hysterically in the middle of the street, the notes open to a passage from some human named Matthew. It read, ‘Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?’

Ponyville Train Station

“Oh, I do wish the passengers would finish disembarking so we could board and be on our way,” lamented Rarity. “I cannot wait to show you around Canterlot!”

Jacques suppressed a chuckle as he watched the fashionista’s prancing. “I am looking forward to it myself, madam, though it is plain your excitement outweighs my own.”

“Iwish I was going with you,” pouted Sweetie Belle. “Can’t I please come, sis? I promise not to get in the way.”

“Can’t we please come?” corrected Scootaloo.

“We’ve been on our best behavior,” added Applebloom.

Jacques bent down to pat them each on the head. “Sorry, little ones, but your sisters tell me you are all still serving out your sentences.”

“It’s been weeks!” protested Scootaloo. “Weeks with no crusading! Weeks where Sweetie and I haven’t even gotten to hang out with the cool new alien!”

The ‘alien’ in question folded his arms. “While I sympathize with your lamentable lack of crusading, perhaps now you will think better of disobeying your elders and risking your lives in the woods.”

Dejected, the three fillies wandered to the side, muttering. Twilight, giggling at their antics, trotted up to bid Jacques farewell. “I wish I was going too,” she said. “It would have been nice to show you around my hometown. The museums, the research centers, the library…”

“Next time, young scholar,” he assured her. “I very much doubt this will be my last journey to the capital. In the meantime you have your studies to attend to.”

“I have been studying!”

“Yes, and your proficiency with those spells the princess sent you is most impressive, but,” the friar smirked and bopped her on the nose with a finger, “your martial technique could always use honing.”

Twilight sneezed at the bop of her snout and rubbed a hoof across her muzzle. “Then could you at least take Fritters with you instead of Oaken?” she grumbled. “He’s smacked me around so much in training I’ve got bruises on my bruises.”

Fritters, who had been close by chatting to Applejack, immediately butted in with a drill sergeant’s ire. “What was that, newbie? I hear you questionin’ my training methods?”

The young mare eeped. “No, Colour Sergeant! Your training methodology is impeccable and I consider it an honor and a privilege to be thumped silly by your training spear, Colour Sergeant!”

“Mm,” grunted Fritters. “That’s better, newbie. Now drop and gimme thirty.”

Muttering adorable pony explitives under her breath, Twilight did as she was bade. Rainbow and Pinkie Pie made the mistake of snickering, which led to them each getting forty. Pinkie complied with her customary smile, but Rainbow decided to dig a deeper hole. “We’re not even training right now!” she protested. “And they’re not even Guard!”

Fritters turned to her with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Cadet, did I give you permission to bellyache about doing fifty pushups?”

Rainbow gulped, barked, “No, Colour Sergeant,” and started, apparently forgetting that she was no longer a cadet and, in fact, outranked him. Technically.

Morning Song shook her head, a resigned expression on her features. “Marble, if I end up needing to step away for any reason, I’m charging you with ensuring the Konik Plague doesn’t break the saviors of Equestria while I’m out.”

The diminutive pegasus nodded gravely. “I will do my best, ma’am.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Jacques declared, pitching his voice loud enough for all the Bearers (and Big Mac, who stood silently to one side) to hear. “After all, they are coming along magnificently in their martial studies.” The mares and stallion beamed at the praise, save for Fluttershy, who blushed and hid behind her mane.

“Mighty kind o’ ya ta say, Friar,” said Applejack, tipping her hat.

He waved her praise off. “I only speak the truth.”

And he did. The trainees, both old and knew, had impressed him with their progress. True, their propensity for making great strides in capability through impromptu musical numbers was… frankly unsettling at first, but he could not deny the results.

Applejack was a natural fighter with good instincts. Her technique was solid and improving with time. If she had one weakness, it was that she could be over cautious in her attacks, likely because she feared injuring ponies with her impressive strength. The friar got the distinct impression that, in a real fight, her instincts would take over.

Big MacIntosh progressed similarly though, interestingly, the thoughtful stallion’s restraint manifested more as control than as undue caution. The gentle stallion was careful not to bowl his opponents over, but Jacques knew he would be a fearsome fighter if roused.

Rainbow Dash was similar to the Apple siblings in her natural ability and was perhaps an even more gifted fighter than they. Yet she tended to be reckless. She was dangerous, but flawed. Properly tempered, she’ll be truly formidable.

Twilight Sparkle was a technically proficient and versatile fighter, with her great magical power and quick thinking making her a strong combatant. The unicorn’s past training in battle casting and basic melee combat gave her a solid foundation to build on. Her main flaw was that she thought too much, second-guessing herself or over-complicating matters at critical moments. When she managed to find her rhythm, she was one of the most dangerous among them. But, whenever her perfectionism or lack of confidence took hold, she was vulnerable.

Rarity, it happened, had a background in both archery and in the martial art known as Wing Chun. Archery she’d cultivated as a hobby, first to impress the nobility, then simply as a pleasurable exercise in precision and control. Wing Chun, she admitted with a blush, she’d studied as a means of tempering her temper. Jacques understood the value of such a pursuit, having been taught swordplay by his father so that he might appreciate the deadly power of a blade and the fragility of human life. Through these joint truths, I came to know the duty of an honorable man to restrain his violence to grim necessity.

The fashionista’s impressive focus and telekinetic ability meshed well with the many knives she now possessed. However, her focus could be both a blessing and a curse. Whenever she became too focused, she missed obvious threats. This was especially dangerous against ponies like Big Mac or Applejack – Rarity’s light, skirmisher fighting style was not suited to close combat with heavier weapons.

Fluttershy, not surprisingly, was the weakest of the fighters. She tried, bless her heart, but seldom moved from defense into offense. The trainers typically had to begin by helping her get into the proper mindset; the pegasus’ aggression was buried quite deep. It is not absent, however, thought Jacques, recalling an instance where Fluttershy had, quite unexpectedly, gotten into the flow of the sparring match and poleaxed Fritters with her quarterstaff, becoming the first of the new trainees to land a serious blow on the stallion. Her apologies had been profuse, but Fritters had been ecstatic. Once his head stopped spinning, that is.

As for Pinkie Pie…

“Yeah, but when do I throw my shield?” Pinkie asked.

Jacques blinked. “Miss Pie, you do not ‘throw your shield.’ Ideally, it stays firmly attached to your arm— er, foreleg.”

Pinkie tilted her head, perplexed. “But then how do I Captain Equestria somepony?”

“Quoi?”

By way of answer, Pinkie hefted her round shield like a discuss and flung it at the side of the barn. Jacques watched, expecting the shield to bounce off.

It did… rebounding directly into Pinkie’s waiting grasp.

Jacques gaped.

“See? Like that,” she said cheerily, as though she hadn’t just flagrantly violated every known law of physics.

“” exclaimed Jacques, slipping into French.

“What?” asked Pinkie. “Is that not how you use shields?”

“Celestia’s ethereal mane, Pinkie, no!” he exclaimed. “How did you do that?!” Oh heavens, he thought, realizing how Celestia had slipped into his speech. I’ve been here longer than I realized.

“I just threw it,” she replied. “See?” The pink menace proceeded to replicate the impossibility.

Jacques stared in awe, his mind struggling to comprehend this brave new reality. Mutely, he held out his hand in request for the shield. Pinkie passed it, and he cocked back his arm to throw. “Just throw it?” he asked.

“Yuppers!”

The friar flung the shield at the barn wall. It punched clean through, obliterating boards and embedding itself in the far side. Jacques blanched, but Pinkie seemed relieved. “Well,” she muttered, “at least the barn didn’t come down this time.”

Jacques hunched his shoulders like a guilty youngster. “Applejack!” he called. “I have a confession to make…”

Pinkie Pie’s training was coming along, and the less Jacques thought about it the saner he felt.

Jacques’ own progress had been considerable. He’d learned much of the nuances of fighting quadrupeds and, of even greater significance, made great strides in the mastery of his magic. True, much of that involved reading Argent Martel’s grim account of the War of the Shades, which left him dreading the day he’d have to share the book with Twilight, but he was making progress all the same. His endurance and power had markedly increased since that fateful walk through the Everfree, as had his fine control and flexibility. He’d added new abilities to his repertoire and honed those he already possessed. To test them all, the friar threw himself into repeated no-holds-barred fights with the others.

His first such match with Fritters (wisely undertaken while Redheart was at work) left both wrapped in ice packs and wolfing down food to replace lost calories. The unicorn’s appetite was so frightful on that day that Jacques likened him unto the Biblical plague of locusts and bequeathed unto him the moniker ‘the Konik Plague.’ They had also learned that Jacques’ healing was more effective in repairing damage done by dark magic than in repairing that inflicted by conventional means.

Thankfully, it was still enough to hide the bruises and lacerations from Redheart later that day. As for the nurse, her progress is slow, but steady. We shall make it work.

The training had been equal parts rewarding and exhausting, but now it was time for Jacques to take a short trip. His restlessness had gotten the better of him, along with a desire to commission a proper suit of armor. When he mentioned this to the others two days ago, Rarity, who had business in Canterlot, offered to take him to an armorer and weaponsmith she knew.

Her offer sparked some… reactions.

“Woah, woah, woah!” exclaimed Rainbow, waving her forelegs in a halting motion. “Why the hay do you know a weaponsmith?”

“Well, Steel Weave is not just a weaponsmith,” explained the fashionista. “He also happens to be a semi-professional couturier whose rare ventures onto the fashion scene are something of a legend.”

Rainbow gagged. “Great. So he’s gonna gussy up the friar with some pretty patterns instead of plate armor.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” interjected Morning Song, who was spinning a knife with one hoof. “The Guards who commission him for special orders always speak quite highly of him.”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you,” muttered Fritters, earning him a sharp glance from his lieutenant, the meaning of which Jacques could only guess at.

With two recommendations to his name, visiting Steel Weave was the logical choice. Oaken volunteered to go along as escort, given his familiarity with the city and his interest in seeing both sides of Weave’s work.

Which led to Jacques, Oaken, and Rarity standing on the platform with the others seeing them off. The call for boarding finally came, and the travelers busied themselves loading their luggage. In practice, this meant that Oaken and Jacques carried their own satchels while also stowing Rarity’s frankly preposterous quantity of baggage. After much heaving and straining they managed to stow her cases and trunks, which left them little time to bid farewell before the train left. Most of their goodbyes were shouted from the windows as the train began to move.

Jacques was so taken with the unusual sensation of the locomotive that he almost forgot to shout, “And be sure to tell Redheart that I promise to be careful!” as they pulled out of the station.

Rarity smirked at that. “Just as well she and Medevac were working at the time of our departure. I take it she did not think highly of you galivanting off to a distant city beyond her care?”

The friar rolled his eyes. “That mare hovers like a guardian angel over a wayward youth. It’s as though she thinks I’ll juggle torches in a room full of black powder if she isn’t around to keep me on the straight and narrow.”

“An amusing image, to be sure,” chortled Rarity.

Oaken shook his head in wonderment. “Given how often disaster strikes Ponyville, I’m a little amazed that she thinks keeping an eye on you will have any effect.”

“Indeed,” agreed Rarity. “Why, I suspect you might be safer leaving Ponyville than staying.”

Jacques snorted. “You ponies make too much of such things. I highly doubt that anything untoward will happen on this trip.”

The Bearers and their families were just turning to leave when they were startled by the sight of Pinkie Pie posing and exclaiming dramatically, “Bum-bum-bah!” She looked pensive for a moment, then giggled.

Bemused, they turned inquisitive gazes upon her. “Miss Pie?” asked Fritters. “Something you’d like to share with the class?”

“Hm? Oh, that.” She waved a hoof dismissively. “That was just my Pinkie Sense telling me something dramatically ironic is going to happen soon.”

The other ponies exchanged glances. “So…” began Twilight, “like, good dramatic irony or bad dramatic irony?”

“Dunno,” shrugged Pinkie. “That’s one of those ‘certain point of view things,’ I think. Anyway, nothing we can do about it. Lah la lah la lah,” she sang as she bounced off.

Watching her go, the remaining ponies shifted uncomfortably.

“Welp,” remarked Applejack. “That ain’t reassuring.”

“Maybe it’s just standard Ponyville shenanigans?” ventured Rainbow. “You know, ‘crisis of the day’ kind of stuff?”

“Oh, I certainly hope so,” quavered Fluttershy.

Ironhide winced. “If you don’t mind my saying, the fact that you have a benchmark for ‘standard shenanigans’ that includes anything called a ‘crisis’ is worrisome.”

Morning Song rapped a hoof on the platform. “Like the mare said, not a lot we can do about it. All the same, I think it best if everypony makes a point of hanging near each other today and keeping our eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary.” The ponies agreed and left to go about their business.

Unbeknownst to them, a blue-coated mare clad in hat and cloak watched from a distant hill. Catching sight of a certain lavender unicorn, Trixie’s lips curled in a cruel grin. Soon, Sparkle, she promised. Soon. The malevolent mare gave a sinister cackle, and her eyes flashed red.

“… and ever since then I’ve been rather taken with the idea of using sashes to tie such ensembles together,” Rarity was saying as she stirred her tea. “Of course, that’s led to a few missteps on my part, but c'est la vie. Art demands experimentation.”

“Agreed,” remarked Oaken, “though with the caveat that an artist should know when to recognize the failure of an experiment. Those tacky red things Fashion Forward submitted to last year’s showing in Canterlot?” he shuddered. “They looked like a foal went crazy with a sewing machine and starch and tried to make a manticore costume, only to fail miserably.”

Rarity tittered into her hoof. “You sound like Applejack. Still, I’m forced to agree. Those garish costumes evoked en garde more than avant-garde.”

The pair laughed. Jacques suppressed a sigh, pivoting in his seat to observe the rolling scenery beyond the window. Rarity and Oaken’s conversation had turned swiftly to fashion after their departure, as this was in large part a business trip for her. They hadn’t stopped talking about it for the last two hours, not when they were in the passenger car, and not now when they sat at the bar in the dining car. As a man who cared nothing for fashion in his own world and knew nothing of the fashion in Equestria, Jacques felt rather like an old watchdog trying to sleep while a pair of pups cavorted and played.

He took a sip of his coffee and consoled himself with the thought, At least the scenery is beautiful and the coffee exquisite. One of his favorite things about coming to Equestria was the ease of obtaining the dark drink. He’d come to love it thanks to the influence of the Turkish and Arab auxiliaries the Templars sometimes employed, but it was so hard to obtain in most of Europe that it was a luxury he could ill afford in his monastic frugality.* In Equestria, however, the drink was so ubiquitous as to fall within the purview of his vow of poverty, a fact for which he was profoundly grateful.

The monk focused on enjoying his beverage and the magnificence of the passing countryside, letting the drone of conversation fade into the background. Habitually, he watched for threats, but this was more instinct than conscious thought. In any case, there were few passengers in the dining car to be wary of. Most, after initially gawking at him, simply went back to their meals.

Some time later, a new pony entered the dining car. He was a pegasus, thin and pale-coated, with curly black mane and sharp brown eyes. The travel suit he wore was simple, but well-tailored, with dark jacket and blue tie. His mark appeared to be the scales of justice, and, when he spotted Jacques at the bar and nodded with a sort of bemused politeness, Jacques saw a potent intensity in the pony’s gaze.

Yet, he looks drawn, thin. Those clothes are high quality, but they don’t fit him properly, as though he’s lost weight since having them made. And those rings under his eyes suggest he doesn’t sleep well.

Rarity and Oaken both glanced up at the newcomer, then both did a double take. “My word!” exclaimed Rarity sotto voce. “That’s Will Windforce!”

“Who?” asked Jacques in the same muted tone as the tired-looking pony took a seat at one of the window booths and waved the waiter over.

“One of the leading Centrist MPs,” explained Oaken. “Originally, he was from Equestrians United for Emancipation; they were one of the independent parties that folded into the Centrists two elections ago.”

“The core of the EUE’s platform is fighting the trafficking in sapients. That and battling the corruption and abuse enabling the trade in the first place,” elaborated Rarity, admiration evident in her voice. “He’s been a tireless force for sapient rights for over two decades!”

Jacques raised an eyebrow. “He looks quite tired to me,” remarked the old man.

“That’s nothing new,” said Oaken. “I’ve been on shift before when he’s had late-night meetings with the Crown or Cabinet, and I’ve never seen him look rested. But he’s too stubborn to back down. I’ve heard mules say they think he’s one of theirs in disguise.”

The MP sat quietly, making no effort to be recognized or even noticed. He stared out the window with somber expression, as though willing the scenery to soothe him.

“A true warrior,” remarked Jacques, “even if he carries no blade.”

Oaken and Rarity nodded. “He’s probably coming back from the southern border if he’s on this train,” observed the Lunar Guard.

Jacques recalled that Morning Song was from somewhere along the southern border. Then he recalled her sobering tale of why she’d joined the REF. It would seem that there is still trouble in those lands, he mused grimly.

Further speculation was cut short by the arrival of another pony from the rear door, opposite of where Windforce had entered. Because they were discretely watching Windforce, Rarity and Oaken had their backs to the newcomer, but Jacques got a good look at him.

The unicorn was tall, young, and fit. He wore the loose-fitting uniform of a crewmember, but even with the loose clothing his muscle tone was evident.

Train crew like him had been coming and going all day, but this one gave Jacques pause. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why, but something was definitely off. Taking care to be discrete in his observations, he watched the stallion out of the corner of his eye while he sipped his coffee.

Unaware of the scrutiny, the stallion called out, “Mr. Windforce?” The MP looked up. “Some of your luggage has come loose in the baggage car. We’d like you to inspect it with us to verify the condition of the items inside.”

Nothing was wrong about what the stallion said, but alarm bells rang in Jacques’ head.

Windforce sighed and got up, paying for the meal he hadn’t even received yet before following the unicorn. “Let’s see what the damage is,” he said fatalistically.

The crewmember moved aside to let the MP pass, and as he did Jacques caught sight of a bulge beneath his jacket – an angular shape that tapered to a point. This is an assassination! he thought. But there are too many innocents in this car to risk starting a fight here! We’ll have to follow.

Dropping his voice to the point where it was barely audible over the train, he leaned towards his companions. “What have you for weapons?” he asked quietly.

Both ponies were startled by the question, but Oaken’s training strangled whatever questions he might have had in favor of taking action. “A short sword and dagger in my kit bag,” he said, kicking the duffel at his hooves. “My spear is under lock and key.”

Windforce and the crewpony passed from the car.

“Jacques, darling,” interjected Rarity, “what is—”

“That crewmember had a weapon under his jacket and a pony like Windforce doubtless has enemies,” answered Jacques, rising from his chair and tossing a few coins on the counter to avoid suspicion. “Arm yourselves and stay behind me.”

He hitched up his sword belt and followed the MP and the crewmember as casually as he could. Rarity and Oaken followed, the latter carrying his duffel.

They reached the exit door and stepped out onto the small platform between the cars. Oaken opened the duffel and drew his sword, passing the dagger to Rarity. Jacques, remembering the tight confines of the baggage car, opted to draw his own dagger rather than his longsword. They crossed to the other car and Jacques gripped the door handle. He glanced back at the two ponies. “Ready?” he asked. Oaken nodded, his face an impassive mask. Rarity looked frightened, but she nodded too. “God be with us,” said Jacques, and he twisted the handle.

Jacques pushed the door open quietly and crept into the room, his sandaled feet light on the floorboards. The other two slunk in after. Oaken had the presence of mind to close the door softly behind them. Stacks of bags created something of a maze, but there was really only one path. As they traveled it, two voices could be heard, one strained, one mocking.

“Ready to die, Windforce?” asked the assassin, his voice airy and casual.

“You dastard!” snarled the MP, who was struggling to speak. “Why are you doing this?!”

The other stallion must have something braced across his throat, thought Jacques as they wove closer.

“Simple, Windforce,” replied the assassin. “You stuck your muzzle where it wasn’t wanted. Woulda been fine if you’d just stayed in Equestria.”

Jacques reversed grip on his dagger as they rounded the last stack.

Windforce was pinned to the ground by the big crewmember. The MP had put up a fight, knocking over several cases and giving the assassin a black eye, but he was plainly outmatched. Now, the unicorn crewmember straddled him, a knife upraised in his telekinetic grasp.

“Your misplaced care for lesser creatures got you killed, Mr. Windforce,” mocked the assassin. “Pity. Goodbye—”

There was a clash of steel-on-steel as Jacques flung his dagger and struck the knife out of the stallion’s grip, sending both blades ricocheting into the hold. The assassin looked up in shock, but Jacques had already cleared the distance between them with his long stride. He punched the stallion square in the jaw and sent him spinning across the compartment to smash into another stack of luggage.

The pony recovered more quickly than he should have, leaping to his hooves and snarling. “You should have aimed to kill me, freak!” he spat.

Jacques stood defensively over the shocked Windforce. “But then I wouldn’t get to ask you any questions,” he replied mildly.

The stallion scowled and his horn pulsed with magic. But it wasn’t his natural blue aura – it a black, bubbling anti-aura that seemed to suck out the light. A dozen sickly black darts, double-edged and a foot in length, formed in the air.

Jacques felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Dark magic! He crouched in front of Windforce and snapped his left arm up to conjure a white shield, making it as broad as he could. “Take cover!” he ordered.

No sooner had he thrown up the shield than the darts were flung. Most exploded against his shield. The others impaled themselves into the baggage behind, narrowly missing Oaken and Rarity, who had to dive behind the shield to avoid them.

Snarling, the assassin charged another attack, but had to divert power to throw up a hasty shield when Rarity snapped off a magic missile at him. “Fiend! Brute!” she shouted.

Jacques took advantage of their assailant’s distraction to spring forward, punching at the stallion’s head. His target ducked at the last second, and Jacques buried his fist in the wooden trunk behind. The stallion conjured a new blade and stabbed at Jacques, but the friar deflected the dark weapon with his free hand and swung the other, still stuck in the trunk, down at the smaller creature. Leaping back, the assassin narrowly avoided behind crushed beneath the hammer blow. The trunk exploded against the floorboards, spraying wood and metal fragments in all directions. Jacques felt several of the shards cut his face, and the fake crewmember had to throw up his hooves to protect his eyes.

Taking advantage of the assassin’s temporary distraction, Jacques bellowed to his comrades, “Get Windforce out of here!”

The pair hauled the dazed MP to his hooves and ran for the exit. Rarity half-dragged Windforce while Oaken pushed from the other side, keeping himself between the assassin and his charges.

With a hiss, the dark unicorn created another swarm of darts. Jacques tried to throw out his shield to dispel them, and he was close enough that he almost succeeded. Of the dozen darts, ten shattered. Two zipped past, aimed straight for Windforce.

But Oaken was ready. The guard used his foreleg like a shield. Both spikes sank deep into his flesh, and he howled in pain, but he and his charges managed to duck behind the stacks of baggage.

The assassin made to follow, but had to roll to avoid another shattering punch from Jacques. Coming up out of the roll by one of the fallen knives, he grabbed the blade and thrust it for the friar’s vitals. Jacques managed parry with one hand and divert the strike from a fatal wounding, but he still took the knife in the side. Triumphant, the stallion tried to pull it out and strike again. Then Jacques connected with one of his punches and smashed the pony into the far wall.

This time, the stallion did not spring so readily to his hooves. He had only just managed to rise when Jacques delivered a punishing kick to his ribs. Blood sprayed from the assassin’s lips as he was booted up into the air—

Straight into the downward double blow of Jacques’ upraised fists. The stallion crashed to the floor, splintering the wood. This time, he did not rise.

Jacques sagged against the wall, panting. He fingered the knife in his side, then left it, deciding not to pull it out until he was ready to deal with it. Well, that was bracing. The friar nudged the stallion with his foot. To his shock, the bloodied assassin looked up. “Still conscious after all that?” remarked the friar admiringly. “I’ll give you this much, backstabber. You have grit.”

The assassin cackled weakly and spat out a glob of blood. “So do you, freak.”

“Why did you attempt to kill Windforce?” demanded Jacques.

“Why does it matter?” smirked the assassin through bloodied and missing teeth.

Jacques frowned. “Do not test my patience, backstabber. I know the Equestrians have kinder laws than my countrymen do, but you’ll be lucky to cheat the noose if you remain silent.”

“I’m dead either way,” replied the stallion, pushing himself up enough to raise his head. “I failed.” He leered. “Better to die on my own terms.”

The unicorn’s horn lit with black magic, and Jacques tensed to defend himself from a desperation attack. I’ll have to subdue him further— he saw the dart, conjured such that it protruded from the floor, point towards the stallion’s head.

“NO!” Jacques roared, lunging to stop the foolish final act.

He was too late. The stallion threw his throat onto the point, jamming the dart up through his brain.

Jacques fell to his knees beside his enemy, helpless horror gripping him. “” he exclaimed in French. “”

Bowing his head, he prayed. The train surged uncaringly forward, now carrying one less soul than when it started.

Author's Note

Aura de Patience stormed into Antiquarian's office with a look in her eye that suggested she would not be living up to her name today. The stallion was busy reviewing his author’s note and didn’t look up as she entered. “Miss Aura, do you think I should include my hyperlinks for the suicide hotline and international crisis lines in this chapter? I know it’s my policy to always do that when the chapter contains suicide, which this technically does, but it’s hardly the same thing as would typically warrant it. Ah well, best be safe.” Finally raising his eyes, he noticed her anger. “Problem?” he asked mildly.

“Care to explain that reference you made in the chapter?” she demanded.

Antiquarian blinked. “Well, the Templars, like most forces in the Middle East during the period of the Crusader kingdoms, hired Muslim soldiers. After all the population remained majority Muslim for the duration of the Outremer, as the Crusaders didn’t care about conversion, only ownership of the holy sites, and there were not mass efforts at conversion save for that of St. Francis of Assisi who, hilariously, got permission from the Sultan to try because the Sultan admired his gumption and peaceful zealotry.”

Now it was Aura’s turn to blink in confusion. “What? No! Not that reference!”

The writer tried again. “Black Rifle Coffee Company makes great coffee, even if their commercials can be too raunchy, and they give to a lot of veteran and first responder charities with every purchase, so it felt appropriate to reference them with ‘Black Crossbow.’”

“No!” snapped Aura.

“Trench is called Trench because of a real-world combat chaplain by the name of Father Doyle, the ‘Trench Priest.’ I first came across him because of his reflections on fighting scrupulosity, but his story bears repeating in its own right. He was an Irish priest who served in the First World War with the Royal Irish Fusiliers, braving bullets, artillery, and gas attacks to tend the wounded and give last rights. He died attempting to save a wounded comrade from No-Man’s Land while under heavy fire, being hit directly by artillery.”

“That’s… an incredible story, and admirable beyond words that he was a shepherd to the end, but not what I was referring to.”

“Um… I feel bad about putting Amma Syncletica in and then basically pirating an actual quote of hers and giving it, with minor alterations, to Meadowbrook.”

“Try. Again.” gritted Aura.

“John Pinette, may he rest in peace, is one of my favorite comedians.”

“Antiq!”

Antiquarian threw up his hooves in frustration. “Mare, I do not know what you want from me!”

“Cataan, Antiq! Cataan!”

The writer’s face broadened into a smile. “Ah, yes, the marvelous Settlers of Cataan. Such a wholesome way for friends to relax and enjoy each other’s company—”

“Such a Machiavellian way for you to psychologically manipulate us and pit us against each other while your grimy hooves scrambled for all the brick, you mean!” snarled Aura.

“Listen, Crafter was hoarding all the sheep—”

“Nopony wanted his blasted sheep!”

***

Most of the time, my family is about the most considerate, loving, charitable, civic-minded clan of people you’ll ever meet. Except when we play Settlers of Cataan. Then we all become supervillains. To paraphrase the late great John Pinette, even the most laid back and patient people tend to lose their cherub-like demeanor when playing.

But, yeah, Father Willie Doyle was an impressive man. He was actually recommended for the Victoria Cross, the UK's highest award, for his bravery, but was turned down for the triple disqualification in the UK (at the time): Irish, Catholic, and Jesuit. This despite several high-ranking superiors up to and including generals who thought he deserved the VC.

As for the chapter, I promised death, did I not?

Shoutout this chapter is Lessons From a Farm Pony by Terrasora. It has some good down to earth lessons and was an enjoyable read.

*Also, I'm assuming Jacques drank coffee at one of the times it was permissible for him to do so in the midst of the church's... complicated relationship with the drink during that era (which lasted until the 1500s). For a variety of complex reasons, there was concern that coffee was spiritually dangerous and things went back and forth for years, with different people alleging different things (and politics probably got involved too). From what I gather, I surmise a lot of it depended on local bishops and priests as to whether one could drink it or not. To clear up the controversy, Pope Clement VIII eventually declared Catholics could drink coffee, and writings suggest he may have even baptized the bean just so everyone was clear that they didn't need to worry it being evil, because sometimes that's what it takes. The whole thing is an amusing little episode in history, but this story assumes Jacques was obedient to whatever declaration was made on it by whatever spiritual authority he was under. And, if that ends up being historically inaccurate because someone finds an obscure record I'm not aware off... we'll just consider this AU to be one wherein it was kosher for him to have his java because I only found out about this after I'd written the chapter and I'm not changing it.

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Strength Training

Cloak sat alone in the room he shared with his brother in the lower districts of Canterlot. It was close enough to the underground martial school they ran for the Vox to be convenient, but far enough away to provide some insulation from a raid should the Guard somehow catch wind of the plot.

It also provided some much-needed distance from the youthful energy and misguided optimism of the Vox. Cloak had come to appreciate that distance more with each passing day. At first, he’d found their naivete pathetic. Then, he found it aggravating. Now, other emotions had taken up unpleasant residence in his mind. Emotions he wasn’t sure he could properly put into words.

Offense at their blindness, perhaps?

Astonishment that they didn’t recognize they were being played?

Pity?

At times he would find himself hoping they’d wake up and smell the horse crap. Then he’d strangle those treacherous thoughts, because a Shade shouldn’t care what happened to them. They were weak. They deserved this.

Right?

When he allowed himself to pity any of the Vox, he pitied Sandstone and Sea Breeze. The young couple were earnest and well-meaning, and seemed especially out of their depth.

At other times, the thought of them made Cloak’s lip curl in scorn.

Fools! he would think. Do they not see how their concern for others makes them weak?

But then, a voice would remind him that the love he and his brother shared was their greatest strength.

Angrily, he would round on the happy couple in his thoughts, decrying their pathetic willingness to serve a cause that did nothing for them.

Yet there’s something familiar about them, isn’t there, came the mental reply. That naivete, that belief that the world can be just and kind… you know what that’s like, don’t you, Cloak? You used to feel that way too.

Cloak ground his teeth in frustration. Yes, I did feel that way. Because I was a child. Because I didn’t know how the world worked. Because everything I loved hadn’t been taken away from me!

You still have your brother, he was reminded.

Yes. His brother. The only other survivor of that night. The one who’d covered him with his wings for warmth as they shivered in that blasted ditch, watching their home be consumed in fire and blood.

And where was Celestia’s light for us that night?! Where was the strong hoof to defend us?! Where was our Harmony?! Nowhere! The only strength in this world is what you take for yourself!

Is it strength to strip away the innocence of another pair of vulnerable ponies?

Yes! thought Cloak with all the vehemence he could muster. But the word left a bitter taste in his mouth.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Dagger poked his head in. “Ready to go, bro?”

Without thinking, Cloak responded, “Ready to go manipulate some poor dumb misguided idealists into being our spear-fodder?”

Dagger blinked. “Um… yeah. You ready to go do that?”

Cloak gave his head a shake to clear it. What’s wrong with me? “Yeah, coming.” He rose to his hooves and followed his quizzical brother out the door.

As they walked, Dagger shot him an odd look. “You okay, bro?”

“Sure,” lied Cloak. “Just tired is all.”

“Well, you should hit the sack early tonight,” advised Dagger. Then, with a cheeky smirk, he added, “The Revolution needs you, after all.”

The image of a burning Canterlot home filled his mind, with Sandstone and Sea Breeze cowering in a ditch before it. “Yes, it does.”

Dagger fought the urge to keep shooting glances at his brother as they worked their way out of the dimly lit apartment building. The long walk from the fifth floor of the empty old tenement house gave him plenty of opportunities to fight it. What’s eating him? he wondered. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he felt sorry for the idiots.

To an extent, Dagger could see where the impulse came from. Initially, he’d found the Vox pitiable. Now, he just found them laughable. If they can’t be bothered to think for themselves, they deserve what they get. And, hey, if the Revolution succeeds, maybe they’ll come out on top. Or, he amended, the most ruthless ones will. There’s always gotta be somepony on top.

Dagger rather planned that somepony be him. And Cloak. I’d never want the top without him.

Still, the young Blade Initiate could not help but hope that some of the more likeable Vox survived the coming battle. A couple actually had potential to be decent Disciples, maybe even Initiates, and it always paid to have loyal lackeys on your way to the top—

A chill ran down his spine and his animal instincts screamed in his ear. Predator! they warned him. Predator stalking you RUN! The beast loomed in the shadows of the hallway behind him, waiting to strike.

Dagger spun, knives primed to fling at the target. Cloak whirled next to him, his eponymous cloak snapping in the air as he charged his horn and aimed at whatever Dagger felt. Dagger wasn’t sure if Cloak had sensed the same thing he had or was just reacting to his movements, but it didn’t matter. There was a palpable wrongness in the dim hallway, and Dagger had no intention of dying here.

The hallway yawned dark and empty behind them, with no windows and no lights to illuminate its length. Even so, the shadows were too deep, too absolute to be natural. A pale hoof emerged from the blackness and Dagger tensed to strike—

Only to tense from fear when he saw who it was.

“Grand Shade Kiln,” Cloak managed with a bow. The words snapped Dagger out of his stupor, and he likewise bowed.

Kiln regarded them with his furnace-like eyes and overlarge pupils, face inscrutable. “You raise your weapons to me?” he asked. His tone was not accusatory, but his voice rolled like thunder.

Cold sweat dampened Dagger’s coat. “Apologies, Grand Shade, we did not recognize—”

“Do not apologize,” rumbled Kiln. Dagger fell silent. “That is weakness. And you…” his low chuckle resonated in Dagger’s skull, “are not weak.”

Dagger wanted to thank the Grand Shade, but his mouth was too dry to speak.

Kiln stepped closer, and the floor shook from his magnitude. The creaky old building ought to have echoed with his hoofsteps, but instead the world felt muted and the sound close, like sitting in a closet full of woolen coats with nothing but the amplified sound of one’s own breathing and heartbeat to break the silence. Every loud noise was distant and unreal, while every soft noise resonated in Dagger’s head as though it was within his very bones.

The Grand Shade loomed over them, a mere foot away. It was all Dagger could do not to collapse under the weight of his presence. His instincts bade him shut his eyes and cower.

But he would not. Kiln had said they were not weak, and Dagger would prove it. Forcing his coward eyes up, he gazed deep into the yawning blackness at the heart of Kiln’s eyes. Vertigo struck, and Dagger’s muscles contracted with the nauseating sensation of freefall, but he did not look away.

Kiln allowed the scrutiny, then broadened his lips in an over-wide smile. “As I said, strength. You will do well.”

What happened next, Dagger could not describe. The closest he might have come would have been that Kiln blinked Dagger’s eyes, and suddenly the young pegasus was gasping for air, barely able to keep himself from vomiting and Cloak had to hold him up. Kiln now stood several feet away with his back to them. “You will not teach the Vox today,” declared the Grand Shade. “Instead, you will carry out an execution.”

Dagger tried to answer, but was shivering too much. Cloak spoke for both of them. “Who is the target, my lord?”

“A troublesome businesspony who has been asking many questions about one of our projects. He and a certain Member of Parliament have been reaching beyond Equestrian borders with… unfortunate consequences.” He paused, long enough that Cloak opened his mouth to ask a question, only to be cut off. “Another operative is dealing with the second problem. You will deal with the first. Today. At precisely four o’clock.”

A note slid across the floor to stop at the brothers’ hooves, though Dagger hadn’t seen Kiln move.

“Discretion and fear are paramount,” Kiln rumbled. “More important than the target’s body is that your own are not taken. If he should live but the message still be delivered and you escape, that would be preferable to the Crown recovering all three of your bodies.” Kiln glanced over his shoulder, and under his gaze Dagger almost retched. “Succeed, and be rewarded.”

“It is our honor, Grand Shade,” said Cloak.

“Our honor, Grand Shade,” croaked Dagger.

Kiln smiled, and Dagger heard his own blood rushing in his ears. “It is,” pronounced the massive pony. Then he stepped into the shadows and was gone.

With his departure, the natural sounds and sensations of the world returned. Dagger immediately collapsed, gasping for breath. Cloak hovered over him, firing up a spell with his horn. “You looked into his eyes, didn’t you,” remarked Cloak. It wasn’t a question.

“You didn’t?” wheezed Dagger.

“No, dipstick. I’m not stupid,” snapped Cloak sourly, using his magic to ease his brother’s suffering. Dagger felt his muscles start to relax and the nausea begin to dissipate. “I’ve heard the Acolytes talk about what happens if you look too deep. Even when he’s muting his power, weird crap can happen, and he wasn’t being subtle today. You’re probably going to be feeling it the rest of the day.”

What Dagger felt right then was the need to cough. He covered his mouth with one hoof and gave several rather satisfying hacks, hoping that Cloak didn’t see the flecks of blood splatter against the russet-furred backdrop. “It was worth it,” he declared with as much force as he could muster.

“What?!” exclaimed Cloak. Aghast. “Why?!”

Dagger grinned crookedly. “Because now he knows he can take us seriously.”

Cloak shook his head and picked up the note. “I worry about you, sometimes. Let’s just find what poor fool we need to snuff so we can get to work.”

“Wonder who the MP he mentioned is?” said Dagger. Come to that, I wonder why he mentioned him at all. We didn’t need to know.

“No clue,” said Cloak as he scanned the note. “But, whoever he is, I hope the pony they sent after him knows what he’s doing. I wouldn’t want to make Kiln mad at me.”

Dagger couldn’t suppress a shudder. “You have no idea.”

Jacques winced as the needle and thread was pulled through his flesh. Hardened though he was, pain was still pain.

“Sorry, darling,” apologized Rarity as she stitched his wound shut. “I’m afraid the rocking of the train is making this a little more challenging than I’d like.”

“You’re doing a fine job,” he assured her. “By your deftness I guess you’ve done this before?”

Rarity shrugged. “I told you I have a temper. Despite what Applejack may say, I’ve been known to dirty my hooves on occasion. And, ever since we became the Bearers, we’ve had our little adventures. Some of which we came back from in better shape than others. Though never…” her eyes drifted towards the door which led to the baggage car. Clearing her throat, she brought her attention back to the task at hand. “Anyway, it’s not the first time I’ve stitched a wound.” She indicated Oaken with a tilt of her head. “I just wish your healing magic was as effective on mundane injuries as it was on dark magic.”

Oaken flexed the foreleg he’d used to shield himself and the others from the magic darts. It still bore the marks of the injury but, thanks to Jacques’ magic combatting the power of the Dark weapons, it would heal much quicker. “Well, I just wish I had a better track record not getting stabbed by these guys,” the soldier groused. “So far I’m 0 for 2.”

“Look on the bright side,” Jacques advised him. “Last time you were hospitalized for weeks and could barely walk. This time you’ll have a limp for a couple days at most. Next time it will be a papercut.” Oaken chuckled. The friar turned his attention to Windforce. “Feeling better, Sir Windforce?”

The pegasus’ injuries, thankfully, had been mostly bruises and scrapes. He’d taken a beating, but it was nothing that rest, ice, and time would not cure. Windforce sat in their midst, not-so-subtly within their defensive bubble. He took a long sip of his tea, then set it down slowly. “On a relative scale, yes,” he replied, his voice muted. “But I suspect my hooves will be shaking for some time.”

“That’ll pass, sir,” Oaken assured him, surreptitiously topping off the MP’s tea. “Most ponies get the jitters when they almost die. Perfectly normal.”

The four of them had taken over the dining car. Windforce’s status as a prominent Member of Parliament and Oaken’s role in protecting said Parliament had given the Lunar Guard jurisdiction over the train for the duration of the journey. Even if it hadn’t, nopony had been foolish enough to argue the point. Once the train arrived in Canterlot the passengers, under orders from Oaken, would be told to remain in their seats until such time as the local constabulary could arrive to process the crime scene.

Or, more accurately, until the REF ponies who were to meet us at the station secure the area while Colonel Query and his trusted investigators decide what to do, thought Jacques. In the meantime, there’s no reason we can’t get started. “Sir Windforce,” he began aloud.

“Just Will or Windforce, please, all of you” corrected the pegasus. “You saved my life. I think we can dispense with the formalities.”

“Will then. Did you recognize the assassin?”

Windforce grimaced. “Never seen him before, but that’s hardly surprising. I’ve made a lot of enemies over the years. Wouldn’t be the first time a cartel hired somepony to ease me off this mortal coil. Though this is the first time they’ve been brazen enough to strike this deep in Equestria.” He massaged his bruised throat with a hoof. “Closest any ever came, too.”

“His accent was Equestrian,” pointed out Oaken. “Local hitter?”

Jacques shook his head. “It sounded personal. Or rather ideological. Even if he was a hireling, I doubt his interest in you was purely mercenary.” He frowned. “A pity we cannot ask him.”

Windforce took another sip of tea. “Yes, well, we might not have learned anything from him anyway. Ponies who dabble in dark magic tend to be a disagreeable lot.”

The friar exchanged a glance with the others. We never told him that was dark magic. “You’re familiar with his methods, then?”

“Not those specifically,” replied Windforce, “but slavers are a nasty bunch. Some of the more powerful cartels have gained power by crossing lines nopony should cross.” His voice was steady, but his teacup shook as he raised it to his lips. “I’ve seen things I can’t unsee. Let’s leave it at that.”

They continued their speculation and questioning for the rest of the journey, but turned up no solid theories. Their efforts were somewhat hampered by the fact that Jacques and the others weren’t sure if Windforce had been briefed on anything regarding the Shades. Odds were he hadn’t, and none of them wanted to be the one to break the seal of secrecy.

Eventually, they drew up on their destination. Jacques had grown accustomed to seeing Canterlot from afar, but this was his first time really seeing the city. The sight took his breath away. The Equestrian capital was a shining pearl of a metropolis - a hybrid of Constantinople, Rome, and Antioch forged of ivory and gold, jutting from the side of a mountain, supported by craft unthinkable to human minds. Though the part of him which had become more accustomed to the possible impossibilities of Equestria knew that the shining city was simply the product of magic, ingenuity, and a peaceful domain, the part of him which still lived in the lands of Provencal and the Outremer saw Canterlot and concluded he’d been given some taste of heavenly Jerusalem. In spite of all that had happened on their journey, he could not help but move to the window and gape like an awed country child seeing a great city for the first time.

Rarity, it appeared, was not immune to the effect either. Stepping up beside him, she smiled proudly, remarking, “Quite a sight, isn’t she?”

Jacques’ eyes drank the scene in – the waterfalls, the pegasi flitting about the towers, the impossible construction of the tiered city protruding from the living rock of the mountain. “More than you could ever hope to know,” he murmured.

The train wound its way into the station and slowed to a stop. Rather than disgorging all its passengers as was customary, the conductor hopped off the train alone to speak to the local Guard contingent. Conveniently, Captain Argent Sabre just happened to be waiting there with a group of six REF soldiers, originally a courtesy escort for the Ponyville trio.

Argent’s face was suspicious as the conductor approached, then flat when she heard what he had to say. She immediately detailed a pegasus from her squad to fly off, presumably for reinforcements. Then she sent a pair of troopers to accompany the conductor back to the engine , while her big red-coated sergeant summoned group of nearby Solar Guards to secure the train. The remaining two ponies, a dark blue-green earth pony with a red mane who Jacques recognized as Corporal Thresher and a wild-looking pegasus mare with a white-spotted tan coat and grey mane, accompanied Argent to the dining car.

Upon entering, Argent attended to the MP first, her tone as quietly professional as ever. “Sir Windforce. Do you require medical assistance?” When he shook his head, she turned her attention to the others. “I’d ask the same, but,” she gestured to Jacques’ and Oaken’s self-applied medical treatment, “it seems you have that in hoof. I’ve given orders that the train be moved to the nearby railyard. We’ll process the passengers and crew there.” As if on cue, the train shifted back into motion, much to the confusion of the ponies who’d been waiting for their friends and loved ones at the station. Once they started moving, Argent spared a more personal glance at each of them, starting with Windforce. “Well, Will, I always did say you should invest in a permanent security detail.”

Windforce gave a weak chuckle. “I daresay you’ve convinced me, Argie.”

“Friar, Rarity,” Argent continued, “it is a pleasure to see the both of you again, though I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Quite,” agreed Rarity feelingly.

“Ah, but where would the fun in that be?” quipped the friar.

Argent and Rarity both shot him annoyed looks while Windforce laughed tiredly. Thresher and Oaken both displayed their mastery of the art of non-reaction, which seemed to be required of junior enlisted ponies. The wild-looking pegasus mare, for her part, let out a raucous guffaw. “Fun ’e says! Leggy blighter after me own ’eart!” exclaimed the mare in an accent that Jacques couldn’t place. “You’re alright, mate!”

The REF captain shot her subordinate a hard glare. “Sergeant Miru, refrain from your usual indecorous behavior.”

Miru saluted. “Sorry, mum. Won’t ’appen again.”

“I highly doubt that,” remarked Argent quietly. Shaking her head, the captain resumed her business as the train pulled to a stop in the yard. “Now then. I’ve sent for reinforcements to help process the rest of the train. In the meantime, brief me.”

They did. Argent’s face didn’t change from its mask of control, but Jacques noticed that she reached up to tap a ding in her armor more than once. Once they’d finished their explanation of the attack, she asked how much the other ponies on the train knew.

“We didn’t tell them much,” reported Oaken. “Four junior crewmembers know there was a violent disturbance in the baggage car. I identified myself and Sir Windforce to two senior crewmembers to assert jurisdiction.” He waved his injured forelimb. “A few passengers saw me bleeding. Somepony might have recognized the MP. We gave out no other details.”

Argent sighed. “Best we could hope for under the circumstances. We’ll wait till Ernie gets here to do the rest of the debrief.”

They didn’t have long to wait. Colonel Earnest Query arrived a short while later – a heavyset, balding stallion with glasses whose bemused expression belied the sharp intelligence in his eyes. After being introduced to Rarity and Jacques (he knew the others already) ‘Ernie’ wasted no time extracting the story from the travellers, even gleaning some bits from the context that they’d missed. After a thorough round of questioning, he gave permission to have Windforce escorted home. “I’ve already had my ponies secure your manor,” he promised. “Once you get there, sit tight. We’ll have round-the-clock REF presence with you.”

“Thank you,” said the MP with a relieved sigh.

Argent addressed her troopers. “Miru? Thresher? See to it Sir Windforce makes it home safely.”

The pair saluted, and Miru confidently declared, “No worries, mum. We’ll ’ave him home in five ticks. This way, sir, big fan o’ your work by the by, real honor ta be your escort.” She glanced at Jacques and his companions and flipped a cheeky salute with one wing. “Thanks for having ’is back, mates. ’Specially you, ya leggy bloke. Always noice ta ’ave the undiscovered race turn out ta be friendly.”

“Um… you’re welcome?” ventured Jacques, who was reasonably confident that he understood about 60% of what she said.

“Miru,” glowered Argent, “out.”

“Righto, mum. Cheers, mates.”

Before leaving, Windforce made a point of trading grips with his three rescuers. “Thank you. All of you,” he said earnestly. “If you ever need a friend, you have one in me.” With that promise given, the MP and his escort departed.

Once they’d left, Query heaved a deep sigh and took off his glasses to polish them, shooting a rueful glance at Argent. “Never an easy day, eh?”

“To quote the late great Master Chief Frogmane, Ernie, the only easy day was yesterday.”

“True enough,” chuckled the colonel. He shifted his gaze to Jacques and Rarity. “Incidentally, it’s a pleasure to make both your acquaintances. Hardly the best circumstances, but these are difficult times.”

Rarity thanked the stallion graciously, but Jacques remained intent on the investigation. “What do you believe happened here, Ernie?”

“I have my theories,” replied the stallion, rising from his seat. “I always do. But I’d like to see the crime scene before I share them.” He gestured to the door which led to the baggage car. “If you’d accompany me, Friar, Captain?”

“Certainly,” chorused the pair. Nodding politely to Rarity and Oaken, Jacques and Argent followed Query to the door. Just as they’d reached it, however, Rarity stopped them with an abrupt statement.

“I’d like to come with you,” she said.

Jacques and the other ponies exchanged glances. “There’s really no need, Miss Rarity” Query said carefully. “Jacques is perfectly capable of walking me through what happened without you seeing the final unpleasantness.”

“I don’t deny that,” she replied. “It’s just… I think I should see how it ended.”

Jacques felt his heart sink. “I fear it is a rather grisly sight, madam,” he warned her.

Rarity looked up at him, her eyes afraid, but firm. “I know,” she said quietly. “But if we are to fight the coming darkness, I had better be ready for such… grisliness.”

Oaken winced. Argent looked at Rarity as though she wasn’t sure whether to object or approve. Jacques just sighed, thinking, I thought you might say that. He turned a questioning gaze to Query. Though plainly unhappy, the colonel replied, “If you’re sure, ma’am, then I won’t stop you.”

Taking a deep breath, Rarity declared, “I’m sure.”

Gesturing for her to follow with a tilt of his head, the aging intelligence officer led the way. The crime scene, fortunately, was just as they’d left it: smashed, battered, and toppled stacks of luggage, several discarded knives, and, protruding from walls and baggage, darts which resembled some sort of crystalized dark liquid.

And, of course, the body, thought Jacques. As the friar warned, the unicorn’s corpse was not a pretty sight. The long black dart he’d impaled himself upon speared up like a stalagmite, protruding from the crown of his head like a second horn. Barely an inch of it was visible, but his skull provided a grim metric by which to extrapolate its greater length. Blood had run down his head and pooled on the floorboards around him.

Worst, however, was the face. Rigor mortis had been unkind to the unicorn. His limbs were locked in the unsettling posture of his death spasms. His glassy eyes were fixed upwards on where Jacques had stood when they’d had their final, fatal confrontation. His lips were pulled back in a manner that bared his teeth in a snarling, defiant grin.

Ghastly, thought Jacques, shaking his head. And unnecessary. I had no desire to end the life of a helpless captive. What folly drove him to this?

The friar could not mull long on this question, however, as he heard behind him the raspy breath of Rarity. Grimacing, Jacques turned to see the poor mare frozen, her sides heaving with rapid breathing as the corpse held captive her gaze.

Unbidden, memories sprang to Jacques’ mind – his gentle brother on the day of the bandit raid; a young sergeant after his first battle with the Saracens; a fellow knight bleeding out next to the man he’d just killed. Time and time again, Jacques had born witness to that first sight of violent death. Each time it was different. Each time it was the same.

Jacques reached out a hand. “Rarity—”

The mare spun and sprinted back the way they’d come. Oaken turned and followed. The abrupt twist upon his injured leg made him wince, but he didn’t slow. “I’ve got her,” was all he said as he ran after the fleeing mare.

Query sighed at Rarity’s exit. “I was afraid of that.”

“Better now than in the heat of battle,” Argent pointed out, her quiet tone showing an empathy that her words glazed over. “I’d rather have spared her that, but we don’t have the luxury. From what I’ve read of the Shades, it’s hardly the worst first exposure she could have had.”

Jacques, thinking on the grim account of Argent Martel, was forced to nod in agreement. All the same, I’ll speak with Rarity about it later. For now, however, he had to put the poor mare out of his mind. Addressing the colonel, he asked, “Have you any new theories forming?”

Query studied the dead stallion closely, stepping around him to see him from multiple angles. In particular, he examined the head, leaning in close and squinting. Abruptly, he said, “Friar, you can dispel magic, right? How about detecting it?”

The man stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Yes and no. I have a passive sense of when magic is being performed around me, but it’s not always obvious. I can, for example, sense the dark magic of the darts, but it’s faint, to the point that I might not notice if I wasn’t paying attention. Why?”

“Because I think there’s a glamor spell on him,” answered Query. “Think you can say for sure?”

Jacques rolled his shoulders. “I’ll certainly try.” He went over and knelt by the corpse, careful to avoid the blood. He held out his hand to hover a hair’s length from the body and concentrated on the flow of magic. At first, he felt nothing. But, as he moved his hand along the length of the corpse, he detected faint traces of a magic which felt similar to that which Oaken’s and Ironhide’s armor used to give the Lunar Guard their uniform appearance. Similar, but different, he realized. It feels more like the shadowmancy that Twilight has been practicing. Only this is… darker. Whatever this stallion used, it was not the pure version of the art that Luna and Miss Sparkle use. “I have something,” he said before relaying his observations.

“Thought so,” smirked Query. “Rip ’er off.”

The friar obliged. He rose to his feet and pointed his open hand at the body. His hand glowed a pale white, and he closed his eyes to better visualize the enemy’s spell matrix. Once he had a clear image of the target, he grasped it and yanked, tearing the illusion away. There was a sound as of a ripping canvas, though he wasn’t sure if anyone heard it but him. When he opened his eyes, where once there had lain a sea green stallion with dark blue mane, now lay a gold stallion with brown mane.

“Hah!” exclaimed the triumphant colonel. “I thought he looked familiar. Meet Golden Glow, formerly Sergeant Golden Glow of the EUP Guard.”

Argent’s lip curled in disgust. “Not another bloody traitor. I don’t suppose he’s about to make our jobs easier by being a known associate of Specialist Bound Probably-a-Traitor Glyph?”

“Nope,” replied Query.

“Drat.”

“Glow’s story is actually kinda sad,” Query explained. “He was a competent soldier, good NCO, followed orders well, etcetera. Served in the Equestrian Army for four years, the last one of which he spent with the 5th Fillydelphia Dragoons during Operation Featherfall.”

Argent’s ears went back. “Oh,” she said quietly.

Jacques raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, but my study of history did not cover that particular operation.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Query. “It was relatively recent and not something the EUP brags about. How familiar are you with the present state of the old griffon kingdoms?”

Jacques folded his arms. “The basics. With the exception of a few more stable ones like Griffuania or Hungriffy, most are either failed states, marauder empires, or the fractious territories of warlords and feuding clans.” Remembering Griffonstone, he added, “Some great old kingdoms we don’t even have records of anymore.” Hm. I just said ‘we’ don’t have the records. Assimilation comes swiftly in these lands.

Query nodded. “That’s the short of it. We’ve tried to bring the factions to the negotiating table for decades with little success. At this point, we mostly focus on keeping things from escalating. Militarily, we try to keep out of it except to keep the banditry and conquering in check and protect emergency relief expeditions. Featherfall was an attempt to break the status quo and convince two of the larger factions in old Griffonsreach to stop fighting each other. Good intentions, poor execution.”

“Meaning the prat they put in charge was an utter incompetent,” interjected Argent sourly. “He and his cronies leveraged it for personal gain, ignoring the advice of the local Equestrian negotiators and violating the mandate set by the Foreign Office. Worse was his handling of the Dragoons. All the red tape he bound them in practically castrated the poor lads.”

“I wish I could say she was exaggerating,” grunted Query. “It was the sort of caricaturish armchair soldiering that every grunt has nightmares about but that seems too unreal to actually exist. Put yourself in Glow’s horseshoes: you spend your days trying to crack down on bandit raids, run patrol, and pull security with an ambassador breathing down your neck, questioning every decision, spreading your forces thin, insisting you ask for permission to engage even if you’re plainly under attack…” he shook his head. “And, all the while, you’re doing it in the midst of hostile griffon territory, surrounded by creatures you might never have seen before deployment and now only see the worst of – griffon raids, thefts, infighting, you get the picture.”

Jacques did. It was all too easy to see people as less-than-human. It must be even easier when they are entirely different species.

Query resumed the story. “By itself, none of that probably would have made him worse than your average malcontent. Then came the Baker’s Crossing Incident – a supposed peace summit that turned out to be both griffon factions trying to ambush each other. Intel later suggested that neither side wanted Equestrians harmed but,” he shrugged, “heat of battle. Six Dragoons were killed, all from Glow’s platoon.”

Jacques winced. I think I can guess where this tragic tale goes.

“That was the last straw for Celestia and the Foreign Office. The princess overrode the ambo’s supporters in Parliament and sacked him. She sent a Griffish Isles diplomat in his place, but the damage was already done. Golden Glow left the Army in disgust, hating foreigners, foreign missions, foreign races, and foreign affairs. He puttered around causing trouble and looking for like-minded ponies. He found them in the Blank Slates.”

“I’m unfamiliar with the name,” said Jacques.

“They’re not really around anymore,” explained Query. “Bunch of hardliners who started out wanting the same thing Golden Glow did, then took it to the next level – sabotaging businesses who traded over the borders, assaulting politicians who opposed their views, and burning EUP recruitment stations.”

“Domestic terrorists,” spat Argent.

Query smiled dryly. “At the time they were just alleged domestic terrorists. The Blank Slates were darn good at covering their tracks. It was a long time before we could prove anything. We scooped Glow up a couple times during the investigation, but he always gave us the runaround and we had to let him go. When we finally put together a real case against the Slates, we captured and tried most of their leadership and a good number of their rank-and-file, but a lot of the lower-rung goons vanished. Glow was one of the ones who managed to slip the nets.” He nudged the corpse with one hoof. “Never thought I’d catch up to him here.”

“Seems his sins caught up with him,” declared Argent, her voice coldly satisfied.

Jacques shot her a glance. “I agree that he brought himself to this end, Captain, but we must remember he chose a wicked path in vengeance for what wickedness was done to him. While the ultimate responsibility for his evil remains his own, we ought to be mindful of our own lives, and how things might have gone darkly for us if we’d faced our own trials less worthily.” He sighed and regarded the stallion sadly. “Obviously, it’s not an excuse for what he became, but it does explain how he got here.”

Argent looked at him askance. “I’ve lost ponies to the incompetence of superiors, both civilian and military, and lost plenty more to foreign aggressors. I didn’t blame another race or turn on my nation.”

“And for your strong moral character and wise choices you should be grateful,” the friar pointed out with quiet firmness. Argent huffed and looked away. Jacques turned back to Query. “Do you think he was still affiliated with the Blank Slates?”

Query shook his head. “It’s possible, but I doubt it. We dismantled them. Even if we hadn’t, this dark magic is leagues above anything they ever pulled off. Sure, I’ll bet he jumped at the opportunity to hit Windforce, but I think he had new backers. Three guesses who I have in mind, and the first two don’t count.”

Jacques stroked his beard. “It would make sense for the Shades to recruit a former soldier for his combat experience. He would also have been the logical choice to assassinate Windforce. With his past, it would be easy to pin the blame on vestiges of the Blank Slates if he was caught.”

“Deniability,” Argent summarized. “But that still begs the question… why? Why Windforce? Why now? Do the Shades have an agenda like the Slates?”

“Not if they’re anything like the Shades of old,” replied Jacques. “His recruitment is more likely a matter of convenience, which implies that Windforce either made himself an enemy of theirs in some other manner or…”

“… or he was part of a larger scheme,” finished Query, who’d been thinking along the same lines, “meaning the real objective is something else entirely.”

The three regarded Golden Glow’s corpse in silence for a moment. Abruptly, Argent exclaimed, “I bloody well hate spycraft.”

On the balance, Rarity was rather pleased with herself. She managed to make her way off the train and to a relatively secluded part of the rail yard before her legs seized up, her back arched, and she vomited up the meager contents of her stomach.

It took longer than expected. Despite how little she’d had to eat or drink in the last few hours, her body seemed bound and determined to expel each and every last ounce of it, along with whatever other fluids it could find.

At some point during her violent digestive expulsion, Rarity became aware of the crunch of hooves upon gravel next to her and a pair of hooves holding her mane back. She was mortified, grateful, and far too busy coloring the rail yard to see who it was.

After what felt like an eternity, her heaving came up dry, and then subsided into panting and quivering. Tears rolled down her face, but she didn’t trust her balance enough to wipe them with her hooves, nor her concentration enough to wipe them with her magic. The pair of hooves which had held back her mane helped her step away from her leavings and sit. Gravel didn’t make for a particularly comfortable or clean resting place, but it was preferable to standing.

She wanted to closer her eyes to shut out her surroundings, but whenever she did her vision was filled with the gruesome sight of the body. Is this what it’s going to be? she wondered. Is this what we’ll have to do?

Rarity sat, sniffling and panting, until a hoof reached up with a kerchief to clean her face. She allowed the hoof to do so, and wasn’t surprised to recognize who the brown hoof belonged to.

“Thank you, darling,” she croaked.

“You’re welcome,” replied Oaken.

“I’m sorry you had to see me in this… beastly state.”

Oaken moved around to face her, his expression at once chiding and gentle. “There’s no shame in this, Rarity. Believe me, lots of ponies pitch their rig the first time. I know I did.”

Rarity sniffled and let him clean her face. She now felt well enough to do it with her magic but, in that moment, she was glad she didn’t have to. It felt much better to be cared for, and to feel the comfort of knowing that tough, soldierly Oaken had likewise ‘pitched his rig.’

How do soldiers adjust to seeing things like that? Doing things like that. They all seem so unbothered by their profession. Jacques… Marble… Song… will I become like them?

Abruptly, she blurted, “Do you suppose Morning Song got sick when she first saw… well…”

Oaken didn’t answer for a moment, instead finishing his ministrations first. “I don’t know,” he admitted after a moment. “I know she’s quiet about what got her to join up, and I decided it’s not my place to ask.”

“I see,” said Rarity slowly. “I suppose she’s found ways to become numb to it.” The image of the body flashed in her mind. “Perhaps I will as well.”

Her words elicited a frown from the Lunar Guard. “Rarity, soldiers might adjust to killing and death if they see it regularly, but that’s different from being numb. Healthy adjustment means learning to cope. Numb means you stop caring.”

Would it be so terrible to not care about a dead assassin? came the callous thought. Instantly she looked away, ashamed of the dreadful thought. But is that what I’ll have to be like? she wondered. Will I have to harden myself to this?

None of her internal conflict was voiced aloud, but Oaken seemed to guess anyway. He chewed his lip for a moment before taking on the tone of a storyteller. “You know, my pops was a Marine back in the day. Still is, really, even if he’s retired.” The burly earth pony chuckled. “Boy, I thought he didn’t get bothered by anything. Didn’t feel pain, didn’t get tired, didn’t ever look weak. He liked fighting, liked soldiering, always seemed to miss war. When I asked him if he ever lost any sleep over it he said ‘no.’”

Rarity looked up at that. After all, she was convinced she’d be seeing the dead stallion when she slept. I already see him when I close my eyes. Could I become like Oaken’s father?

Could I stomach it if I did?

Before she could continue her morbid speculation, Oaken continued, “I figured killing, like everything else, just didn’t bother him; that a tough old Gunny like him didn’t have to care about the creatures he killed. I wasn’t sure if that scared me or not.”

You aren’t the only one, thought Rarity.

Oaken tapped one hoof against the gravel, lost in the memory. “Then came the day I told him I was joining the Lunar Guard. I expected him to rail at me for failing to join his beloved Royal Marine Corps, but… he surprised me.”

Rarity swallowed. “What did he do?” she asked.

His green eyes met hers, and in them she somehow sensed that she was seeing his father as well. “He looked me dead in the eye…” Oaken grasped her by the shoulders, “took me by the shoulders, and said, ‘Son, I will pray every day that you never have to take the life of a thinking creature. I don’t want you carrying that weight. But, if you do, you’d best make darned sure you done right, or else you’ll face a reckoning when it comes your turn to die.’”

Oaken leaned in, his gaze never wavering. “I learned that day that the reason he slept well wasn’t because life wasn’t precious to him. It was because life was so precious to him that he would never kill unless he had no other choice. And, because he knew he could carry that weight, he decided he would carry it so others didn’t have to. That is what made him a good Marine. Not callousness, but compassion.”

Rarity felt her breath catch.

The Lunar Guard continued earnestly, “Rarity, I can’t tell you how you’re going to deal with what’s going to come next. Maybe you’ll be like Song and deal with it quietly. Maybe you’ll be like my pops and seem casual about it. Or,” he sighed, “maybe it’ll eat at you. I don’t know. I wish I did. What I do know, is that, like my pops” he released one shoulder and tapped her on the chest, “you’ve got a good heart. If, heaven forbid, you ever have to make that call, I know you’ll do right, and you won’t be any less of a good pony than you are now. In fact—”

Whatever else Oaken had to say would remain a mystery, as Rarity flung her forelegs around him and sobbed gratefully into his chest, gasping “Thank you! Thank you!” whenever she had the breath for it.

Oaken, wisely, responded with silence and a warm embrace.

Jacques and Argent eventually reached the end of their usefulness to Earnest Query’s investigation and left the stallion to his own devices. Argent informed him the travelers’ quarters had been prepared at the Royal Palace and that, with their role here concluded, it would be best to head there straightaway.

First, they had to collect Rarity and Oaken. It proved not to be difficult; the pair were returning to the dining car just as Argent and Jacques were leaving the baggage car.

Rarity looked rather worse for wear, with her mane disheveled, eyes red from weeping, and a sallow countenance that suggested vomiting. At present, however, she seemed composed, and Oaken’s presence nearby appeared to provide a source of stability to her.

Argent, allowing her military rigidity to withdraw for a moment, stepped up to Rarity and gave her a sympathetic hug before leading ivory mare towards Canterlot Castle. Jacques and Oaken fell into step behind them as Argent held a quiet mare-to-mare talk with Rarity.

The friar took advantage of the moment to have a man-to-stallion talk with Oaken. “How is she bearing up?” he asked sotto voce.

“Better than you might expect, worse than you’d want,” replied Oaken. “She’s a strong mare. Stronger than she knows, I’ll bet. But I’m sure it would help for you to talk to her.”

“I plan to,” said Jacques. He gave the stallion a brotherly nudge. “You’re a good pony, Oaken, and a good friend.”

Oaken looked uncomfortable with the praise. “Just doing right by her,” came his humble response.

“Exactly as I said,” persisted Jacques. “A good pony, and a good friend.” Then, since it was plain Oaken wasn’t the sort to relish in multitudinous compliments, the friar changed the subject, “It would be nice if the rest of this visit passed uneventfully.”

The Lunar Guard shot him a sideways glance. “Think it’ll happen?”

Jacques chuckled dryly. “No, but it would be nice.”

Mason Grey whistled a jaunty tune to himself as he ambled home. Today hadn’t been without its frustrations and setbacks, but on the whole, he was in a good mood. Business was booming, his investigations into the strikes had born fruit, and, best of all, he would be entertaining his favorite princess later.

In fact, he thought as he passed a flower stall, I think it would be appropriate to commemorate the occasion. “Afternoon, my good fellow,” he greeted the shopkeeper. “Tell me, what do you have in the way of blue roses?”

The shopkeeper happily showed him over to a particular display case carrying just those items, proudly describing them as the result of a synthesis of earth and unicorn magic. “I have to warn you, sir, they are rather expensive—”

“Splendid!” exclaimed Grey, tossing a pouch of bits that more than equaled the roses’ value to the startled merchant pony. “I’d be offended if you sold me anything but the best of the best. After all,” he winked cheekily, “I’ve got a date with a princess tonight!” Which was technically true, as it was a pre-arranged date of meeting, but the look on the shopkeep’s face suggested that he interpreted the term differently. Grey smirked. The rumor mill will have a field day with that one. Ah, let them talk. It will be good for a laugh.

“O-of course, sir,” stammered the shopkeep. “How would you like them arranged?”

A short conversation later and Grey was happily winding his way home carrying the roses, humming a romantic ballad, guileless of the russet-colored pegasus and grey-coated unicorn who stalked from the shadows.

Author's Note

Antiquarian sat at his desk reading a newspaper and humming a non-romantic ballad to himself. Aura strode in carrying a rather impressive lace envelope. “Are you a glutton for punishment?” she asked without preamble.

“Happy New Year to you too,” he answered, glancing up from his paper.

“Ah, yes, and what better way to ring in the new year than by psychologically breaking a character.”

“Challenging,” the writer corrected. “Psychologically challenging a character so that she might grow stronger and endure the trails to come. And it had to happen eventually.” He gestured to the envelope with his paper. “The IRS slips are getting fancier.”

“It’s from the Angry Mob,” noted Aura. “More specifically, from the branch of the Angry Mob which adores Rarity and would rather she not, shall we say, be put out of sorts by your writing.”

Antiquarian sat forward and took the envelope from her. “Hm. I wonder if themed death threats will become a trend.” He opened the lacy package and frowned in confusion at the contents. “Did… did they crochet a letter of complaint?”

“So it would seem.”

“‘To the despicable wretch who calls himself a professor’,” he read aloud. “Hm, maybe this is addressed to Professor Page Turner. Anyway, ‘It has come to our attention that you have offended the Lady Rarity with your unchivalrous words and indecorous’ yadda yadda yadda.” He skimmed through the lengthy card. “I count 27 uses of the word ‘darling’ and 16 uses of ‘of all the things that could have happened, this is The. Worst. Possible. Thing.’”

Aura shrugged. “Points for playing to form, I suppose.”

“Well, they lose points for being overbearing about it,” he critiqued. “Anyway, ‘given that it would be beneath us to dirty our hooves with such a banal task as giving you a well-deserved thrashing, we have instead chosen to employ…’” he ran out of text and flipped to the back with a huff of annoyance. His annoyance turned to bolt-upright shock at the next word. “‘NINJAS?!’”

As if on cue, a shuriken whizzed by and pinned the letter to the wall.

“Holy bleep!” cussed Antiquarian. “Bleeping ninjas!” He leapt to his hooves, pulled a bottle of whisky from his desk, and immediately set about dousing himself with the contents, dodging two more shurikens along the way. “Aura! Execute emergency maneuver Ninjas-Can’t-Catch-You-If-You’re-On-Fire!”

Aura winced. “Antiq, I really don’t think that’s the best way to—”

A shuriken shattered the bottle above his head. “AURA!”

“Okay!” she snapped, igniting her horn. A moment later, the highly flammable whisky became highly inflamed whiskey, with predictable results.

“OH IT BURNS!” Antiquarian calmly and rationally explained as he casually sprinted to the window. “OH SWEET LUNA’S LICOURICE STICKS IT BURNS! DAN MCNINJA MADE THIS LOOK WAY EASIER THAN IT ACTUALLY IS!” He then, with careful calculation and aforethought, flung himself full force through the third story window of his office and ran into the distance, calmly declaring, “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Aura shook her head as she watched him go. “The things I do for you, Uncle.” Turning, she saw a group of ninjas standing in the doorway, watching the burning pony flee into the distance. “Well?” she demanded when they made no move to pursue. “Aren’t you going to, I don’t know, chase him?”

The foremost ninja shook his head and replied blandly, “No point. Didn’t you know? Ninjas can’t catch you if you’re on fire.”

Aura’s eye twitched. Then she stormed out of the office to go buy a few gallons of burn salve. “You’re all completely insane.”

***

If any of you know where ‘Ninjas can’t catch you if you’re on fire’ comes from, you are cool. I decided to bleep my bleeps with censors instead of the standard blp out of homage to how that particular story handled its own censoring. Even though Fluttercensor is best blping censor.

To the chapter itself, this one really fought me. I went through nine versions before the current one and it came in very piecemeal. On the early drafts everypony left the train and then came back, which was pointless and added a page and a half of unnecessary description. Rarity’s scene and Oaken’s personal story in it was originally quite different, and I changed it because I thought it was disjointed and confusing, possibly preachy. Dagger having his staring contest with Kiln was a spur-of-the-moment addition, but I think it came together quite well. Golden Glow was originally going to go a very different direction before I settled on the Blank Slates.

The Slates themselves take inspiration from a variety of conflicts going back all the way to ancient Rome, because it turns out that people getting screwed and then taking destructive and dangerous conclusions about the world from how they got screwed is pretty universal. Which is another way of saying ‘don’t read too much into it and don’t bring up modern politics.’

Though, really, the repeated warning is probably unnecessary. You’ve all been very good about that thus far and I am ABUNDANTLY GRATEFUL FOR IT.

Truly, thank you all for not starting crap in my comment section. It’s made my life better.

Shoutout to FanOfMostEverything’s Operation: Hearthwarmer, and, no, it’s not because of the shoutout to me in the description.

Okay, not just because of that.

Honestly, I enjoyed it because it dodged a lot of the misused and outright terrible tropes that usually infest such stories and replaced them with actual good character development and some clever twists on the standard Crystal War fare. It’s also a Hearths Warming story (in a way), and my clan celebrates the Octave of Christmas (which includes January 1st), so the timing works out too.

Anyway, happy reading, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, joyous whatever-other-holidays-you-celebrate/celebrated-recently!

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Misdirection

Fifteen minutes prior, the Grey Estate, Canterlot

The worst part of casing a target site, Dagger decided, was not the risk of discovery. Nor was it the boredom, or the time he had to contemplate all the ways things could go wrong, or the challenge of maintaining focus, or even the fact that longer time on target meant greater exposure to any number of variables that could throw a wrench in the works.

No, the worst part of waiting on site for the target, Dagger decided, was that his nose invariably itched.

Years ago, he’d sneezed because of an itchy nose while he and his brother were casing a griffon’s estate with the intent of carrying out an independently contracted rummage (because ‘burglarizing’ sounded less professional). The sneeze had almost gotten them both killed.

Now, his nose exhibited a positively Ponlovian response whenever he was casing a place. He’d never actually sneezed on a stealth job again, but the itching remained.

Never mind that Mason Grey didn’t seem to have any security on his palatial property, or that the stallion had never come even remotely close to spotting them, or that the staff was rather minimal for such a large estate, or that Mason would die whether he spotted them or not. Dagger was casing a place, and technically there was danger of detection. Ergo, his nose itched.

Some might have called it a sobering reminder of the hazards of the job and the thin line separating life from death. Dagger called it annoying.

He called it other things too, but those words were not the sort considered appropriate for polite company.

The last few hours that Cloak and Dagger had spent tailing Grey, mapping his property, and avoiding the few staff on site only served to prolong Dagger’s suffering, as the itching did not once abate during that time.

It was enough to make him think some less-than-respectful thoughts about Kiln. Sure, the stallion could kill me with a flick of his fetlock, but for Celestia’s sake did he have to make us wait on site this long? Why? Why do we have to kill Grey at four precisely? Who gives a crap when we slit the guy?! It’s not like it’s a public execution where we need a spectacle! Dead is dead!

Dagger rather suspected his twin felt the same way, but neither said so openly. It was one thing to indulge in such thoughts when Grand Shade Kiln was nowhere to be found. Actually saying them out loud when he already jumped us once today… better not.

If nothing else, the delay had given the brothers plenty of time to scout the grounds. The Grey Estate was impressive, even by Canterlot standards. Outside were vast gardens and hedgerows, exquisite flowering plants drawn from all over the world, and a series of marble statues depicting impossibly flawless ponies in the whitewashed neo-Renaissance style so popular with the elite.

The sprawling, three-story house at the center of the property was standard Canterlot architecture insofar as it had the same white-and-gold motif, the same arches, the same elegant aesthetic. Yet it managed to be noticeably more than the standard, with intricate gold leaf, decorative etching on the windows, and the quality stonework that one would expect of a pony with the name ‘Mason.’

Its massive interior was no less opulent, with glittering chandeliers of crystal and gold, drapery of the finest weave, and enough treasures on display to suggest Grey could buy a small Equestrian county and fund its municipal services out of pocket.

Grey’s tastes were as varied as they were expensive – Zebrican, Saddle Arabian, Equestrian, Maretonian, Prench, Japonese… some Dagger didn’t even recognize. There were paintings, sculptures, and vases alongside swords, maces, and battleaxes. Armored mannequins squared off against busts and full statues. There was even a cannon in one of the hallways.

Yet, for all its ostentatiousness, the estate managed to stop just short of being gaudy. Treasures were much in evidence in every room, but never too many, and never any two that didn’t blend. Whoever handled the interior design had done an exquisite job. The opulence gave off a sense of magnificence and power rather than being the mask of arrogance that many wealthy ponies wore to hide their insecurity.

Though, frankly, he’s got nothing to be insecure about, Dagger reflected as he crept through the hallways. Nothing to be insecure about… except the lack of security, amended Dagger. The old boy must have sent the staff home today, or at least most of them, because I have seen nopony.

Dagger had entered through a window on the third floor after disarming the magical alarm and picking the lock. He confirmed there were no staff on the third floor and sketched a simple map on a notecard before heading down to the second to do the same. He was close to finishing his sweep, after which he’d rendezvous with his brother.

Cloak, meanwhile, had used his magic to enter through the cellar and was similarly clearing the basement and first floor. Judging by the lack of any sounds of a struggle, he was having no more difficulty staying hidden than Dagger was.

Still, it paid to be cautious, so Dagger moved stealthily from room to room, all the while absently cataloguing the values of various art pieces. He had no intention of stealing anything (their instructions had been clear on that point), but old habits were hard to break. He didn’t find any staff on the second floor, but he did mentally upgrade Grey’s wealth from ‘Could Buy a Small County’ to ‘Could Buy a Small Duchy.’

Taking a moment to study the floor, Dagger shook his head in awed disbelief as he took in the quality of the tilework. Cripes, Grey’s flooring probably cost more bits than I’ve ever held in my life. I know this guy’s some big business mogul but… hot dang he’s rich!

Dagger couldn’t help but admire the place, the fact that he was stalking the owner to kill him notwithstanding. This was the sort of wealth he desired for himself and his brother – wealth, and, with it, the power to ensure they would never again want for anything.

Not that Mason Grey’s power will save him now, came the sudden thought.

Dagger winced. Well, sure, but that’s just because he didn’t pony up for security for some reason. Kind of surprising for a stallion in his position, but, hey, I ain’t complaining.

And if he had spent money on security? A memory flitted through his head. A memory of another estate. One not as grand as Mason’s, but still grand. One which had been defended. But those defenses were not enough, sighed the intruding thought. Not enough to prevent what came next.

Dagger felt a quiver in his heart as he remembered the burning of the villa, the silhouettes of cackling figures darting about in the firelight, the cold ditch he and his brother sheltered in while they watched those murderous silhouettes emerge from the villa dragging—

No! he snarled mentally, chopping off the treacherous memory before it could coalesce. That was different! This is different! Everything will be different!We will rise through the Shades and claim our rightful power and nothing is going to stop us!

He flapped into the air and made for the third floor and his exit. It was nearly four, and Dagger had no intention of delaying Mason’s execution.

In fact, he was starting to look forward to it.

Cloak was profoundly grateful for his skill at shadowstepping. Grey didn’t seem to have many staff around today – in fact, Cloak had only seen three – but Grey himself was… energetic. The middle-aged earth pony seemed to be everywhere on the main floor at once. Avoiding him had been a chore.

The young Blade Initiate had done it, though. And, along the way, he’d learned that his and Dagger’s job was going to be easier than they’d thought.

Apparently, Mason Grey had a date. At least, that’s what Cloak managed to overhear from various concealed locations around the house. More specifics eluded him, but it was clear that Grey would be all alone in the house while he made final preparations to receive the mystery mare.

Not that I’m wild about the thought of his marefriend showing up and finding him dead in a pool of his own blood, came the grim thought. Heck of a thing to walk in on.

Cloak grimaced. Oh, shut up! he told the nagging voice. Sure, it bites for him, but if it wasn’t us today, it’d be somepony else tomorrow. Them’s the breaks. At least this way it’ll be safer for me and my brother. That’s all that matters.

The voice fell silent, and Cloak smirked in satisfaction.

He still felt hollow inside, though.

At least now we know why Kiln was so specific that we whack the guy at four, mused Cloak, as much to distract himself as anything. No witnesses.

How exactly Kiln had known Grey’s day schedule was something of a mystery, but Cloak was under no illusions about the Grand Shade’s ability to find out what he wanted.

Still… I prefer to do my own recon. That way I know there will be no surprises.

Relying on somepony else’s information wasn’t the only thing about the job that bothered him, either. He also didn’t like the fact that their orders had explicitly directed that they not steal anything. Looting the joint while the body cooled was more or less Assassin 101, at least when it was supposed to look like a burglary gone bad instead of a professional hit. A fake robbery was hardly the only way to throw the constabulary off the trail, but it was a classic for a reason.

It might have made sense if they’d been instructed to leave some fake calling card as a distraction – a sign from whatever other entity Grey had allegedly angered enough to warrant an early ejection from the Game of Life. After all, pinning the murder on some other party was as much a classic as a fake robbery.

But there had been no such instruction in Kiln’s letter. Only a directive that they inform Grey that he should have kept out of foreign affairs before snuffing him.

That, more than anything else, worried Cloak. Not the gloating itself – gloating was a Shades staple after all– but the fact that the gloating was so… vague. He would have expected the pre-mortem taunt to contain some explicit mention of the Shades, but it didn’t.

Which might make sense if Grey was supposed to live and act as a red herring, but he isn’t. Which suggests that Kiln thinks we might fail. Meaning… his ear twitched at the sound of Grey singing in the kitchen, that old Grey might have picked up some tricks over the years.

It wasn’t a possibility Cloak had considered when they first got the assignment. He was considering it now. He wasn’t sure what possible reasonthe Grand Shade might have for leaving out such a critical detail, but that didn’t mean the reason didn’t exist.

Maybe Kiln is just testing to see if we follow orders. Or Grey is dangerous and the Grand Shade is testing our prowess. Or… his eyes narrowed, maybe we’re being set up for failure.

That last thought settled in his mind like a dark cloud as he pondered Kiln’s motives. If it had been Kuro Ken, the answer would have been obvious: the First Blade despised the twins. But the Grand Shade had no reason to kill them. In fact, he’d demonstrated genuine (and disconcerting) interest in the brothers.

Cloak shook his head in irritation. Maybe I’m just reading too much into this. Maybe this’ll just be a normal job and Dagger and I will have a good laugh about this later.

The reassurance made sense, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

At a quarter to four, the last of the staff left, leaving Grey unwittingly alone with his killers. Cloak let himself into the conservatory at the back of the house and opened the window a crack for his brother.

He didn’t have long to wait. Dagger flapped in after a few minutes, looking ready to kill something. Seeing his normally laid-back twin suddenly angry didn’t do Cloak’s stress level any favors, but this wasn’t the time or place for a heart-to-heart. Instead, they compared maps and notes. Dagger grinned when Cloak told him about the place being cleared out for the date.

“So, loverboy’s gone and rolled out the red carpet for us, eh?” he chuckled. “This’ll be even easier than I thought.”

He made to start down the passage towards the kitchen where they still heard Grey singing, but Cloak put out a hoof to stop him. “Hold up,” the thin unicorn said. “There’s… something else.” Grimacing, he told his brother of his suspicion that Grey might be a tougher customer than just some pencil pusher.

Dagger nodded in acknowledgment, but didn’t seem worried. “Well, if your gut says something’s up, we’ll go careful, but it’s not like we can hang around. It’s almost four. We’ve got a job to do.”

Cloak still felt uneasy, but he grunted in assent anyway.

“Great!” smirked Dagger. “Let’s get moving. I’m ready to wrap this up!” With that, he led the way out into the hall.

Cloak followed. Like his brother, he was ready to be done with this job. But he strongly suspected it was for different reasons.

Dagger fiddled with the blades concealed within his pinions as the twins crept towards the kitchen. His brother’s warning that Grey might not be a pushover had unsettled him more than he let on but, as he’d said to Cloak, it wasn’t as though they could back out now. If they had to press on, better to press on with confidence. Hesitation got ponies killed.

Besides, he thought grimly, a part of me wouldn’t mind a fight. It’d be nice to vent a little. Not a very professional attitude, but, hey, whatever gets the job done.

As they drew up on the kitchen, they could clearly hear the pony singing within. Dagger mentally commended Grey on the quality of his baritone voice. A little pitchy at times, but decent all the same. More importantly, it would make creeping up on him that much easier.

The brothers reached the door and peered inside, Cloak using his magic to bend the scant shadows around the doorframe and make them harder to spot if Grey happened to glance in their direction.

He needn’t have bothered. Grey stood across the room cooking at the range, his back turned to the brothers. The earth pony was totally engrossed in his cooking, sautéing something that smelled of scallions and mushrooms. On the counter by the range were several cutting boards’ worth of chopped vegetables, and, hanging from a peg, a red bag of what Dagger guessed were powdered spices. He sniffed the air, winced at the potency of the spice, and changed his guess to a certainty. Aaaaand now my nose itches even worse. Awesome, he thought sourly.

Grey practically danced in place as he cooked, alternating now between throaty singing and sharp whistling, with only a few feet of open space and a marble-topped island separating him from his assassins.

Too easy, thought Dagger. Exchanging a wordless glance with his brother, the two of them flowed into the room, Cloak to the left of the island, Dagger to the right. The only ways in or out of the room were the door they’d just come through and a door off to the left. To get to the latter, Grey would have to somehow make it past Cloak while remaining under Dagger’s throwing arc. To get to the former, he’d have to make his way through both of them.

As they drew closer, the smell of the spices only intensified. Criminy, where’d he get that stuff? A black market in Mexicolt? It was enough to make Dagger fear he actually would sneeze and give the game away. He cocked back a wing to fling one of his blades preemptively. Kiln had ordered them to tell Grey why he was dying before actually killing him, but that didn’t mean Dagger couldn’t limb the guy first. Anything to get this over quick.

He was just about to throw when Grey abruptly moved right. The assassins froze, waiting to see what happened. But Grey wasn’t turning around, just getting his vegetables. Sitting on his haunches, he scooped up the cutting board with one hoof and the broad-bladed chef’s knife in the other. Intending to use the latter to scrape the vegetables into the skillet, he held the blade up…

… and paused. Dagger held his breath, not sure if something had tipped the stallion off to their presence or if he was just debating the virtue of adding bell peppers. The assassin scanned the range, searching for anything with a reflective surface. To his horror, he spotted a shiny metal tea kettle. A shiny reflective tea kettle, which Grey appeared to be facing.

Horse feathers, can he actually see me in that—

Before the thought could finish, Grey spun and flung the knife straight at Dagger’s head. The pegasus ducked just in time, feeling the keen blade shorten a few hairs as it passed. He aimed a blade of his own, just as Grey dove left and snatched the bag of spices, hefting it to fling at Cloak.

Both combatants threw at the same time. Dagger’s aim was fouled by Grey’s unexpected speed, but his blade still gave the stallion a glancing cut before embedding itself in the wall.

The effect of Grey’s projectile was more dramatic. Cloak managed to intercept the spices with an instinctive shield, but not far enough from his face to stop what happened next. The bag exploded in a red cloud of pulverized culinary zest and Cloak crumpled in a fit of uncontrollable coughing and sneezing.

Dagger was far enough from the main blast radius to escape most of the damage, but his eyes still blurred with tears as his throat constricted in spicy agony. He saw the vague outline of Grey bolting for the door and flung another blade. His desperate snapshot failed to disable the target, but he was still rewarded with a grunt of pain. More than that he couldn’t see.

Taking to the air, he flapped his wings to drive away the toxic cloud of seasonings, revealing a very red Cloak. The thin unicorn was gagging as he desperately tried to clear his eyes and nasal passages with his magic, but he seemed otherwise unharmed.

“You good?” asked Dagger.

Cloak responded with a violent hraack! and a dismissive wave of his hoof. “Good!” he croaked. “Go!”

Dagger needed no second urging and shot down the side passage.

Tracking Grey wasn’t difficult. Dagger had only to follow the blood trail. Still, the earth pony wasn’t just running in a beeline for the exit. Instead, he took every sharp corner he could, avoiding straightaways whenever possible. Probably knows he can’t outrun a pegasus, thought Dagger with grudging admiration. Smart. Calling up the mental map of the property, he guessed that Grey would end up in the foyer within a couple turns. Speeding ahead to take another route, Dagger slipped around to intercept him. Futile, but smart.

The gamble paid off. Grey burst into the foyer, casting a glance behind him to watch for pursuit, only to come screeching to a halt when he looked forward and saw Dagger waiting for him. The older stallion blinked in surprise and Dagger smirked. “Leaving so soon?” he asked casually.

Grey swallowed and took a step back. Still, he put on a confident smile. “Well, I was only making enough dinner for two, so with you and your buddy here I have to make a quick run to the store. You know how it is with unexpected houseguests.”

“Sure do,” agreed Dagger. I kinda like this guy. Shame we gotta whack him. Grey seemed to be favoring his left side, and Dagger saw that one of his blades was embedded in the stallion’s shoulder. “I’ll be wanting that back,” he said, indicating the weapon with a nod. “Though I gotta say, as a matter of professional courtesy, I’m impressed you gave us a runner, especially with a bum leg.”

“Ah, it’s no great thing,” deflected Grey as he scanned the room. At first, Dagger thought the stallion was calculating if he could bolt for one of the side doors; there were several on each side of the foyer. But when Grey’s eyes lighted on a pair of wall-mounted swords, Dagger realized that the stallion wasn’t planning on running. The assassin took aim with another knife, but Grey lunged with that same unexpected agility as before and snatched up the arming sword, shifting it quickly to practiced guard position. Dagger’s tardy throw was deflected with a sharp *clang* as Grey batted it out of the air. The earth pony smirked, remarking, “Adrenalin is one heck of an anesthetic.”

Dagger cocked an eyebrow. “But it doesn’t provide martial training. Ex-military?”

Grey snorted. “Do I look like an order-taker to you? I’m an empire-builder, not a grunt. You don’t build empires without learning to defend them. Especially if your empire exceeds the princesses’ borders.”

“Well, you’d have been better off not exceeding them,” replied Dagger, drawing a pair of long-bladed dirks and taking one in each forehoof as he flapped to a low hover. “You earned an introduction to the Pale Horse with your foreign adventurism.”

Rather than cowering, Grey raised an eyebrow. Dagger’s admiration went up a notch. “I don’t suppose you could be more specific?” asked the businesspony. “‘Foreign adventurism’ doesn’t really narrow it down for a pony of my means.”

“Sorry,” shrugged Dagger, “but that’s all the time we have for questions.” He crossed the distance between himself and Grey in a single flap of his wings. Steel clashed on steel as Grey barely managed to deflect his dirks. Dagger disengaged before the wounded pony could counterattack, then flew around to strike from another angle.

The fight was short, but brutal. Dagger was younger, faster, unwounded, and he could fly; the battle was his to control. Every time the older pony was a shade slow, Dagger landed a cut. Once, twice, thrice – soon Grey was bleeding from nearly a dozen wounds.

Yet, for all that, the stolid earth pony wouldn’t go down. Every time Dagger was about to land a killing blow, Grey managed to parry it, or at least turn the blade aside enough to make it a glancing blow instead of a fatal one.

Also, Grey didn’t seem sufficiently worried about his imminent demise. Dagger wanted to put it down to his opponent’s gumption, but something about the Grey’s calm made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Oh buck this! he finally thought with a growl. Time to end it! With a mighty flap of his wings, he sent a gust of wind that propelled him into the air and staggered his opponent. Grey rose to his hindlegs and brought his sword to a high guard, expecting a strike at his head—

Which left his hindlegs exposed. Dagger speared the right leg with a precisely thrown dirk, and the stallion toppled to the ground, losing his sword as he attempted to catch himself. Before he could recover his weapon, Dagger landed and kicked it across the room, then menaced Grey’s throat with his remaining dirk.

“Hah!” smirked Dagger, trying not to show that he was breathing a little heavily. “Gotta admit, old timer, I’m impressed. You made us work for this. The spice, the tight corners, the swordplay… you’re pretty good.”

Dagger expected Grey to take that moment to plead for his life. Or, more likely, to accept his death with a dry quip and admirable dignity.

What he did not expect was Grey to start chuckling. It wasn’t a pleasant sound, and it sent a chill down his spine.

“You’re also ‘pretty good,’ my little assassin,” laughed the older stallion as he nursed his bloodied side, “though you made one critical error. You didn’t stop to ask yourself why I was stalling. It wasn’t just because I like the sound of my own voice.” Grey smiled, and the smile was predatory. “It’s because you’ve been dancing to my tune while I waited for my date to show up.”

Dagger was about to ask the obvious question when fate answered it for him. He felt the rush of magic behind him. Felt it even though he wasn’t a unicorn. Felt it because the vwoom of teleportation sent a swell of magic over him like a wave.

And suddenly there was another presence in the room. One whose power was so great he could taste the energy on the backs of his teeth.

Grey’s injuries did not prevent him waving cheerily to the presence and calling, “Hello, Luna!”

Swallowing, Dagger turned his head to see the Princess of the Night looming in the foyer with a bottle of wine in her magic grasp and a fell look in her eyes. He responded in the only way he possibly could.

“Well crud.”

The central purpose of martial training is to hone the individual’s instincts to the point of being able to assess the situation, prioritize objectives, and act decisively no matter the circumstances. Whether on the field of battle or being woken from a dead sleep, a trained combatant is expected to be able to react swiftly and effectively even when caught unprepared.

Yet warriors are mere flesh and blood. No amount of training nor experience can grant perfect reaction time or judgment, and even centuries cannot overcome the reality of surprise.

It took Luna a full three seconds to process what she was seeing.

Three seconds too long.

The assassin dove over Mason, grappling the earth pony mid-dive and rolling to grasp his captive as a living shield. Luna’s horn flared with power, armoring her with wards as a dozen magic spears flashed into existence and flew towards the interloper. Before they could skewer him, the pegasus wrenched Mason between himself and the spears. Luna froze the spears mere inches from her friend’s flesh. She made to reposition them for another attack, but the assassin moved faster and pressed the point of his blade to Mason’s neck.

“RELEASE HIM, SCUM!” roared Luna, her Royal Canterlot voice shaking the room and forcing both captor and captive to flatten their ears against their heads.

“Put down the pointies,” replied the assassin, his voice hardly quavering as he indicated the magic spears with the flick of an ear, “and I’ll consider it.”

Luna took a step forward, shattering tile beneath her hoof. “ARROGANT WRETCH! WE SHALL TEAR THEE LIMB FROM—”

“Whoa there, Highness,” warned the cutthroat, pressing his dirk hard enough to draw blood. “Black’s a good color on you, but let’s not rush the funeral, eh?”

Snarling, Luna halted. “What do you want, backstabber?”

“Well, your boy dead for one,” replied the assassin, “on account of his foreign adventurism. Though I’m willing to consider giving him an extension on life in exchange for getting one myself.”

Luna growled. “In exchange for his life, we shall happily grant you a cell to call your own.”

The cutthroat chuckled. “O-ho-ho- no, Princess. I’m afraid jail time isn’t in the cards for me. I’ll be leaving here a free pegasus.”

“Is that so?” hissed Luna, her lips bending in a vicious sneer. Her horn flared once more, and the room darkened. Mist gathered at the edges and crept towards the assassin and Mason. A dozen fresh spears manifested in the air, surrounding the assassin totally. “We think you overestimate your leverage, backstabber.”

“Maybe,” replied the cutthroat gamely, glancing at the surrounding spears. “Or maybe you shish-kebab your boy getting to me.”

Maybe I would, thought Luna as the magical mist she’d conjured began to pool around the stallion’s hooves, taking on greater form and substance with each passing second. If the spears were anything more than a distraction. “We are quite capable of killing you before you strike,” she assured him aloud. “And, unlike our sister, we are not inclined to grant chance after chance at life.”

Smirking, the stallion replied, “I’ve always had good luck taking chances.”

Behind him, the mist rose to grapple him. As have I.

Luna raised her head imperiously and spread her wings, her eyes flashing white with power as she kept his attention forward. “WE GIVE YOU ONE FINAL OPPORTUNITY! SURRENDER YOUR CAPTIVE, OR DIE WHERE YOU STAND!”

The cutthroat pondered her offer for a moment. “Interesting proposal,” he said after a short pause. “Counter-proposal…” with a bellow he charged forward, heaving Mason’s body at the spears.

Luna dispelled the weapons immediately, saving Mason from a gruesome death, but the assassin wasn’t done. He sprang though the air, dirk aimed for Luna’s throat. He came within an inch of striking her—

Then she seized him in her magic and smashed him into the ground, cracking the tile.

“Insolent little pony,” she spat. He stared up at her in a daze, the wind fully knocked out of him. A groan from Mason drew her attention. Making sure the assassin was pinned by her magic, she turned her head to address her friend. “Mason, are you all right?”

The earth pony rolled painfully over onto his back and glared up at her. “First you show up late,” he moaned, “then you catch that young buck instead of me? I’m starting to think you don’t love me anymore.”

Despite the situation, Luna couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “You’re irrepressible, Mason,” she replied with a relieved laugh. Setting the wine bottle down, she added, “Though I at least brought the ’76.”

“All is forgiven!” laughed Mason, wincing as his chuckles put pressure on his wounds.

She was about to give his injuries a closer examination when the mystery assassin emitted the painful sounds of a pony who’d had the air driven from his lungs remembering how to breath. Since Mason appeared to be in no mortal danger, Luna turned her attention to the assassin. “Your attack was either bold or desperate, backstabber,” she snapped, glaring down at him. “Were you honestly foolish enough to believe you could defeat the Mistress of the Night?”

He had to gasp for air for several moments before replying. “No,” he rasped. “Not… defeat…*cough* … only… what… *wheeze* Grey… did.”

Luna arched an eyebrow. “Oh? And what, pray tell, did Grey do that you were emulating.”

The assassin winked. “Stall.”

Raw magic blasted Luna from the right, striking her barrel side-on and sending her skidding across the room. A lesser pony would have died. As it was, between her magic armor and alicorn resilience, she kept her footing, and her metal shoes gouged lines in the tilework.

“Luna!” shouted Mason in alarm, trying and failing to scramble to his hooves.

The princess wasn’t injured, but the blast had still hurt through the shield. Whoever she was facing had powerful magic. Dark magic. She gritted her teeth and swung her head to face the second attacker.

She spied him lurking in the doorway to one of the side passages – a unicorn pony garbed in a cloak. It was difficult to guess what his natural coloration was, as he was coated in some sort of red powder which, now that she was paying attention, was enough to make her nostrils burn.

Luna charged her horn to fire, but the stallion stepped into the shadows of the hall and vanished. Instinctively, the princess dumped more power into her shield, just in time to absorb a second beam of magic striking from the left.

The blast staggered her, but not so badly that she couldn’t swing her head around and fire a volley of bolts in return. One singed the stallion’s cloak before he once again evaporated into the shadows, this time emerging behind her.

He fired again, but Luna was ready, throwing a bubble shield around herself and Mason, warding both from further attacks.

It also gave her enough protection to observe the unicorn’s vanishing act. Before her eyes, the unicorn dissolved into one patch of shadows, to emerge from another patch across the room. “Shadowmancy!” Luna hissed. The unicorn fired a blast at her, which she deflected easily on her shield. “You dare to turn the shadows against ME?!”

She let loose a beam of power at his head. The unicorn shadowstepped to avoid it, but the beam was just a diversion. As he dissolved into the shadows, Luna’s eyes flashed white and reached out with her power. She felt his passage through the half-light, felt the shadows to which he was travelling.

When he emerged, she was waiting for him. Her horn flashed and a blinding light filled the room, filling every corner and evaporating the shadows. Unprepared for the counterattack, the unicorn was flung from the shadows to smash against the wall. He bounced hard, but before he could hit the ground, she caught him in her magic and pulled him through the air to dangle eye-to-eye with her, immobilized and helpless. “YOUR PERVERSION OF SHADOWMANCY WILL NOT GO UNPUNISHED, YOU CLOAKED SNEAK!” bellowed the alicorn. “YOU WILL TELL ME WHERE YOU LEARNED YOUR DEVILISH CRAFT, OR I WILL—”

“Luna! The wine!”

Mason’s warning came too late. The bottle smashed over her horn and showered her face in glass fragments and burgundy wine. Her wards kept the shards from damaging her eyes, but the wine still blinded her, and the impact broke her concentration. Not enough to collapse her wards, but enough to break her grip.

The unicorn struck. Through the haze of burgundy, Luna saw him swing a blade as he fell, and she cried out in pain and shock as steel cut through her magic and bit into her flesh, gashing her cheek open and spilling blood and wine onto the floor. She swung instinctively with her hoof, a blow that would have taken the unicorn’s head off had it connected, but he disappeared in a flash of teleportation.

Ignoring the pain, Luna cleared her vision with a burst of magic and cast her gaze about for the unicorn. She found him crouched by the first assassin, standing over him protectively.

The pegasus smirked at the princess. “Enjoy the wine, Your Highness!” he taunted. “It had a nice heft to it!”

Before she could retaliate, the unicorn flared his horn and grabbed his compatriot. “We’re out!” he shouted. There was a loud *bang* of a desperate teleport, and then they were gone.

Luna reached out with her magic, searching for the endpoint of the teleport in case their withdrawal was merely a ploy. She sensed nothing within her range, which implied worrying things about the unicorn’s capabilities, but that was a worry for another time.

Satisfied that they were gone, she rushed to Mason’s side and gathered him in her forelimbs, charging a teleport of her own. “Mason? Are you all right?” she cried.

“No!” groaned the stallion as his head lolled in her grasp. Anxiously, she poured more power into the teleport spell – one powerful enough to take her through the castle wards.

“What hurts most?” she demanded.

Just as the teleport spell reached its apex, he raised his head to glare at her. “The fact that you lost the ’76!”

Dagger burst out of the teleportation spell and landed heavily on the pavement, yelping in pain from both the impact and the less-than-gentle energy of the spell. His extremities had been singed by the abrupt teleport, his injuries screamed for attention, he probably had a concussion, and his stomach felt like it was being pulled in six directions at once.

Still, he couldn’t help but give a genuine, if painful, whoop of triumph. “Heck yeah!” he cheered. “Squared off with a bucking alicorn and lived to tell about it! Ah, man, landing a thrown wine bottle with a sprained foreleg and a concussion? Darn proud o’ that shot! And you brother, actually drawing blood on a princess and warping us outta there—”

A ragged cough cut him off, and he turned to see his brother lying on his side, twitching in pain.

Instantly, Dagger’s jubilation died, and he was on his hooves tending to Cloak. “Ah, crap! You overdid it on the teleport, didn’t you?”

Cloak coughed again and sprayed a fine mist of blood in Dagger’s face. “… had to… get you out…” groaned the unicorn.

“Well, that’s right neighborly of you, but let’s not kill ourselves saving each other, yeah?” replied Dagger, trying to keep the worry out of his voice as he hoisted Cloak onto his back. The thin unicorn didn’t weigh much, but Dagger wasn’t confident he could carry him far, not when he had his own injuries to contend with. That and the Guard will be on our tails as soon as Moony gets back to the castle.

“We’ll have to go to ground before the shiny boys can figure out where we ’ported to,” Dagger declared as he took stock of their surroundings. They appeared to be in the back room of a warehouse. “Where the hay did you drop us, anyway? This doesn’t look like our bug-out room.” The ‘bug-out’ room was a back house belonging to a rich noble a few mansions away from the Grey Estate, a place chosen because the owner chanced to be out of town. This was definitely not that place.

“Bug-out was… too close… *cough* with alicorn on our tails,” rasped Cloak. “We’re two blocks north of… Industrial District.”

Dagger winced. Cloak had teleported them halfway across the city. Crazy foal’s lucky he didn’t kill himself. That had like a five percent chance of working. “Well, at least we’re close to home.” Gritting his teeth against the strain, he made for the alley exit. “Don’t worry, brother. I’ve got you. Home soon. I got you.”

Author's Note

Aura strode into Antiquarian’s office. “Sir, about the new chapter… there’s something missing.”

Antiquarian raised an eyebrow. “Problem with the script?”

“No, sir. Not the script.”

“What then?”

“You forgot the author’s note.”

“Oh,” grimaced the stallion. “Hmm. How about ‘the thick plottens.’”

Aura blinked. “Beg pardon?”

“‘The thick plottens,’ Miss Aura,” repeated Antiquarian. “Come on, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the Hank the Cowdog books.”

Aura did her best not to roll her eyes. “Antiq, nopony is going to get that reference.”

“Well, they can learn something today then.”

“You’re just doing this to get out of writing an author’s note scene aren’t you.”

“It’s a distinct possibility.”

***

As to the chapter itself… I really don’t have anything else to say about it.

…

I probably should, but I don’t.

…

Hope the lockdown is treating you all okay. Be sure to check out my other stories if you want something to do.

…

Or, check out this chapter’s shoutout: … oh, crap, I gotta pick something, huh. Let me just scroll back through my library… dum dee doo… this will just be a second…

Ah! Perfect! RazedRainbow’s Only the Good Dye Young. A slightly morbid comedy seems appropriate with this chapter.

Happy reading!

Jump to top

Character

Jacques hastened down the corridors after Kibitz, his long stride helping him keep pace with the Equestrian as they wound their way through the palace. Mentally, the friar prepared himself for ill news.

He had been summoned to Celestia’s study to tend to a wounded pony, and could only assume it had to do with the Shades. After all, why summon him, a relatively new healer, if it were not something that required his… unique skillset.

They slowed to a brisk walk as they approached the study doors, and Jacques prepared for the worst. He fully expected the patient to be on death’s door.

What he did not expect was for the study doors to be flung open as a trio of medical ponies backed out of the room nervously, driven by a fusillade of shouted words that even Jacques considered foul. To pony ears, they must have been doubly egregious.

Triply egregious in the princesses’ presence, amended Jacques, noting the look of butlerian outrage that crossed Kibitz’s features.

“Out with you! Out!” shouted the foul voice from within, taking a break from his string of invective long enough to issue orders. “You’ve bandaged, stitched, and sewn up every inch of me! You close anything else up and I won’t be able to crap!”

“Mr. Grey,” protested one of the doctors feebly, “We need to check—”

“Out!” roared the speaker, whose command was punctuated by a heavy book that sailed through the air at the doctor’s head. The medical ponies ducked as one before beating a hasty retreat down the corridor.

Further shouted exclamations rang out within the study, from two voices in particular. The first was the ill-tempered mystery stallion. The second sounded to be Princess Luna. Neither seemed especially happy with the other.

Kibitz looked to be moments away from bursting a vein or two at the impropriety, and muttered what was no doubt a very harsh judgment under his breath as he trotted forward.

Jacques was prepared to give the mystery pony some measure of leeway, insofar as people could be irrational when injured. All the same, the irreverent manner with which the ill-tempered stallion addressed the princess, to say nothing of his disrespect for the hospital staff, was enough to make the friar’s fists clench unconsciously. It seems manners are in short supply in Canterlot, he thought with a frown. Squaring his shoulders, he followed Kibitz into the room.

Celestia’s study showed evidence of having been converted into a hasty medical ward, with a divan that had been used as a makeshift gurney, two opened medical kits, a monitor of some sort, and bloodied rags of all sizes much in evidence.

All of this Jacques took in at a glance, for he was much more concerned with the room’s occupants.

Princess Luna bore the scuffs and scrapes of a recent battle, and there was blood on her coat, though the relative lack of bandages suggested little of it was hers. There was one large bandage on her cheek, and Jacques spared a moment to wonder what sort of foe had succeeded in wounding the alicorn.

The other pony in the shouting match was a stocky earth pony who, as his tirade a moment before had alluded, was rather swathed in bandages. He was grey-coated, with a tidily cropped white mane and tail, the mark of a stone smith’s compass and stylus on his flank, and the countenance of a pony in his middling years.

He could also generate considerable volume with his lungs, and Jacques feared for the hearing of the ponies present if things should escalate further. Though, if nothing else, the details shouted in the argument did allow him to identify the stallion as ‘Mason Grey,’ and to learn that there had been an unfortunate incident involving a bottle of fine wine.

Watching the shouting match, with the air of a mother who’d decided it was best to let the children have their go at each other before stepping in to calm things down, was Princess Celestia. She appeared remarkably serene under the circumstances, but Jacques noticed a flicker of resigned frustration in her eyes and a downward twist in her lips.

Argent, standing beside Celestia, was far less subtle about her disapproval. She openly frowned at the stallion. Jacques didn’t need to be a mind-reader to know that she would happily, even forcefully, escort the earth pony from the room, injuries or no injuries, if either princess would but give her leave to do so.

In all, Jacques decided it wasn’t quite the most heated infirmary scene he’d walked in on, but it was a strong contender for the title.

Fortunately, the friar did not long have to endure the awkwardness before he was noticed by Celestia. The Solar Princess spotted him and, in an impressive display of sisterly communication, managed to surpass the stallion’s volume and get Luna’s attention with a wordless gesture. Luna looked over at Jacques, gave a relieved smile, and informed Mason Grey that a specialist had come to examine him.

Mason did not take the news well. Especially when he turned and saw Jacques. “Oh, no!” shouted the earth pony, taking a step back from Jacques. “I’m not falling for that one! Those jokers tried to bump me off because of my ‘foreign adventurism,’ and this… this…!” He trailed off and regarded Jacques with an odd look. “What are you, exactly?” he asked in an abruptly civilized tone.

“Human,” replied Jacques automatically.

“And this human,” shouted Mason, reverting instantly to his previous outraged tone, “is one-hundred-and-ten-percent not Equestrian! That big bucker’s so foreign I’ve never even heard of his species! I didn’t get to where I am by painting an even bigger target on my back the same day the crossbow bolt misses!”

Luna rolled her eyes. “Mason—”

“No!” snapped the stallion, turning abruptly and storming towards the door. “I have had it up to here with being poked and prodded! I am not some guinea pig for your quacks to experiment on. I’m—” As he drew abreast of Jacques on his way out, he abruptly stopped, pulled out a business card, passed it to Jacques, saying in a pleasant tne, “Mason Grey, chum. I don’t believe I caught the name?”

“Friar Jacques,” blurted the astonished worthy.

“Charmed,” smiled the businesspony. “Once things have calmed down, we should have a chat about trade relations with… wherever you’re from.”

“That… might prove a challenge,” admitted Jacques.

Mason winked. “Never met a challenge I couldn’t conquer. Be seeing you.” Then he took another step and resumed shouting, “I’m Mason Frigging Grey, builder of empires, kicker of flanks, and taker of names! I do not linger for anypony!”

Luna stomped her hoof in an oddly filly-ish gesture of outrage. “And just where do you think you’re going?!”

“To pillage your wine cellar!” he shouted back as he limped down the hall.

Luna gritted her teeth and glared after him. “Stubborn foal!” she hissed.

Celestia took a step towards her sister. “Luna…”

“I’ll handle it, sister!” snapped the younger alicorn, who teleported after Mason. She reappeared next to him a ways down the corridor, and the sounds of their bickering echoed up the hall for several moments as they wound their way out of hearing range. During that time, the other occupants of the suddenly quiet room waited in weary silence.

Once it was clear the odd pair was well and truly gone, Jacques simply turned his gaze to Celestia and cocked an eyebrow. With a resigned half-smile, the princess obliged him, “That, as you may have gathered, was Mason Grey – a remarkably affluent and powerful businesspony who happens to be a close personal friend of Princess Luna’s.”

“Yes, I gathered they were friends, being that I did not witness her flinging him out the nearest window,” remarked Jacques dryly. “Is he always that… abrasive?”

Argent muttered something that sounded like a harsh affirmative. Celestia, true to form, gave a more measured answer. “Mason has always been something of a character. Though he is not usually this… difficult. I imagine he is simply shaken up.”

Jacques examined the business card absently. “He has an interesting way of showing it,” murmured the friar. In his normal tone he asked, “What is this about the attempt on his life for ‘foreign adventurism?’”

“Yes. That.” replied Celestia. Turning to Kibitz, she said, “Kibitz, you seem like you could use a break. Why don’t you go have a nice cup of tea and relax for a while.” Kibitz looked ready to protest that he was ever-ready to serve, but a subtle narrowing of the princess’s eyes said that it wasn’t a request. Bowing politely, the majordomo departed, closing the door behind him. When he’d left, the princess began her explanation. “At the moment we know very little. Colonel Query is still examining the crime scene, but from what we’ve gathered so far…”

The explanation didn’t take long, even with the questions Jacques asked. When she’d finished, Jacques stood silent for a time, stroking his beard as he mulled the matter over. “A curious turn of events,” he said at length.

“Indeed,” agreed Celestia. “Though now we know there have been at least two attacks with a foreign connection, giving us a clear motive to consider.”

“Perhaps,” said Jacques slowly.

Celestia raised an eyebrow. “You disagree?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know enough to agree or disagree, Princess. I just wonder if this might not be a diversion. After all, the stallion who first attacked your secretary and the good captain said nothing of a foreign connection.”

“True,” agreed Argent. “Though it’s possible that he was the diversion, and these attacks reveal the genuine motive.”

“Or perhaps both are diversionary tactics,” speculated Celestia, “or neither are, and there is simply a link we do not see.” She sighed and shook her head. “Too many dots and not enough lines to connect them.” The princess frowned at the wall in a brown study for a moment before blinking and addressing them. “I think it would be best if the both of you took some time to rest. There is nothing else for either of you to do at this time, and it’s been a rather busy day. Friar, I am sorry to have troubled you when your services were not desired.”

He gave a respectful bow. “Pray, think nothing of it, Your Highness.”

Celestia quirked a half-smile. “You are too generous, Friar. All the same, I’d like to do what I can to make it up to you, and to Rarity as well. If you’d like, I can arrange to have Steel Weave meet with you today. I believe I should be able to help Rarity move her business meetings to today as well, and to have use of one of the castle conference rooms for the purpose.”

Jacques raised an eyebrow. “That would certainly be convenient and, of greater importance, far safer. I hate to reschedule with Monsieur Weave on such short notice, but these are extenuating circumstances.”

“Steel Weave and his family are used to accommodating… unusual requests,” said Celestia. “A natural consequence of working closely for the Crown on special projects. It won’t be a problem. I can’t say the same for Rarity’s contacts but,” her smile broadened a touch, “I imagine a Royal invitation will smooth any ruffled feathers.”

“Most generous of you, Your Highness.”

Celestia raised one hoof. “Please, Friar – it is the least I can do for such a hero of the realm as Rarity, and such a selfless defender as yourself. Ah ah!” she chided before he could protest his own accolades. “You may dispense with the protestations, my friend. Your virtuous humility is to be admired, but I stand by my judgment and will not hear otherwise.”

Jacques chuckled ruefully. “If that is the princess’s will, I’ll not gainsay it.”

After bidding proper farewell to the princess, Jacques and Argent departed. As they wound their way to the Ivory Wing, Argent gave a sardonic laugh and remarked, “I fear you’ve had a rather poor introduction to Canterlot, Friar. An assassin on the train, four disgraceful barons in need of a good drubbing, and a loud-mouthed lout deserving defenestration.”

Jacques chuckled. “In fairness, the assassin was merely on the way to Canterlot, the loud-mouth was more your bother than mine, and the barons, well, I think they’ve seen the wisdom of a better path.”

Argent shot him a skeptical look. “You made that much of an impression on them?”

“They have the hearts to be good men,” replied Jacques with a modest shrug. “Sometimes, it just takes someone to show the way.”

The unicorn snorted. “That and a good kick in the teeth. Still, it would be nice to see a noble act like a noble for a change.”

Jacques raised an eyebrow. “If you long to see a noble acting the part, why not look in the mirror, Comtesse L’Argent?”

The countess winced. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to forget you heard that title?”

“Why should I?” asked Jacques. “Unless I miss my guess, you are heir to—,” seeing a passing servant, he elected not to name Argent Martel, foe of the Shades, saying instead, “a long and distinguished lineage. Why forsake your birthright?”

Argent muttered something under her breath before shooting him a sidelong glance. “Do you honestly want the story?”

Jacques gestured to the grand halls before them. “We have a long, beautiful walk ahead of us,” he slowed his pace to an amble, “and I am in no rush to pass this magnificence by.”

“Very well,” sighed Argent. “Your guess was correct, Friar. I am heir to a long tradition of glory and service. The Argents are an old family, far older even than Equestria. We served Prance with honor until the Normane Diaspora, preserved Old Unicornia during the Succession Wars, and were a founding House of Equestria following the Unification. From era of monarchs who preceded the Rule of the Sisters unto the present age, we have served Equestria. In peace, we served with words and counsel. In war, with blood and steel. For our service, our family was rewarded with great prestige and power amongst the peerage, and House Argent remains one of the most influential in the realm.” Her voice lowered. “Even as our numbers dwindle.”

It did not escape Jacques’ notice that Argent’s reluctance had faded when speaking of her family, yielding to a genuine pride and satisfaction. The brief passion in her voice only made the grim final remark that much more crushing. “What plagues your House that you dwindle?” he asked.

Argent frowned. “Too few children, and too many wars. Equestria herself may have known peace for centuries, but that peace has always been bought with courage and, when necessary, sacrifice. Many Argents have made the final sacrifice, sometimes without leaving heirs. Over the years, conflict and tragedy have pruned our family tree; precious few remain with Argent blood in their veins.”

Jacques nodded, but said nothing. Now that she’d gotten talking, there didn’t seem to be a need to urge her along.

“My father, Patriarch of the Argents and Duke of Trottingham, fell in battle, as did both of his brothers. My mother took the rank of Duchess and leadership of the House upon his death. When she eventually passes the title, it will likely be to my cousin, Bec de Corbin.”

The friar raised an eyebrow. “And why not to you? Are you not the next in line?” Then he winced, realizing that perhaps she’d had a falling out with her mother. Before he could offer apology for his curiosity, Argent spoke.

“It was my decision,” she answered, not seeming perturbed by his question. “Bec is married and has children.” Smiling dryly, the captain added, “Honestly, even if he had no offspring, the mere fact that he is married makes him a better candidate than I. Besides, Bec is an able administrator and statespony. He shall make a fine duke.”

Seeing that Argent was unbothered by his questions, Jacques pressed for more answers. “Is there any reason you could not still marry and assume the role of duchess one day?”

“I could,” admitted Argent. “Indeed, mother has delayed making any final declarations in the hopes that I’ll find a suitable husband. But, in truth,” her chuckle was somewhere between sardonic and resigned, “I have despaired of finding a gentlecolt of good standing who is not already taken.” Her gaze flicked up at him. “You saw the sorry state of the Peerage today. My many suitors over the years have failed to impress. Besides,” she favored him with a dry grin, “I fear I have become a hopeless career degenerate like Krucjata.”

There was humor in her tone, and Jacques knew that she meant Fritters no disrespect. All the same, he chose not to mention that Fritters may not be a bachelor for much longer. If it comforts her that Fritters seems married to the army with little interest in anything else, then pointing out a flaw in her thinking may not be politick. In any case, that is Applejack and Krucjata’s business, not the Countess’s.

“You said you had not found any worthy suitors amongst the nobility,” observed the friar. “What of the common folk?” I know that may cause stigma in some quarters, but you do not strike me as the type to let that bother you.

Argent snorted. “Much as I’d welcome the opportunity to broaden my selection of eligible bachelors, winning the affections of a common stallion has proven even more of a challenge than attracting a noble I can stand. Most are intimidated by my social status or chosen profession and don’t even attempt to court me. Of those who make the attempt… well… few were of the sort I’d willingly associate with, much less marry.”

“I see,” replied the friar. “Is that then why you do not mention that you are a comtesse? To avoid intimidating potential mates until you have had a chance to know them properly?”

The mare chuckled. “Not a bad guess, but no. My reluctance to use my title has nothing to do with my lack of a love life.” She sighed and her face fell as she explained, “My discretion regarding my rank is on account of the indiscretion of so many in the Peerage regarding theirs. These days, the nobles who flaunt their titles most loudly tend to be the ones most unworthy of them. My refusal to use my title, in spite of the fact that my bloodline is older than Celestia, sends a message that I will not be party to their abuse of rank. It’s actually become a rather common practice amongst much of the Peerage, especially those in the Crown Loyalists. I presume you’ve heard of Duke Golden Crown’s rather… interesting nickname?”

Friar Jacques’ lips creased downward. “Yes. ‘Fancy Pants,’ I believe.” A ridiculous name even by pony standards.

Judging by the amusement in Argent’s voice, she seemed to agree. “Some newsies slapped that one on the old boy a number of years back, probably hoping to get a rise out of him. They succeeded in earning the ire of the more strident Peers by daring to call the duke a fop, but Golden Crown just laughed it off and started going by ‘Fancy Pants.’ Which, of course, meant that the ‘elite’ had to play along. That’s an extreme case, of course. Most nobles who drop their titles don’t take the extra step of letting people call them by such an informal name, but the principle holds: If the Primarchists and their ilk want to use their titles as a bludgeon, that’s their concern.” She tossed her head carelessly. “We simply won’t be party to their delusions.”

Jacques nodded. “I understand. It’s your method of denouncing their behavior.”

“Quite right,” agreed Argent.

“Quite,” he echoed. “Unfortunately, I fear you’ve made a grave strategic error.”

Argent practically tripped over her hooves in shock. “I beg your pardon?” she demanded, coming to a stop.

“Come now, Argent; you are a soldier,” chided Jacques, halting beside her and pivoting to address her directly. “Do you not see the folly of yielding your enemy the initiative? You said yourself that these arrogant cads are unworthy to be called ‘noble,’ and yet you allow them to define what the ‘nobility’ is.”

The captain sputtered. “We— that’s not— we’re simply refusing to play their game!”

“No, you’re forfeiting the battle when you should be counter-attacking,” Jacques replied, his eyes narrowing. “Argent, you know how devoted I am to my faith – ‘Christian’ is my identity. Yet there are many folk in my world who are a disgrace to the name ‘Christian.’ If I were to deny the name so as not to associate with them, would I not compound their calumny by enabling the world to think that the only Christians in existence are those who blatantly violate the teachings of Christ? The sins of those within our ranks is not cause to withdraw – it is a cause to go on the offensive to reclaim lost ground.”

He pointed a gnarled finger at her. “So too with you. Why yield the field to those unworthy of its harvest? Why let them dishonor the memories of their nobler forebears? Would it not be better to show the shallowness of their claim to the title by making yourself a paragon in contrast? And it’s not just the Primarchists and their ilk you must concern yourself with – I’ve read enough of Populists’ rhetoric to know that they lambast the nobility collectively, using the bad actors amongst you to discredit the lot. Why allow your foes another weapon with which to malign you? They do not deserve to abuse the term ‘noble’ any more than the Primarchists do.”

Argent’s mouth opened and shut several times as she tried, and failed, to vocalize a response.

“I am not saying you must demand that all Equestrians use your title,” said Jacques, taking advantage of her silence to clarify his words. “Nor am I saying you must constantly use it. I’m not even saying Golden Crown should abandon his frankly absurd nickname. Your land is far less formal than my own, and I do not think that is necessarily a bad thing. If you wish to be known first as ‘Argent Sabre’ or ‘Captain,’ so be it. All the same, there is a difference between choosing not to insist upon formality and actively hiding your title as though you are ashamed of it.”

The pair stood in silence for a moment, Jacques waiting while Argent stared blankly ahead and processed what he said. When she spoke again, it was with the muted tone of one who had a lot on her mind. “It would appear I have a number of long-held assumptions to reevaluate,” the mare remarked. Then, with a crooked smile, she looked up at him and added, “I don’t suppose you have any other pearls of wisdom you’d like to dispense?”

Jacques laughed. “Not at present, but I’ll inform you if that changes.” Gesturing down the hall towards where the Ivory Wing lay, he said, “Shall we resume our walk?”

“Please,” she replied. “And let’s see if we can tease any further pearls out of you. What’s your opinion on the matter of ennobling the Bearers?”

“I was honestly shocked to learn that it hadn’t happened already.”

“That was my impression as well, though Princess Celestia did explain her reasoning one day to the effect that it would cause significant problems for the six of them…”

Mason limped out of Celestia’s study, his head held high and his stride that of a pony who owned the place, limp notwithstanding. Luna gritted her teeth and glared after him. “Stubborn foal!” she hissed. You’d think he hadn’t just had a brush with death!

Celestia took a step towards her sister. “Luna…”

“I’ll handle it, sister!” snapped the younger alicorn, who teleported after the stallion.

She reappeared a few feet behind him. “Mason, you were entirely out of line—”

“Look, Lulu,” groaned Mason, not slowing his stride in the slightest, “if you’re going to lecture me, can it at least be on the way to the wine cellar?”

Luna jerked to a stop, mouth agape at his brazen dismissal. “I beg your pardon, sirrah!”

“You’re pardoned,” Mason replied casually. “Now, is the quickest way to the wine cellar left or…”

The Lunar Princess teleported in front of him and glared imperiously down at him, wings instinctively flared in a dominant pose. “You are… impertinent,” she hissed.

Mason returned her glare with a bemused look. “Guilty as charged,” he replied blithely. “Although…” he frowned, and there was a sudden hardness to his expression, “is this gonna be one of those things where you try to put a pony like me in my place, because that would be all kinds of disappointing.”

Luna held his gaze for a moment, then blinked feeling a sudden fear wash over her. What am I doing, treating my friend this way? “Forgive me, Mason,” she said, folding her wings and taking a step back. “I- I forgot myself for a moment.”

At first Mason’s expression did not change, but soon it broadened into a smile. “Ah, no worries. Emotions are running a bit high, right now. Though…” he raised an eyebrow and resumed walking, “some wine might take the edge off.”

The princess rolled her eyes as she fell into step beside him. “I thought you were more of a scotch and whisky stallion.”

Mason shrugged. “Again, guilty. But I figured I ought to honor the ’76 that got destroyed while somepony wasn’t paying enough attention.”

Luna’s eyes narrowed. “Enough about the ’76, Mason. You act as though somepony died.”

“Eh,” he scoffed. “Ponies are easier to replace.” Luna glared. “What, too much?”

“You’ve been far too much since we arrived,” she rebuked. “Not only in your humor, but in your treatment of the doctors, the staff, and my sister.”

“I think sun-britches could stand to loosen up.”

“Mason…” she growled.

“Fine, fine, I hear you,” he groaned. “I will try to tone it down. But only for you, Luna.”

“Thank you,” replied the princess coolly. Her frosty demeanor did not last, however, as the sight of him limping woke her sympathies and overrode her irritation. “Instead of walking all the way to the cellar, why not simply have a bottle brought to a private sitting room,” she suggested.

Immediately, he diverted towards one of the sitting rooms. “Well, you know I can’t resist ordering ponies around, so if you’re offering…”

Mason, not surprisingly in Luna’s view, chose the most opulent sitting room available and immediately ordered a bottle of ’72, as well as a platter of assorted cheeses. While they waited, Luna took the opportunity to pick his brain about who might have attacked him.

Her efforts yielded little fruit. “Look, Lulu, it’s like I told Mr. Stabby McFillet,” Mason said as he reclined on an opulent divan, “I own so many foreign projects going that I have a hard time keeping track of my empire. Between mining, construction, R&D, and all the minutiae that go along with it, I’ve got major contracts in a half dozen countries, and minor contracts in a half dozen more. I’d sell snow to yaks if I they had anything I wanted in that frozen hellhole. Him saying ‘foreign adventurism’ to me is like saying ‘cake shop’ to Celestia – it doesn’t exactly narrow it down.”

Ignoring the jibe at her sister, Luna persisted, “Could it perhaps be related to the grounds on which your employees are working? Could they have seen something a local government wanted to keep hidden or upset a group of rebels or some such thing?”

“Not likely,” grunted Mason. “I take great pains to stay on friendly terms with the established governments and the plucky rebel groups. Getting embroiled in a civil war has a way of impeding profits, after all.”

The least of many complications, thought Luna grimly. She folded and unfolded her wings as she wracked her brain for other explanations. A sudden thought came to her and she asked, “What about artifacts?” she asked.

“Hm?”

“Artifacts,” she repeated. “You’re a collector of no small renown. What if you… collected something you shouldn’t have?”

“Stole an ancestral relic or something?” Mason suggested. “Not likely; I’m always careful about the land I buy and lease, especially when it’s an archeological dig site. I want my collection to look nice and avoid nasty little complications – you know, blood oaths of vengeance, unkillable magic constructs bent on my destruction, lawsuits, that sort of thing. Still,” he continued, considering the possibility, “I suppose one of my underlings might have dropped the ball with an acquisition.” His face darkened. “There’ll be Tartarus to pay if that happened.”

“Perhaps it would behoove you to check on your ongoing projects,” she suggested. “All of them.”

“Already planning on it. I’ll send out letters today, though it’ll be easier to check on things more directly from my Manehatten office.” Luna recoiled, prompting Mason to chuckle and chide, “Don’t frown, princess. You’ll ruin those pretty features of yours.”

“You can’t possibly be serious! Travelling?! Now?!” Visions of the train attack flashed in her mind, overlaid with Mason’s blood.

“Well not alone, obviously,” he replied a touch archly. “I’m not an idiot. I’ll wait for my security force to get here.”

Luna’s nose wrinkled. “I hardly think a hooffull of security ponies sufficient.”

“Security force, Luna,” he emphasized. “I can buy and sell counties, remember? I have enough highly-trained professionals to conquer a kingdom or two if the urge struck me. Granted, most of them are overseas protecting my assets, but I’ve got enough local guys to turn my mansion into a fort and still have plenty left over for me to take my airship – and I’d like to emphasize it’s my personal airship – to my Manehatten mansion. I’ll be safe as houses.”

“Your house was not especially safe, as you may recall,” replied Luna dourly.

“Details, Luna, mere details.” A castle staff pony entered at that moment with the wine and cheese, and the pair waited until he departed to resume their conversation. “So, what can you tell me about that ‘human’ chap?” asked Mason as Luna automatically poured him a glass of wine.

Of course you would ask me that. “Very little,” she said carefully, not meeting his gaze. “He is a creature from a far-off land. One to which he cannot readily return, so I’d advise you put aside any thoughts of expanding your business.”

“Can’t readily return, eh? As in banished, or as in magical shenanigans?”

Luna glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “The man’s business is his own.”

“I would hope you wouldn’t have some disreputable exile hanging around the palace…”

The princess bristled. “Friar Jacques is no thug – he is an honest knight of courage and abiding moral character.”

“So, it was magical shenanigans then?”

Luna looked away. “We didn’t say that.”

Mason smirked. “You slipped into the Royal We, so you might as well have.” Luna winced. “And, if I were a betting pony – which I am – I’d bet it had something to do with that little day trip Cellie took to Ponyville a few weeks back.” He took a satisfied sip of his wine. “Well, did I guess it right? Do I win the prize?”

Realizing that her clever friend had figured out more than he should, and determined that he not place himself in even greater danger with more guessing, Luna sought to divert him. “Mason, if I give you a bottle of Apple Family Reserve laid down in the days of yore when they were yet known by their Clan-name, would you let it drop?”

“Oooh, a bribe!” laughed Mason. “I oughta misbehave more often.” Luna snorted. “Alright, Lulu. I’ll take the bottle.”

Luna sighed in relief and poured herself a belated drink. “Thank you, Mason.”

“Well, I try to make you like me.” He raised his glass. “A toast, to mysteries, to secretive warriors who dress in black, and to open bribery amongst ponies of grandeur!”

Laughing, Luna raised her glass to clink against his. “You’re incorrigible, Mason.”

“Thank you, Princess,” he replied. As they raised their glasses to their lips, she heard him mutter, “Feathering Ponyville, though, amiright?”

Author's Note

A noise not unlike the moan of some undead monstrosity echoed down the university corridor, its mournful groan bespeaking horror which mortal minds would shudder to contemplate.

Aura de Patience didn’t even look up from her paperwork as her employer plodded past her desk to his office. “Welcome back to work, sir,” she greeted Antiquarian. “I’m rather surprised to see you here, given the regrettable state you returned to Equestria in.”

An unintelligible grumble was the only response she got.

“I see,” replied Aura, setting down her pen as the shambling Antiquarian tried – and failed – to find the key to his office in his bookbag. “Yes, I find it understandable wanting to get back to work so as to put one’s recent harried experiences out of one’s mind. All the same, wouldn’t it have been better to take a day to recuperate at home, as we discussed yesterday?” she finished a touch archly.

Bitter grumbles answered her as he continued to fumble for his key.

Clicking her tongue, Aura trotted over, found the missing key, and opened the office for him. “I told you not to worry about the Angry Mob. I already threw them off your scent.”

Quizzical grunts emerged from the shambling stallion’s mouth.

“Oh, it was quite simple, really. I put my ventriloquism skills to use and made it sound like different key players in the Mob had, shall we say, strongly differing views on whether the sequel trilogy of a certain moving picture series was any good. The resulting… ‘scuffle’ let’s call it, took on a scale of memorable proportions. I think a playwright will be basing a musical on the conflict.”

Horrified gibberish greeted her statement.

“Well, yes, perhaps it was a little excessive of me, but I wanted you to be able to ease back into the writing.”

Censorious muttering chided her.

“Very well, Uncle Antiq,” she said with a slight smile and a fond roll of her eyes. “I’ll refrain from sparking fandom wars in the future.”

Mollified murmurs answered as the stallion slowly slopped his way over to his desk.

“You’re welcome, sir. Coffee?”

Grunt.

“Right away. Oh, and, Antiq?”

Grunt?

“It’s good to have you back.”

Criminy it is good to be working on this story again! I’m sorry it’s taken so long, but I’m back. It may be a while before I get back into anything remotely resembling a regular upload schedule, but I’m back.

This chapter is really only half of a chapter that I had planned to finish out the Canterlot side-arc before returning to Ponyville, where everything is definitely fine and no Great and Powerful shenanigans of the crisis-of-the-day-but-maybe-moreso variety have been happening. And that’s a Pinkie Prom— you know what, I value my life too much to finish that lie.

Anyway, I felt bad about going dark for so long, so I decided to split the chapter and take the section that I’d finished and make its own little chapter. Something to feed you ravenous word-eaters until I can wrap the rest up. Then it’s back to Ponyville and… for legal reasons what I’m going to call “adventure.”

Shoutout goes to I Like You Just the Way You Areby The Wandering Mind, because sometimes we all need more Mr. Rogers in our lives.

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Ominous Horizons

Pre-Chapter Author’s Note: If you're going to be up too late reading this because I posted it late, make a good choice and go to bed. It will still be here in the morning.

It’s been a while. In case you forgot what anybody looks like, remember this exists: Antiquarian's Guide to Ponies You Vaguely Remember.

Also, you may want to check out this blog post before reading this chapter if you haven’t already.

The moment Jacques returned to his quarters, he was accosted by a worried Rarity (and Oaken, who seemed more perturbed than worried). Jacques did not relish the prospect of filling Rarity’s head with more troubles, but he reasoned that she would worry more if left to speculation. So, he told them of the assassination attempt on Mason Grey, glossing over the stallion’s disrespectful behavior by simply saying that Mason had “been feeling well enough that he declined further medical attention.”

Rarity took the news of a second attempted murder better than he expected, though she was by no means at ease. Jacques guessed that it would likely behoove him to find time to talk to her about the experience later, but at the moment she seemed more in the mood for something to take her mind off the whole affair.

Fortunately, a distraction arrived not long after in the form of the armorer, Steel Weave, and his team, who just so happened to be his wife and children.

Steel Weave was not what Jacques expected in a blacksmith. Even with Rarity’s warning that he came across more as a garmenteer than an armorer, Jacques was not prepared for the foppish dandy of a unicorn who stood before him. Steel Weave’s white mane was immaculately coiffed, his mustachios perfectly curled, and his pointed goatee neatly trimmed. His pale blue coat was well-groomed, and the salmon-colored peacoat and ivory collar he wore made him look like a gentlecolt sailor of the Coltibbean… or rather, like a stallion who fancied himself a gentlecolt sailor of the Coltibbean.

His wife, an earth pony named High Crest, didn’t exactly scream “armorer” either. She wore a string of pearls and a sea-blue and green dress to contrast her sandy coat and curly nutmeg-brown mane. Every part of her mane and coat were as immaculately maintained as her husband’s. Her garb, while subtler, was still woven with intricate patterns that suggested waves on an inland sea.

Behind the couple stood three burly young stallions – an earth pony, a unicorn, and a pegasus – who were obviously brothers. Despite the difference of appendages (and ages, apparently), they looked eerily similar, with soot grey coats, coal black manes, and brown eyes. Unlike Weave and Crest, the three young stallions did look the part of blacksmiths – they were clad in working garb, carrying tools, and appeared much dirtied from working at the forge.

The trio identified themselves as Forge, Temper, and Quench. It took a great deal of self-control on Jacques’ part to not gawp at the knowledge that these shaggy, soot-coated ponies were Weave and Crest’s children.

Weave’s manner seemed haughty at first. He moved in the languid fashion of one who had become bored with the world. His eyes were half-lidded, and he appeared to look down his nose even at those taller than him. Yet he was gracious in his speech and courteous to all – he spoke with Argent in a fashion befitting her rank, but, though he did not use the same phraseology with commoner Oaken, he was no less polite.

The armorer-couturier had met Rarity at a fashion expo some years ago, though Jacques quickly gathered that they had not spoken since Rarity became a Bearer. Now reacquainted, Steel Weave kissed her hoof and thanked her for her proud service to the nation, after which he noted that he’d watched her fashion career with approval since their last meeting. He was so impressed by her work, in fact, that he suggested embarking on a joint venture at some point in the future. Rarity responded by jumbling her words in excitement and emitting more than one unladylike squeak before she got her nerves back under control and replied with her trained decorum. Weave politely acted as though her brief bout of nerves never happened.

Demure High Crest, for her part, supplied more visible emotional engagement, balancing her husband’s languid stoicism (though never in such a manner that would seem indecorous in Canterlot high society). If he mentioned business, she made small talk. If he remarked on some non-business detail, she made noted something that struck her with inspiration for fashion or smithing.

Soon the air of Jacques’ sitting room was filled with conversation, largely carried by Steel Weave and High Crest. Tea was ordered, and soon topics ranged from the current fashion scene to the oddities of the Equestrian Parliament to planned changes in the EUP uniforms. Even Argent was drawn in, though Jacques found himself increasingly bewildered, until he started focusing more on the odd couple than on the conversation.

To Jacques, it seemed that Weave and Crest were engaged in a bizarre dance of social refinement, which had all the trappings of ‘proper’ high society, but without the arrogance which so often accompanied it. They never stepped on each other’s hooves, never missed a cue, and, Jacques noticed, they never stopped analyzing.

The languid eyes and the demure tone hide a pair of keen observers, thought Jacques. They to hone in on the littlest of details – a useful skill in metalworkers, but also in spies. It is well that they are trustworthy and that what we are talking about is public knowledge, else who knows what little things we might have let slip by mistake.

He also pondered the couple’s sons, who stayed mostly silent as they drank their tea. They looked as bemused as Jacques felt, but the friar couldn’t help but wonder if they, like their parents, observed more than they let on.

Jacques was starting to lose himself in his ponderings when Steel Weave abruptly set his teacup down, stood, and gestured for Jacques to come to the middle of the floor. “Now,” said the stallion is his quiet voice, “let’s have a look at you, shall we?”

Feeling quite adrift, Jacques obediently strode to the center of the room. Almost immediately he was surrounded by the armorer family, who padded up silently to examine him from every angle. They circled him, casting their gaze over every inch of him, all the while muttering calculations and suggestions to each other in low tones. Much of their speech was indecipherable to Jacques, either because it delved into an aspect of metallurgy or magic that was beyond his knowledge or because it was in some sort of verbal shorthand which only they seemed to understand.

Periodically, one of them would ask him something – the questions ranged from his fighting style and preferred combat forms to the sensitivity of his skin. Jacques answered as best he could. Eventually, their questions came to be about his magic, which he answered only after Argent assured him that the Weave Family Armorers had served Celestia faithfully for generations and were fully cleared for the work.

Then came the measurements. Between magic, earth pony speed, and pegasus flight, the process did not last long, but it still left Jacques feeling manhandled and slightly sore. There was another barrage of questions (all asked in the same refined tones as before), and then they were done.

At least, they were done with the man himself.

“Might we please borrow your sword a moment?” asked Weave. Too tired to do more than nod dumbly, Jacques handed the blade over.

For an instant, a flicker of visible emotion rippled across Weave’s features, and Crest’s demure poise flashed briefly with giddiness. The sons all smiled like children on the Feast of St. Nicholas. Then the moment ended, and the five clustered intently around the sword, murmuring to each other in their bizarre shorthand as they passed the blade around. The earth ponies bit the blade as though to taste the metal, the unicorns scanned it with their magic, the pegasus pinged the metal with one hoof and listened to its timbre.

Jacques glanced at his companions to gauge their reactions. Rarity and Oaken were simply staring in mute fascination. Argent also seemed fascinated, though she her fascination was tempered by a ‘seen-it-before’ attitude.

“We shall take the commission,” declared Steel Weave, startling Jacques from his distraction. “Tonight, we shall forge a chainmail hauberk for you as a stopgap armor until we can complete your full suit of plate armor, complete with shield.”

“And multiple surcoats of course,” added Crest, as she examined the back of one forehoof, “in case one gets sullied whilst engaged in combat. You must be able to look your best when setting forth to do battle with the forces of darkness, after all.”

“The chainmail will have only standard defensive enchantments on it,” continued Weave. “The plates and shield, however, we will match to your own magical signature and abilities. That passage you mentioned speaking of Divine armament shall provide a suitable template when combined with the readings we took of you today.”

Jacques blinked several times before he realized that Weave was referring to the Scriptural references to the ‘Armor of God.’ It took him even longer to remember that those passages had, in fact, come up in the course of the conversation… before they started talking business. Wait, were they getting a sense of my armor preferences from small talk? How in—

“Regrettably, we cannot give you an exact time estimate for the commission, as these are unfamiliar enchantments we will be experimenting with. My best guess is—”

“—a month—” supplied Crest.

“—and if you require a more complete suit in the meantime,” resumed Weave, “we can discuss another stopgap. At the time that the armor is completed, you will need to present yourself to us so that we may stamp your signature on it, allowing us to attune the enchantments to you specifically. At that time, we can do the same for your sword.”

Weave fell silent and stared at Jacques. It took the friar a moment to find his voice. “I… uh… I thank you for your labors on my behalf, and await its completion with eagerness.”

“Splendid,” stated Weave held out the sword to Jacques. “Now, to the matter of price.”

Finally, thought Jacques as he retrieved his blade. For a commission like this, I’ll be able to offload this ridiculous fortune I’ve accumulated and—

“We shall pay you five hundred bits now, and another five hundred upon the completion of the commission,” declared Weave. “The rest of the payment will be rendered by the commission itself. The collective value is just slightly above market value for the Forge Rights, as we are doing this specially at the request of the Crown.”

The sword clattered to the ground. Jacques’ hand trembled and his eyes twitched as he tried, and failed, to comprehend what Weave had just said.

Pay… me… but I’m not… no… I pay them… why pay… I don’t…

Weave tilted his head. “Friar Jacques? Is everything quite all right?”

Crest gave a light laugh and put a hoof to her husband’s shoulder. “Oh, dearest, I believe Friar Jacques is unfamiliar with Forge Rights and was anticipating paying us.”

With a fond half-smile, Weave took his wife’s hoof and brought it to his lips. “You are quite right, my dear. Friar Jacques, pray forgive my oversight and allow me to clarify. My family, and many of the other great armorers of the land, adhere to an ancient concept of ‘Forge Rights,’ whereby those who share new metalworking or enchantment techniques are to be paid for the knowledge. Between your blade and the new magical processes we shall unlock in forging armor for a unique creature such as yourself, you shall bring great fortune to this family. As such, you are owed compensation for your Forge Rights. The thousand bits are what remains of that compensation after subtracting the work hours and material cost of forging the new armor.”

“We understand, of course, that you are a man who lives by a vow of poverty,” said High Crest, flicking one of her locks behind her ear and leaning against Weave, “but Forge Rights are clear: you must be paid, and we cannot take the commission if you will not accept the payment.”

Jacques could not respond to that. It was not that he didn’t want to. He simply couldn’t formulate the thoughts required to respond. Rarity came to his rescue, thanking the blacksmiths for their generosity and assuring them that Friar Jacques would accept the terms if they could perhaps help him sit down and put the contract in front of him. The smiths obliged, and, after a cup of calming jasmine tea, Jacques shakily signed the contract.

With that, Steel Weave, High Crest, and their children bid courteous farewell and departed.

The room sat silent, as everypony within it waited for Jacques to react. Jacques, for his part, stared blankly at the far wall. When he spoke at last, it was in a dazed voice. “Five ponies just politely approached me, surrounded me, accosted me, and forced me to accept a kingly gift and a small fortune.” He paused, then added, “Until today, I would not have believed it was possible to experience reverse brigandage.”

Rarity nodded sagely. “I understand, darling. Pinkie Pie sometimes decides to give us ‘just because’ presents. It’s like a reverse mugging.”

“Is that so?” asked Jacques, his voice still dazed. “How remarkable.”

Oaken cleared his throat. “Um, Friar? Are you feeling alright?”

“Oh, I’m fine, Oaken,” replied Jacques. “I just came here thinking I’d finally get rid of this wealth that I’ve been accumulating despite my every attempt to get rid of it, only to inexplicably become even more wealthy thanks to an ancient law of hospitality that I can’t subvert.”

There was a knock at the door.

“If that’s someone else coming to present me with a pricy gift, or money, or a monetary gift,” said Jacques, an edge entering his voice, “I will fling myself through the window, scale the outer wall, and walk back to Ponyville.”

Argent moved to check the door. “If that ends up being the case, I recommend the south window – there are bushes beneath to cushion your fall.” She opened the door to reveal an earth pony in chaplain’s garb. “Chaplain Trench,” she greeted him. “You’re early. I hope you’re not here to present Friar Jacques with a pricy gift, or money, or a monetary gift.”

The stallion looked confused. “Um… I dinnae think… no,” he said at length, his brogue thickening with his consternation.

“Splendid!” smiled Argent. “I think what the friar would really prefer would be a high-concept discussion of metaphysics and spirituality.” She glanced back at Jacques. “Would you like that friar? Would you like a high-concept discussion of metaphysics and spirituality?”

Jacques chuckled tiredly. “Yes, Argent. Yes I would. Please, Chaplain, come take a seat.”

Argent ushered Rarity and Oaken out as the puzzled Trench entered. “We’ll leave you gentlecolts to it then,” she said as the trio left. “Happy philosophizing!”

Once they’d gone, Jacques rose to greet the cleric. The pair traded grips and introduced themselves properly before taking their seats. “Well,” began Trench. “Where should we start?”

“Let’s start with Holy Orders,” said Jacques, putting aside distracting thoughts of accidental wealth and the irony a rich man seeking poverty. “Now, I understand that you’re a Solarian, and I was wondering about the focus of your Mission…”

While Jacques and Trench discussed the finer points of theology, ethics, and life as military chaplains, Rarity busied herself with her contract negotiations. She had mostly come to Canterlot to accompany Jacques, but there were some business matters that required her attention.

The original plan had been a two-day trip, with sightseeing on the first day and business on the second. That was no longer an option. In light of the day’s events (and with Celestia’s strong urging) they had decided to handle business on day one before returning to Ponyville first thing the next morning. For security reasons, it had been arranged for Rarity to hold her meetings in the castle.

Under ordinary circumstances, abruptly moving important business meetings up a day and changing the venue might have hurt her professional reputation. Being that the change of venue was to the Royal Palace, however, Rarity guessed that her reputation remained neutral. Perhaps it even improved, she reflected. If nothing else, the deals were closed to Rarity’s satisfaction by the time dinner rolled around.

“I’d say that went well,” she remarked to Oaken as the pair wound their way to the Princesses’ dining room. “Mr. Thread was hesitant to sign a contract with a garmenteer from little old Ponyville, but he saw it my way in the end.”

Oaken smiled dryly. “I’m sure the fact that you casually mentioned that the princesses wouldn’t mind you arriving a few minutes late to dinner had nothing to do with his abrupt reevaluation of that ‘garmenteer from little old Ponyville.’”

Rarity smirked and flicked her mane back with a toss of her head. “Well, if he was so inclined to put stock in my social status, who was I to disappoint him?”

Oaken chuckled, then more soberly remarked, “You seem to be bearing up well.”

Sighing lightly, Rarity nodded. “Yes… yes I suppose I am. Perhaps it is simply because I have had so many excellent distractions.” Shooting a warm look in his direction, she added, “Though I suspect a great deal of it has to do with the quality of the company I’ve kept today.”

The stallion flushed slightly, but covered his embarrassment by saying, “Yes, eccentric Canterlot couturiers et armuriers have a way of setting one’s mind at ease.”

Rarity tittered. “Yes, the Weaves are a memorable lot, aren’t they?” She gestured to the uniform Oaken was wearing – a simple green dress uniform rather than the more formal black mess dress. “Speaking of couture, I must confess a certain envy for the simplicity you soldiers enjoy when selecting proper attire. You’re told the appropriate level of dress, and that’s that. I on the other hoof, must fret over my choice of clothing.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” Oaken advised. “It’s only an informal dinner. From what I’ve heard, Princess Celestia would probably prefer to dispense with uniforms and fancy dresses altogether.”

Rarity sniffed. “Well, that’s fine to say, but this is still a dinner with both reigning princesses and a number of military personnel.”

“Sure, but the friar will be there too, and he’s wearing a coarse black robe. Not exactly a high bar.”

“Tch! The friar hardly counts!” said Rarity. “Here, Oaken, give me your opinion,” she ordered, slowing to a stop and gesturing to the midnight purple dress she’d chosen for the evening. “Does this dress work?”

Oaken looked her up and down, then asked, “Do you want the polite answer, or the honest one?” Rarity’s eyes widened in horror, then Oaken smiled cheekily and said, “Because both answers are, ‘that dress is beautiful and it looks even better on you.’”

Rarity gawped at him for a moment, then swatted him with a hoof while he snickered. “You little rip!” she accused, finding herself laughing as well. “And to think, my first impression of you was that you were a mannerly stallion! Fritters has been a terrible influence on you!”

“Fritters is a terrible influence on everypony,” retorted Oaken as they resumed walking. “Applejack certainly has interesting taste in stallions.”

“You noticed that too, eh?” asked Rarity.

“I think even Ironhide’s noticed, and he’s usually as dense about that kind of thing as he is about fashion.”

Rarity shuddered, remembering that Ironhide thought a pleated salmon shirt paired with red-and-green plaid. “If he was truly that dense, he wouldn’t notice if they got married,” she retorted, earning a laugh from her companion. “Still,” she continued, “I think AJ’s and Fritters’ mutual interest is quite apparent to anypony paying sufficient attention.” Rarity grimaced. “And the fact that both of them seem bound and determined to ignore the obvious is vexing in the extreme. If the two of them don’t start dating soon, I might have to resort to drastic measures.”

“Yeah, at this rate Redheart and Medevac will be going steady before they are.”

Rarity’s eyebrows shot up and she looked over at Oaken. “You are a perceptive one. The two of them are so subtle that I don’t think even they know the interest is mutual yet.”

He shrugged and said, “My dad’s a naturally stoic guy. I learned to pick up subtle cues pretty early on. Some ponies – like my mom – wear their hearts on their sleeves, but plenty don’t. Doesn’t mean the heart’s not there.”

“True enough,” agreed Rarity. And some ponies may think that you’re a simple guard, but those ponies are missing out.

Even arriving late, Rarity and Oaken were not the last guests to make an appearance. Argent was absent and unlikely to come. Apparently, she’d been called away by some paperwork from the rest of her unit (which, with the exception of the platoon she’d brought to Canterlot, was still stationed on the Eastern border). Luna was also absent, though Celestia was confident her sister would eventually join them.

In attendance were Celestia, Friar Jacques, Chaplain Trench, and five others she’d never met before.

The first was a captain from the Lunar Guards named Crescent Strike. She was a thestral, a ‘bat-pony’ in parlance, one of a tiny sub-species of pegasi who excelled in nighttime combat (silent flying, enhanced night vision, excellent hearing, and so on). Crescent Strike was locked in close conversation with the two chaplains and, after greeting Rarity and Oaken, immediately returned to that conversation.

Next was Edmare Burke. The aquiline-featured mare was something of a hero to Rarity – one of the youngest ponies to hold the position of Minister of Trade, the red-maned Braelic unicorn was every bit the skilled statespony her legendary father had been. She greeted them cheerfully and wasted no time pulling Rarity into the spirited debate with the Chancellor Exchequer, Plum Pitt, on the nature of fluctuating market factors.

The Exchequer was a heavyset stallion, nearly two decades Burke’s senior. The reserved Trottish pony had been the leading member of the Labour Party ‘Whigs’ when they’d been the largest Opposition Party and Burke’s Crown Loyalist ‘Tories’ were the Sitting Government.

Back then, Edmare Burke had been a fresh-faced new MP, and Plum Pitt a veteran statespony. Their debates had elevated them to the status of legendary political rivals, and the newsies had loved the contrast of the scrappy young Tory and the experienced old Whig verbally jousting down the hallowed halls of Parliament.

They were also good friends who held great respect for each other. Rarity found herself enjoying the lively discourse. Certainly far more intellectually stimulating than the last time I hobnobbed with the ‘elite’ of Canterlot.

So quickly did the two statesponies draw Rarity into their dialogue that she had to make special note to observe the other dinner guests.

To her surprise, one was a War Dog from Argent’s unit – Sergeant Miru, the wiry grey-maned pegasus mare who’d met them at the train station and escorted Windforce back to his house. Was that really just today? thought Rarity with some astonishment. It feels like a year has passed!

Now that Miru was without her helmet – dressed in uniform like Oaken – Rarity could see that what she had earlier mistaken for white spots on the wiry mare’s tan coat were actually tattoos. Tattoos patterned on Austailian Aboriginal designs, unless I miss my guess. Few ponies bothered with tattoos – the various processes involved in ensuring that the pony’s coat would reflect the color and design of the underlying tattoo was a complicated one. Those who went to the effort usually had a story behind the reason.

The demeanor of Miru in dress uniform was a far cry from her demeanor whilst in armor, Rarity quickly decided. Miru-in-Armor is a self-assured, irreverent warrior who probably faces death with a laugh. Miru-in-Uniform is stiffer than Rainbow Dash at a silent auction. She looks like a new prisoner in a starched jumpsuit, thought Rarity, feeling a pang of sympathy. Even Applejack doesn’t look so ill-at-ease in such circumstances. Though, in fairness, Applejack does have more experience dining with Royalty than Miru probably does.

Fortunately for the Austailian pegasus, Oaken was a palace guard. And, since Celestia had a practice of randomly dining with palace staff and guards so she could get to know them, he’d been taught how to behave himself. Miru latched onto her fellow enlisted pony as though she was drowning and he was a life raft. Oaken, tactfully, didn’t give any indication he noticed. The pair spent most of the evening chatting quietly. Every once in a while, Miru would guffaw loudly, drawing the attention of the other diners, at which point she’d clear her throat and return to her conversation with as much aplomb as she could manage.

Rarity found the situation amusing, but couldn’t blame Miru for her discomfort. Not only was the soldier mare dining with Princess Celestia, two cabinet members, her chaplain, a foreign dignitary – or whatever Jacques technically is – and a Bearer, but she was also doing so under the gaze of one of Canterlot’s most senior officers.

That senior officer was none other than the current Captain of the Royal Guard, Colonel Steel Halberd. Yes, the Colonel-Captain, thought Rarity as Twilight’s lecture played in her mind, detailing how the antiquarian title ‘Captain of the Royal Guard’ had survived into modern rank structure. Why must these Guard types make their nomenclature so bleeding complicated?

Some soldiers might easily pass for civilians out of uniform. Then there were those who looked armored for war even in civilian dress.

Steel Halberd was one such pony. The earth pony was tall, lean, and muscular. His chiseled features were blue grey, his eyes like flint, his regulation-length mane and tail the color of slate. The left half of his face was scarred, having the look of a stone cracked open and sealed with cement so as to be even stronger. He was like a boulder hewn from the side of a mountain.

Yet for all that his countenance made him seem menacing, and for all the lethality he was no doubt capable of, there was nothing brutish of the stallion. His manner was grave, but not lifeless; stoic, but not cold. Smiles were a rare expression on his face, but genuine when they came.

He sat quietly for much of the dinner, responding politely when engaged, but otherwise contenting himself to listen. Then, during a brief lull in Burke and Pitt’s rhetorical dance, he leaned towards Rarity, his gaze earnest, and said, “Your ladyship, I want to thank you for your brave service to the kingdom. The citizens of Equestria owe you and the Bearers a debt we cannot repay.” He spoke quietly, plainly, and the fashionista could see he meant every word.

Flushing slightly, she replied, “You are most kind, good sir. I shall be certain to share your gratitude with my friends.” She gestured to the medals on his chest. “Though it seems that we, in turn, owe you an answering debt of gratitude. I spy both a Silver and a Bronze Star, which I surmise you earned at great peril in defense of the realm.”

Halberd cleared his throat and returned his gaze to his meal. “I was only doing what any soldier would do,” he replied. “You seem to know more about military decorations than most. Are you a student of history, then?”

Rarity didn’t miss how he’d dutifully acknowledged her gratitude, then attempted to redirect the topic elsewhere as quickly as courtesy allowed. A humble stallion, uncomfortable with praise, she thought. Or perhaps he simply remembers too well the grim context of those medals. “Yes, well, Twilight Sparkle is the real scholar,” she said with a modest laugh. “I count myself fortunate to learn from her.”

“Indeed, we are all students after a fashion,” said Celestia, joining their conversation. “One is never too old to learn, and history is among the most valuable of teachers.” Her horn flared, and one of the medals on Halberd’s chest gleamed. “Take, for instance, the Médaille Militaire. It is a Prench award for valor in combat, awarded principally to citizens of the Grand Duchy of Prance, of course, but also to allies. Colonel Halberd earned it, along with our nation’s Silver Star, rescuing prisoners from the infamous Gaoler’s Peak. Many of those prisoners were Prench citizens, you see.”

Celestia’s voice was casual, like a friend sharing a piece of trivia, but Rarity’s eyes widened all the same. Gaoler’s Peak had served as an inspiration for Raid Above the Clouds, an espionage-action thriller she’d read while waiting for the next Shadow Spade novel to come out. It wasn’t her usual storybook fare, and it hadn’t given her any inspiration for a new line of clothing – well except that one abominable number based on the Legionnaire uniforms – but the story held her attention all the same. If the real raid was anything like the novel’s climax...

Halberd studiously avoided meeting anypony’s gaze. “I was privileged to command some of the finest soldiers in the world,” he murmured. “Theirs is the credit.”

“Surely some of the credit belongs to you, old boy,” remarked Pitt. “Certainly the Prench thought so, else they would not have paid you an honor usually reserved for their own soldiers.”

Halberd’s eyes were stony. “Honor is irrelevant,” he replied. “All I did was my duty.”

“‘My sons, be not moved by the love of renown; guard yourselves against its intoxicating folly,’” commanded a basso voice. “‘A true warrior gives no thought to glory, for his mind is bent to service, and his heart to love for those he serves.’”

Rarity turned her attention to Friar Jacques, who had made the proclamation. He reclined in his seat, idly swirling his wine glass in one hand as he appeared to contemplate the depths of the drink.

“Who said that, Friar?” she asked. “Was it a phrase from your holy book?”

The old man chuckled softly. “Nay, Lady Rarity, those words are not within the Scriptures.” He shared an inscrutable look with Celestia before explaining, “No, they are the words of one Argent Martel, a warrior of noble character from the days when Equestria was young. In his writings he sought to teach his sons what goals are worth pursuing.”

“‘Argent,’ you say?” replied Rarity. “Any relation to the good captain?”

Jacques nodded once. “She is descended from his line. And, though many generations removed, she happily shares much of his character.” He addressed Halberd, “Argent Martel was a pony after your own heart, Colonel. Like you, he believed that true honor is only to be found it righteous living, not in fame.”

Halberd favored the old man with the ghost of a smile. “A wise stallion,” he said.

“Strewth, tha’s defo too smart for a galah like me,” said Miru with a cheeky smile and a thickening accent. “I jus’ love a good row in the arvo, eh? I’m a digger, not a dag.” She made the remark as though she expected to get a laugh, or at least a nod of agreement, but most of the other guests just stared at her, perplexed as to what her bewildering slang might actually mean. Clearing her throat awkwardly, Miru took a long pull of her beer and then found a sudden interest in the artistic stylings of the ceiling.

Though Rarity was mildly curious what the Austailian soldier meant – and whether she’d even spoken Ponish – her mind was chiefly occupied with thoughts of honor, fame, and duty. Rarity had long sought to be the type of pony every pony should know. And, while she was willing to admit that she was subject to the vices of pride and vanity, she was also inclined to think that perhaps some forms of public recognition could be a good thing. Not that I’m entirely sure how to articulate that, thought the fashionista, especially when two bonified heroes seem so inclined as to shun the spotlight. Still...

In the midst of her musings, she became aware that Celestia’s eyes were on her. The princess didn’t say a word, but Rarity still felt compelled to speak.

“Mightn’t some aspects of renown be valuable?” Rarity suggested.

Halberd looked unimpressed by the proposition, but Jacques gestured for her to continue, asking, “How so?”

“Well...” Rarity said slowly, wishing she’d arranged her thoughts better before speaking. “Why don’t we consider...” she glanced at the two Members of Parliament and found inspiration in their earlier conversation about commerce, “... why don’t we consider a business. You might make the finest dresses, or the best clocks, or the most delicious food in the world, but if nopony knows you provide those quality goods and services, how will they come to benefit from your skill?”

Heads nodded around the table. “An interestin’ point, Miss Rarity,” said Burke with a smile. “But what product might ya be sellin’ with those shiny bits on Hal’s chest?”

Rarity chewed the inside of her lip a moment before suggesting, “A role model, I should think.” She indicated Halberd and Jacques with a flick of her ears. “Folk of your caliber may find duty and virtue an obvious calling, but not everypony finds it so apparent, as this day’s events proved with...” she shuddered, “regrettable clarity. You may chafe under the burden of recognition, but I think the honors heaped upon you serve as a sort of... signpost to virtue, as it were.”

“Well said!” praised Celestia with a proud smile. “Indeed, that is one of my chief pleasures in awarding such decorations. To the one receiving the honor, it is a reminder of Equestria’s gratitude. To Equestria, it is an example of the sort of righteous living which Argent Martel praised.”

“That may be,” acknowledged Halberd, “but I still wish it were somepony other than me held up as the signpost.”

Plum Pitt chuckled. “Perhaps you should consider your acceptance of praise to be a form of ongoing service. Reframe the narrative so as to appease your discomfort.” Halberd didn’t look convinced, but he smiled politely anyway. Pitt pivoted his focus to Jacques. “And you, my good fellow – I’ve heard you gave four rapscallion lords quite the lesson in virtue today. Perhaps you deserve your own victor’s laurels for such a grand deed.”

Jacques chuckled. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call that a ‘grand deed.’”

“I’ve met the lords in question,” remarked Burke dryly. “If ya made ’em reconsider their asinine worldview, ‘grand’ may be under-selling the gravity of the deed.”

The friar held up a hand as a ward against the praise. “All I did was pass along some advice.”

“Ya simply offered words o’ counsel to lost lads?” prompted Chaplain Trench.

“Exactly,” replied Jacques as he lifted his wine to his lips.

Trench smiled. “Then I’m afraid you must accept the praise, Friar. After all, to save lost souls is the highest vocation,” he pointed out mildly.

Jacques shot Trench a ‘whose-side-are-you-on’ look, then sipped his wine without comment.

Crescent Strike took advantage of the break in the conversation to stand and dip her head respectfully to Celestia. “Begging your pardon, Princess,” she said, her voice a rolling alto, “but my shift is due to begin soon. With your permission, I’ll take my leave.”

“So soon?” said Celestia, glancing at the clock. “Ah, how the minutes tick by. It is a shame you hadn’t the time to finish your dinner.”

Rarity glanced at Crescent’s plate, then did a double-take when she saw half a roast chicken sitting there. Ponies weren’t strictly vegetarian – their advanced brains (and magic) required a lot of protein, and one way to get that (as well as other dietary benefits) was meat. Fish was the most popular by far, though chicken and pork were also common. Rarity’s guilty pleasure was bacon, a rare indulgence, and one she zealously concealed from her friends. Still, other protein-rich foods like eggs and beans were far more common daily fare, and meat was a ‘once-in-a-while’ dish for most ponies.

Bat-ponies, it appeared, were the exception. Or at least Crescent Strike is. In addition to the chicken, Rarity also noticed evidence that Crescent’s plate had begun the evening with a hearty helping of bacon. Now, only two strips remained, the last survivors of the thestral’s onslaught.

Two lonely strips of bacon... if only you were on my plate, I would keep you company. Rarity daintily wiped her mouth with her napkin to cover the saliva pooling on her lips and tried to focus on her disappointingly vegetarian entrée.

“Duty never rests, Your Highness,” Crescent Strike said. “Though, if you’ll forgive the impropriety...” she pulled an overlarge kerchief from her uniform and wrapped up the remains of her chicken and bacon inside it.

Farewell, delicious pig nectar, thought Rarity longingly. She dabbed at her lips again. Sweet Celestia, I have a problem.

Halberd looked annoyed at Crescent’s casual bundling of leftovers, but Celestia seemed amused. “May your midnight snack sustain you through the long watch of the night,” pronounced the princess with mock seriousness.

Crescent Strike bowed low. “You are a gracious audience, Your Highness,” she said before bidding farewell to each of the guests in turn.

Rarity belatedly realized that she hadn’t spoken with the thestral other than to say ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye.’ Perhaps the next time I am at the palace, we shall have a chance to talk, thought the unicorn. She seems like an interesting pony to know.

As Crescant Strike was on her way out, the doors to the dining room opened and Luna swept in, with an expression that was equal parts amused and tired. Crescent stopped and saluted. Luna started to acknowledge the salute, then glanced down at the bat-pony’s bundle of food. The night princess sniffed the air speculatively, then gave Crescent a dry look. “Meat again, Captain?” she asked. “Are you quite certain there are no griffons among your ancestors?”

“Protein is mission-essential equipment to a watchful Guard, Your Highness,” replied Crescent.

“Indeed,” replied Luna with a hint of a smile. “You had best be about your duties, then, while your mission-essential equipment remains palatably warm.” Once Crescent had gone, she chuckled and made her way to the table. Jacques and the ponies began to rise to greet her, but she waved them back down and took her seat at the opposite end of the long table from Celestia. “Threstrals! A pragmatic and loyal folk, to be sure, but I will never cease to be amazed by their overfondness of meat.”

Celestia smiled. “It is refreshing to see that some things change little throughout the ages.”

“True,” agreed the lunar princess, “Though, unfortunately, another thing that remains unchanged is the demanding schedule of royalty. I apologize for my tardiness. Some ponies have a way of dominating your time.”

Rarity couldn’t help but notice that Celestia’s smile became a touch forced. “Yes, and how is Mason?” the elder princess asked.

Luna quirked a sardonic grin as the servants brought her meal. “Irascible,” she replied, “but when is he ever not?”

“Indeed,” remarked Pitt a touch darkly.

Burke snorted. “At least today he’s got an excuse. That boyo’s always slaggin’, even if he’s got no cause to.”

The dark-coated princess’s face flashed with brief annoyance, though who it was directed at Rarity couldn’t say.

Chaplain Trench cleared his throat and sat forward. “Begging your pardon, Princess Luna, but Mister Grey had a rather close brush with the Pale Horse. Do you think he’d like a reverend’s ear for spiritual matters?”

Luna took a bite of her dinner before answering. When she did, her eyes were on Celestia, not Trench. “Mayhap he would. Mayhap not. Either way, you’d have to catch him before he shipped off to Manehatten.”

Celestia actually dropped her fork at that, her mask of calm slipping for just a moment. “Manehatten?” she demanded. “He’s travelling?”

“That’s a choice,” muttered Oaken under his breath. Rarity nodded in agreement.

The alabaster alicorn didn’t appear to hear; she was too busy pressing Luna with questions. “When is he leaving? And why?”

Miru gave a cheeky laugh. “Hope I don’t get picked to pull security for the mad lad,” she remarked. “Babysittin’s bad enough when the bloke don’t ’ave a death wish.” Feeling Halberd’s hard gaze on her, she cleared her throat and corrected in a deadpan tone, “I mean… I volunteer to escort him. Dodging assassins makes me giddy. When do we leave. Hoo-ah.”

Luna shot Miru a glance that suggested she wasn’t quite sure what to make of the pegasus, then took a sip of wine before answering, “That... won’t be necessary. Mason’s bodyguards have already begun arriving in Canterlot. His muscle-bound security chief alone looks fit enough to handle an army by himself.” Addressing Celestia, she said, “I don’t think it wise for him to be traveling, but he is quite adamant. He will go.”

Celestia’s lips were set in a thin line. “Perhaps if I were to offer him an alternative—”

“If I was not able to persuade him,” Luna interrupted, her eyes narrowing, “you certainly won’t manage it.”

An awkward silence followed, broken only by Trench nervously clearing his throat as he poured himself another beer and pretended not to notice the sudden tension between the two sisters. Celestia’s face tightened; then she turned her attention to her food. “You are right of course,” she acknowledged, her voice betraying nothing as her ordered mask returned. “Forget I mentioned it.”

“I know one pony who won’t be traveling any time soon,” declared Pitt, navigating the conversation to calmer waters. “Windforce is rather shaken; it takes a lot to rattle poor Will, but this did a fine job of it.” He gestured to Rarity, Jacques, and Oaken. “I shudder to think what would have happened to him if you three hadn’t been there.”

And I shudder thinking of what happened when I was there, thought Rarity. She pushed her plate away, suddenly not hungry enough to finish her meal. Now why did they have to go and bring that up when we were having such a lovely time?

Oaken cleared his throat and rested his hoof a little closer to hers – a subtle gesture which signified the comforting nudge he couldn’t give her without drawing attention. Rarity felt a slight smile tug at the edge of her lips.

“Treachery in the ranks,” tutted Pitt. “A terrible business.”

“Aye, t’was a foul thing right enough,” agreed Burke. “Another disgrace ta the Guard.”

Halberd frowned. “With respect, Lady Burke, you should not speak as though such treachery is a common occurrence.”

Burke cocked an eyebrow. “I’m not sayin’ it is, but there are bad apples in any bunch.”

“That wretched fool left the military years ago,” rumbled Halberd. “You won’t find his like amongst the Royal Guard now.”

To Rarity’s ears, there was an undercurrent to his words, like a counterpoint made in an unspoken argument. She sensed that somepony had questioned the loyalty of the soldiers under his command. But who? she wondered. Celestia? Has she shared with him some suspicion of traitors in the ranks? Some threat by the Shades? Or does keep such suspicions to herself, and that is the source of Halberd’s ire? Celestia’s neutral face revealed nothing, but Rarity could not help but feel some confidence her guess was close to the mark.

Or maybe I just want a puzzle to distract me from all this talk of treachery and murder.

Burke met the colonel’s gaze evenly. “Nopony here doubts the honor of our brave lads and lasses on the whole, Hal, but Equestria’s had her share of rotten fruit. That didn’t end with the Sangbleu Rebellion. We’ve had oath-breakers in our lifetime, not just the princesses’.”

Miru opened her mouth to add to the conversation, and Rarity wondered what inopportune observation would spring from the pegasus’ lips, but none came. With a guilty look at Halberd, the Austailian mare stopped herself, feigned disinterest, and started shoveling a second helping of dinner onto her plate rather than speaking her mind.

Now what was that about? wondered Rarity.

Unfortunately for Miru, Rarity wasn’t the only one who noticed. “You looked to have something to add, Sergeant Miru,” Luna observed. “Pray tell, what is on your mind?”

Miru’s ears went flat. She glanced again at Halberd, then back at Luna. “Beggin’ your pardon, Princess, it ain’t gone right whenever I opened my sorry gob tonight. I’d just as soon keep me go shut if it’s all the same to you.”

Luna raised an eyebrow. “It is not all the same to me, little pony. I have been gone a millennia, and much has transpired in that time of which I know little. Speak plainly. You have nothing to fear here.”

Wincing at Halberd, Miru spoke. “Well, Princess, it’s just that… well, Lady Burke mentioned oath-breakers and I...” she took a deep breath. “I got to thinkin’ about the Bloody Baron, Your ’ighness.”

At the mention of the Bloody Baron, faces hardened around the table, all save Jacques’ and Luna’s. And mine, I suppose, Rarity guessed, since I haven’t the foggiest who they’re referring to.

“Who was this ‘Bloody Baron,’?” asked Luna, quite helpfully from Rarity’s perspective.

“A back-stabbin’ traitor,” spat Burke. “He used ta be a member o’ the Peerage, till ’e an’ a bunch of ’is mates took up peddlin’ flesh down south in Somarelia.” Friar Jacques stiffened as if the news meant something to him, but the old man said nothing as Burke continued the narrative. “Sold ’undreds inta slavery before the War Dogs caught up to ’im.”

Luna’s face became a deathly visage, and Rarity could have sworn the room darkened. The Diarch of the Night ground out a word in Old Ponish. Though Rarity did not speak that long-dead tongue, Luna’s grim tone made it easy to guess the word was far from complimentary.

Miru turned to Halberd, her face apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t want to bring it up.”

Halberd had been sitting in a stony silence since the topic was brought up, but Miru’s words shook him out of it. “Why apologize to me?” he asked, seeming genuinely take aback.

“I just—” the mare winced. “I’d heard you and he were old friends before… you know…”

“Before he betrayed every virtue, every oath, every blessed thing in the world?” finished Halberd, his voice oddly calm. “Yes. We were friends. Brothers, even. But whatever affection existed between us died when he did.”

Pitt raised an eyebrow. “I thought he was still alive in prison.”

“He is dead to me,” said Halberd flatly.

“He ought to be dead in body as well,” declared Luna, her face contorted in suppressed rage. “Aye, and a wretched death at that! Has justice become so lax in this Age that such filth should be allowed to live?”

Rarity and many of the other ponies winced at the dark pronouncement. Equestria technically allowed for capital punishment, but it hadn’t been used in many, many decades. The kingdom incarcerated conventional criminals. Those guilty of treason and other grievous crimes sometimes received life sentences (occasionally more than one, just to be safe), but faced a gaoler rather than an executioner. Even existential threats like Discord were sealed away rather than killed whenever possible. Sometimes non-lethal options weren’t possible – Sombra came to mind – but killing was a last resort.

Execution was considered taboo, a remnant of an old time when wars were more frequent, and dungeons could not always be relied upon to contain the malice of the wicked. Even back then, it hadn’t been a common occurrence in Equestria. It simply wasn’t a thing poniesconsidered on the regular.

Celestia frowned at Luna’s grim declaration and opened her mouth to respond, but Jacques spoke first.

“In my land, we tell a story of Jesus, whom you know as the Source,” the old man said, his voice low and thoughtful. “There was a woman who was caught in an act for which the penalty was being stoned to death – a most wretched way to die.” Rarity winced. “The punishment did not fit the crime, but it was the law of that era, and this woman was guilty of the charges they leveled against her. So, vengeful leaders of the community – men who bore a grudge against Jesus – brought the woman to Him. They did this so they could demand that He pass a verdict on her. They hoped that, in His manner of passing judgment, He might say something they could use against Him.”

Rarity shuddered. “How awful, that those wicked leaders would use her life as a pawn!” she exclaimed. “Especially with such a cruel fate awaiting her!”

“A vile act indeed,” agreed Jacques, “but...” the old man smirked at some unknown joke, “it didn’t go as they had planned. Rather than saying something they could use, Jesus said, ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’” The friar chuckled. “Of course, there were none in the crowd who could claim to be without sin. None, of course, except for He, the Author of Life. One by one, the crowd melted away, leaving only the woman and Jesus.”

Oaken nodded admiringly. “Now that’s how you sway a crowd,” he murmured.

Rarity made to speak in agreement, but Luna’s words cut her off. “What did Jesus do with this guilty woman, when the crowd had gone?” the princess asked, her face serious.

Jacques smiled. “He turned to her and said, ‘Woman, where are your accusers? Has no one condemned you?’ She answered, ‘No one, Lord.’ Then He, the Just Judge, said, ‘Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.’”

Luna frowned. “That is all? He did nothing else?”

“Should He have?” asked Jacques, his lips hinting at a curious smile. “What purpose would that have served? The Author of Life does not desire the death of sinners, but that they may be converted and live. Even great sinners may yet be redeemed.”

The friar tapped a finger on the table and continued, “My religion is full of repentant thieves, murderers, and scoundrels – sinners who turned from evil and spent the remainder of their lives offering healing, comfort, and aid to those in need. Some did so in prison. While they served out sentences - righteous sentences – for their crimes, they found freedom from their vices and attended to the souls of their fellow convicts. Would it have been better to kill them? To erase their future good in order to avenge past evils? Would that be right? Would that be just? Since punishment had been dealt and they were prevented from committing future evils, why not allow the hope of redemption?”

“Yet you bear a sword,” the dark princess challenged, her eyes narrowing. “Unless it is merely decoration, you are prepared to kill.”

“Yes, I have been forced to kill, and may yet be forced to do so again,” Jacques admitted, his tone sad. “My faith permits violence, even killing, in that great extremis when there is no other known means of preventing a truly grievous evil. There are some dangers which must be answered too quickly to show restraint, and some enemies who would remain a grave danger to people even if you could imprison them. There are, tragically, diabolic threats which must be answered with a sword.”

“But,” warned the old knight, his eyes flashing, “it is never to be done lightly, never to be done but in the gravest of necessities. Those of us who bear the sword must remember that we, too, shall one day face Final Judgment. On that day, we shall be called to account for every drop of blood we’ve spilt. Do we dare slay without restraint? What right have we to lay about death as though we have no fear of it?” His gaze bored into Luna. “Who among us sinners, having other means of stopping an evil, has the right to cast stones?”

For the second time that evening, silence descended on the dinner party, and this time not even Trench broke the stillness. Rarity swallowed. Jacques had not named Luna, but no one present missed the rebuke leveled against one who had once been called the Nightmare.

Luna said nothing. Her eyes were locked on Jacques. None dared break the silence. Rarity could not even bring herself to see how Celestia was reacting.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Luna gave a wry smile and dipped her head slightly to the old man. “Certainly, I do not have the right. You chide me well, Friar. Perhaps you have amassed more wisdom in your sixty-odd winters than I have in my millennia.”

Jacques grinned. “And yet, for all my supposed wisdom, I cannot fathom how your mane ripples like that, so who is the real fool?”

It was a weak joke, but it served its purpose because Luna laughed anyway. Rarity shared the palpable sigh of relief let out by the whole dinner party.

“If it’s any comfort yer ’ighness,” said Miru, risking speech, “I wager ’is lordship the Bloody Baron would’ve rather died than lived with bein’ humiliated by ole Songbird. She gave ’im a proper skull bustin’ if ya catch my drift.”

“That does please me,” said Luna. “This time, you were right to... how did you put it? Right to ‘open your gob.’” Miru pumped a victorious hoof in the air as Luna turned teasingly to Jacques and asked, “Will you now chide me for gloating over a vanquished evildoer?”

Jacques declined with an open hand. “I think I have tried the patience of royalty enough tonight. Perhaps another time.”

“Perhaps we should leave all serious talk for another time,” suggested Celestia, her voice so believably calm that Rarity might have been fooled into thinking it had been a normal dinner party if she hadn’t sat through the last several minutes. “Plum Pitt, tell me, how is your family enjoying their holiday to the Isles?”

“Oh, quite well, Princess,” replied Pitt, smoothly transitioning conversations. “Of course, it’s dreadfully rainy there, but they always find something to occupy their time...”

Rarity was happy for the change of topic. She’d had quite enough of death on her mind.

All the same, one question persisted in the recesses of her mind for the rest of the dinner. It never made much noise, nor was it much of a distraction. But, still, it remained.

Was the ‘Songbird’ who ended that villain’s terror our own Morning Song?

From the looks on Oaken’s and Jacques’ faces, she guessed they were wondering the same thing.

The rest of the dinner passed without particular note and, unlike many dinners Jacques had shared with great nobles of various realms, it did not drag on for long after everyone had finished their meals.

Whether this relative brevity was due more to various attendees having busy schedules or to the heavy topics of the evening leaving them worn out, Jacques could not say.

Whatever the case, he was not objecting to the early adjourning. It had been a long day, and the old man was feeling his age. I don’t think I’ve felt this tired since recovering from my injuries that fateful first day in Equestria, he mused. How very long ago that feels, though in truth less than a season has passed since my coming here.

He said little as he, Rarity, and Oaken returned to their accomodations. The two ponies intended to stay up a little longer – Rarity to sew, and Oaken to keep her company.

Privately, Jacques speculated that Rarity was putting off going to bed because of her traumatic day, not that he could fault her for that even if he wanted to. As she was responding well to Oaken’s stabilizing influence, Jacques elected to leave the matter in the stallion’s capable hooves. So, the old man retired to his room to say his Liturgy and head straight to bed thereafter.

Prayer did not come easily to Jacques that night. He was distracted, restless, his mind busy cycling through the many troubling events of the day. Pleasant experiences – like the visit by the armorers – were overshadowed by darker thoughts, and prayer was interrupted with brooding.

He thought of Lord Rampart and the other Primarchist nobles. This ought to have been a pleasant thought for him, as he’d been able to help them reexamine their lives, but instead his mind seemed to focus only on the troubling outlook they’d been raised with. Unpleasant memories of what such arrogance had wrought in his homeland bubbled to the surface of his consciousness like rot in a swamp, tainting his focus with their stench.

Likewise, Luna’s vengeful talk at dinner troubled him. In his own world, it was not unusual to see people too quick to demand the gallows. Indeed, the warnings of saintly folk like Aquinas – who reaffirmed the Christian necessity of mercy – went all-too-often ignored by people eager to use the blade and the noose. Learning that ponies were wont to use other methods of punishment had been a welcome surprise for him. This, in turn, only made Luna’s wrathfulness more jarring.

Knowing that two assassinations had been attempted in the heart of Equestria was deeply disturbing. To try and slit a prominent man’s throat was shocking enough in France. That it had been tried in Equestria, within flying distance of two alicorns no less, was worse. The brazenness of the act said worrying things about the confidence of the Shades – for there was little doubt in Jacques’ mind that they were behind the attacks.

These grim thoughts were cause enough for worry, and did much to distract him from his prayers. Yet they paled in comparison to the sorrow brought by the death of Golden Glow – the assassin from the train. Poor lost soul, thought the priest sadly. So consumed with grief and revenge that he would take his own life rather than be imprisoned by the gentlest of races. An unnecessary death, with no rhyme or reason. Had the madness taken him, in the end? I pray so, I think, for perhaps if he was truly mad, with no real control of his mind, he might escape culpability for his final sins, and perhaps be saved from destruction.

So deep were Jacques’ sorrows and the grim fixations of his mind that he ended up repeating much of the Liturgy of the Hours thrice over, simply because he would lose his place and have no memory where he had left off.

Some time during his prayers, he heard doors opening and shutting as Oaken took his leave of Rarity for the night and returned to his own quarters. Jacques had planned to be asleep before then, yet he could not even finish the Liturgy.

Eventually, the distraction became so severe that he had to pause his evening prayers to address those troubling thoughts. Enough of this! he thought angrily. Saints above, help me tame these errant thoughts!

Yes, the Primarchists are a nasty bunch, but I’ve dealt with worse, and the fact that those four young lords were so receptive gives ample cause for hope.

Princess Luna was mercifully open to reason, and if she was over-hasty in her initial judgment it is quite understandable – righteous anger is a virtue, but it is so easy for it to turn to vice when one’s blood is up. She nearly lost a close friend of hers today, and God knows I’ve had to guard myself against wrath when those I love have come to harm.

As for the assassins, well... perhaps I have allowed myself to become too accustomed to the gentleness of this land. I know well the diabolical evils of the Shades of old – why should such a mundane act as murder cause me any surprise?

And Golden Glow... poor, wretched Golden Glow... I must trust to the mercy of God. His fate is no longer in my hands.

Lord God, I am but a weak and sinful man. In You alone is found salvation. I entrust these worries and cares to You, through whom all is possible.

He finished his prayers with less difficulty. The frustrations of the day, while still present in his mind, were at least muted enough to allow him some measure of focus. Upon concluding his Liturgy, he went straight to bed.

Sleep proved elusive, however, as the disquiet lingered on. Jacques lay still, staring at the ceiling as his mind wandered a seemingly endless labyrinth of speculation and half-formed concerns. He lost count of the Pater Nosters he mumbled before eventually drifting off to an unrestful slumber.

Such dreams as he had were dark ones – grim, foreboding things which faded when he woke, startled, several times over. Each time, he had no clear memory of what had disturbed him, only a vague sense of people falling down paths of sin and destruction, headless of his pleas to them to turn back to the Light.

After what might have been the fifth or seventh time enduring this, he threw off his covers and rose, grumbling, to his feet. As he donned his robe and sandals, he turned from grumbling to mumbling, and in that groggy voice offered his sleeplessness to God for... somebody. He’d let God decide who that ‘somebody’ was. He was far from being in a prayerful mood, but he mumbled his offering all the same –an act of faith rather than emotion.

The friar left his chambers and stepped into the hallway as he girded on his sword. He intended to take a short walk – it appeared to be approaching the dawn hours – but halted when he saw Oaken at the end of the hall, staring out the window at the stars. Jacques padded across the soft carpet and stood by the stallion at the window. “Having trouble sleeping?” he enquired.

Oaken smirked slightly. “That’s the funny thing about being a Lunar Guard. This,” he gestured to the night sky, “used to be my working hours. I slept half the day and worked all night. Even after being in Ponyville for weeks, even after adjusting to the new schedule... some nights, my body still thinks I’m back on Night Watch.” The pony shot Jacques a rueful look. “When the Guard drums something into you, it stays drummed.”

“Yes, I imagine it does,” replied Jacques.

“How about you?” asked Oaken. “I know you get up early to pray and whatnot, but this seems early even for you.”

Jacques waited a moment before answering, “It was an... eventful day. When so much happens, it can be hard to put it all to bed.”

Oaken nodded slowly. “Yeah... yeah it can be.”

In that moment, Jacques saw Oaken was... tired, and not simply the ‘lack-of-sleep’ sort of tired. “Oaken, I apologize for not asking earlier, but how are you bearing up in all this?”

The earth pony seemed to chew on his words for a moment before saying, “I’d say ‘I’m fine’... you know, that generic response guys give that’s only sometimes true... but I feel like that wouldn’t get past you.”

Jacques chuckled. “You never know. I am rather out of sorts. If you foolishly felt like some ill-advised attempt to mask your pain past me... now may not be a bad time to do it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Oaken, half-smiling. He was silent a moment before admitting, “I’m zero-for-two with these Shades, Friar. It’s my job to keep folks safe, and I feel like I’m failing.”

“My dear friend, must I remind you that Windforce, Rarity, and I are all alive, as are Argent and Ironhide? I’d hardly call that a failure.”

Oaken shook his head. “When the first Shade hit us in the throne room, we had a chance to capture him and get intel. I screwed that up by getting caught. Celestia had to torch the guy to save my flank...” he hopped up onto his hind legs to rest his forelegs on the windowsill, “and now we’re fumbling around in the dark playing guessing games while our enemies maneuver. Some guard, eh?”

The friar frowned. “As I understand it, you saved Argent by knocking her out of the way. Had you not done so, then she would have been the prisoner for whom Celestia slew that pony.” He folded his arms. “Or, worse yet, the Shade might have killed her – a far heavier blow than the loss of whatever intelligence he may have possessed.”

Oaken grunted in reluctant acknowledgment. “I suppose you make a good point.”

“Of course I make a good point,” said Jacques with feigned offense. “Didn’t you notice? Even alicorns respect my wisdom.” Oaken chuckled. More soberly, Jacques added, “Besides, if anyone squandered a good chance at capturing one of our foes alive, it was me.” The earth pony looked up quizzically. “Golden Glow held no hostage with which to force my hand; he simply acted faster than I could anticipate. Does that make me a failure? Of course not! Perceptive though I may be, I am no mind-reader. Sometimes...” he sighed, “sometimes there’s just nothing you can do.”

“No point in losing sleep over it?” suggested Oaken.

“Exactly,” agreed Friar Jacques.

The two soldiers stood in silence for a moment.

“I can’t help but notice we’re both out here losing sleep over it,” observed Oaken.

“Yes, but at least we know we shouldn’t, so we can claim a moral victory.”

“Mm,” smirked Oaken. “Better than nothing.”

A door creaked open behind them, and they turned to see an exhausted Rarity emerging from her room. The mare blinked blearily, cast her gaze around until she found them, then ambled over, massaging her right temple with one hoof. “Good evening, gentlecolts. I see you’ve started ruminating without me. Mind if I join you?”

Jacques winced. “I am sorry if we woke you, Lady Rarity.”

Rarity gave an elaborate scoff that sounded rather like she was attempting to be a sort of verbal percussion section. “Nonsense, darling. You didn’t wake me. I’ve been—” she yawned mightily and rubbed her eyes, “I’ve been tossing and turning all night, hardly sleeping a wink, and being woken in a cold sweat by nightmares whenever I actually manage to nod off.”

“Sorry to hear,” said Oaken, sympathy plain on his face. “You want to talk about it?”

“In truth, there’s little to talk about,” yawned Rarity. “I can’t remember any of the dreams in detail, and they’re all over so quickly that I probably wouldn’t have much to say even if I could remember.” She eased herself into an upright sitting position on the floor. “I imagine that’s why I haven’t seen Luna tonight – they’re over too quickly for her to be summoned, or perhaps she’s simply busy with the dreams of others. What rotten luck, eh? Enough trouble to ruin my beauty sleep, but not enough to summon help.” She yawned again, then waved a hoof as thought dismissing her own difficulties. “But what about you two? Why are you up and about at this beastly hour?”

Jacques and Oaken exchanged a rueful look before the latter explained, “Same deal as you. Rough dreams. Can’t sleep.”

Rarity let out a tired laugh. “Ah, what a fine trio we make – all grown folk with a goodly share of dangerous adventure under our belts, and none of us can sleep.” The three shared a dry chuckle. “Well... what shall we do then?”

There was a pause as they mulled over potential options. Oaken was the first to come up with an answer.

“Raid the pantry?” he suggested.

Jacques raised an eyebrow and Rarity tilted her head to the side. “Um... why?” she asked.

Oaken shrugged. “Why not?”

The friar, as the oldest and most experienced person there, took it upon himself to offer the only reasonable answer to that question.

Senior chef Soup Tureen blinked the sleep from his eyes as he plodded to the kitchen. He’d been woken from a peaceful slumber by the nagging suspicion that somepony was doing unauthorized cooking in his domain. Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep unless he checked, he’d thrown on a bathrobe and headed down to the kitchen to check.

Ponies called him a perfectionist, and in his more honest moments he had to admit they were right. Of course, when those new, doltish cooks are burning salads, it seems we need a perfectionist around here! He rubbed his eyes. Maybe I need a vacation – some time away from rookie cooks and smoldering lettuce.

As Tureen approached the kitchen door, he heard voices within. Rookies! he assumed with a grimace. Nopony should start cooking staff breakfasts this early! Thinking you can impress the boss by getting a head start, Chopped Salad? he thought, assuming one new cook in particular was responsible. You should be called Charred Salad! I know you must’ve put the others up to this! They always listen to you better than they do to me! Well, nopony’s gonna be impressed by a cold breakfast! And is that bacon I smell? See, this is why I can’t take a vacation, these idiots will—

He pushed the door open... and froze.

Three creatures stared back at him, each rooted to the spot as though paralyzed: a brown earth pony stallion speckled liberally with batter as he put the finishing touches on a precarious stack of chocolate chip pancakes; an alabaster unicorn mare, who seemed to be frozen in the act of inhaling a stack of bacon; and a tall, two-legged... something, who stood stalk-still with a turkey leg hanging out of his mouth as he fried more bacon, presumably to feed the voracious unicorn’s insatiable appetite.

Both Tureen and trio stood completely still, staring at each other with wide and guilty eyes, none daring to breath. Only the guttering of the burner on the stove top gave any clue that time had not, in fact, stood still.

No one said a word, but the Soup Tureen quickly got the idea that he had stumbled upon something he should not have. He stepped back with utmost slowness and allowed the door to creak safely shut behind him.

Once he broke line-of-sight with the pantry-pillagers, he turned around and walked back to his room with such speed that an observer might have been forgiven for thinking him a sprinter. A vacation, yes, he thought. I could use a vacation. They can manage without me for a few days, can’t they? I mean, those new guys are more than capable of picking up the slack, and I really do need to lighten up...

Fortunately for chef Soup Tureen’s blood pressure, the pantry raid did not last especially long. The travelers had already been planning on catching an early train back to Ponyville, and as such did not require hours upon hours of puttering around the kitchen to keep them occupied.

They returned to their rooms – or, more accurately, to Jacques’ sitting room – about half an hour before the sun rose. There, Jacques quietly said his morning prayers, which he permitted the curious Oaken to observe. Rarity had also intended to observe, but, perhaps put at ease by the rhythmic psalms and hymns, or perhaps simply at ease in their presence, dozed off on her chair. After the friar finished, he and Oaken chatted in low voices so as not to wake her.

The Weave Family Armorers came by shortly after dawn to deliver Jacques’ chainmail hauberk. Several REF stallions arrived at the same time to collect Rarity’s luggage. The friar left them to it and went to his bedroom to don his new armor.

He was immensely pleased with the workmanship – the hauberk was lightweight, flexible, and allowed for great ease of movement. The links were strong and expertly layered to provide excellent protection for his torso, arms, and legs to just below the knee. There was also a chain coif to protect his head.

Perhaps most conveniently, he could wear the entire hauberk beneath his outer robe, with the coif tucked inside his monk’s hood. It wouldn’t provide as much protection as a full set of plates, but it was far subtler to wear around town. And, unless I am sorely mistaken, these links will take far more punishment than those forged in France. Though, to be fair, they have to contend with magical creatures far stronger than the human combatants I once faced, so I suppose it somewhat evens out.

Returning to the sitting room, he was immediately greeted by the unspoken inquiries of the armorers. “I must commend your craft,” said Jacques, answering their mute questions. “Never before have I worn mail so strongly made, and yet so inoffensive to wear. I hardly even feel its weight, and it restricts my movements not at all.”

“Splendid!” replied Steel Weave. “We think you’ll find the protective enchantments and forging equal to the blows of your average foebeast, though we’d advise you not to push the limits too far – against sufficiently powerful magic or inordinately heavy blows, it will begin to fail.”

“You’d certainly fare better with this armor than without it in such circumstances,” added High Crest while idly fanned herself with a hoof-held fan, “but my husband is right. There is only so much one can do with a single night’s forging for a hauberk.” She folded her fan and tapped it against the friar’s chest. “There are simple mending enchantments on the armor, which will allow any vaguely competent blacksmith to repair it without too much bother, assuming the damage is not too extensive. We still recommend working on the armor yourself as much as possible, even if you’re just assisting the blacksmith. The more you work on it, the better it will work for you in return.”

Jacques gave a bemused smile as he rolled up one sleeve to examine the mail. “What a novel concept,” he remarked. “Armor that works better if I spend time tending it. Shall I sing it lullabies as well?”

“So long as you’re not tone deaf, yes,” replied Steel Weave.

The friar blinked rapidly. “I was joking.”

Weave waved an airy hoof in the direction of his earth pony son, Forge, and his wife. “If this armor were simply a product of unicorn or pegasi magic, it would be a joke. But, since two experienced earth ponies were involved, it is no joking matter. Opinions differ on how much of a difference it makes, but the idea is not without merit.”

“You might ask Lady Pinkamena Pie for insight,” suggested High Crest. “Rock farmers of her lineage are some of the finest bards of rock and stone as you shall ever find, so naturally she must know something of the songs of iron and steel.”

“Oh, naturally,” said Jacques, somehow managing to keep a straight face. Just when I thought I was growing acclimated... “Well, thank you once again for your time and talent. I assure you, it shall be put to good use.”

The trio exchanged farewells with the family, who departed shortly thereafter. Once they’d gone, Jacques turned to Rarity, raised a quizzical eyebrow, and gestured after the armorers as though to say, “What do you make of that?”

Rarity shrugged. “Don’t look at me, darling. After a few years around Pinkie, you just take it as a matter of course that she possesses powers beyond what ought to be possible. Most Ponyvillians learned long ago to stop asking questions.”

Oaken chuckled. “I’m not sure if that’s more funny or scary. Either way we should probably get a move on. They’ve probably managed to fill the luggage car with Rarity’s bags by now.”

The unicorn mare looked down her nose at him, no small feat given that she was shorter than him. “Are you implying I overpack, Master Oaken?”

Oaken scoffed as he shouldered his own satchel and led the way out the door. “Imply that you overpack? Perish the thought! No, I was simply reflecting on how fortunate it is that the good friar is disinclined to take a sky chariot, or else we’ve have needed to mobilize an entire squadron to convey your luggage back to Ponyville.” He chortled as she jabbed him in the ribs. “It is a shame, though – flying would be faster.”

“Yes, much like how falling off a building is the fastest way to the ground,” grimaced Jacques. “I have no desire to climb inside one of those flying death machines.”

“I just think it’s funny the man who has traveled across worlds doesn’t want to fly.”

Jacques gave Oaken a look that suggested he thought very little of that view. “My dear Oaken, if I had known what travelling through that portal was going to entail, Father Methuselah would likely have needed to give me a hearty shove. In this instance, we have been blessed with both an alternate means of transportation and the option to avoid being born through the air on a glorified wagon. I, for one, mean to take advantage of that fact.”

The trio made light talk as they wound their way out of the palace. Rather than leaving through any of the main entrances, they were to depart via a side gate in the gardens which would take them more directly – and more discretely – to the train station via carriage. They would board the early train and be back to Ponyville in time for brunch.

At the side gate they were met by Argent and a trio of REF ponies who were there to escort them to the station. They had expected to see Celestia as well, but the princess was nowhere in evidence. “Good morning, Lady Argent,” said Jacques politely; he ignored the wan look the captain gave him. “I take it the princess had other business to attend to?”

“Politics, I’m afraid,” replied Argent. She smirked. “It seems Count High Castle wanted to speak to her. He claims that yesterday some bald ape worked over his son, the Lord Rampart, as well as his companions, the young Lords Summervale, Silk Stocking, and Meadowcreek. Gave them quite a thrashing, so the story goes.”

“Is that so?” replied Jacques innocently. “How terribly shocking.”

“Yes, quite shocking,” agreed Argent, nodding sagely. “But that’s not the worst of it.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Count High Castle said this bald ape then went and planted subversive ideas in his son’s head – insane things like, ‘common ponies are people too,’ and ‘the nobility have an obligation to serve the common folk’.”

Jacques tutted loudly. “Did he now? What is this world coming to? We must keep a weather eye out for subversive bald apes – there’s no telling what they may do.” He gestured to the escort, who all wore toothy grins. “Do you think these few soldiers will be enough to safeguard us from these anarchist apes?”

Argent shook her head regretfully. “I think if we see one, we shall simply have to run, lest we overhear him say some rot like, ‘the state belongs to the citizenry, not the other way around.’”

One of the junior REF ponies feigned swooning. “No more, Captain, I beg of you! These subversive ideas are too much for a common fool like me! Soon I shall be thinking of forming an angry mob, with pitchforks and torches and the like!”

His sergeant jabbed him. “You ain’t paid to think, Shield Wall. Now help Miss Rarity into the carriage like a good little commoner.”

While good little commoner Shield Wall dutifully assisted Rarity in boarding, Argent pulled out a book entitled Great Boxers of Equestria and handed it to Jacques. “With compliments from Chaplain Trench,” she said. “Don’t worry, it’s an inexpensive gift.”

“It had better be,” muttered the reluctantly wealthy Jacques darkly.

Argent smirked. “The chaplain is of the opinion that, if you’re going to be thumping Primarchist skulls with those oversized simian hands of yours, you ought to at least do it properly.”

Jacques took the proffered book with a smile. “A thoughtful gift indeed. I must repay his courtesy when next I see him.”

The ride to the train station was uneventful. Rarity was trepidatious about another train ride, though she tried to hide it, but she calmed down considerably when Argent told them the engine was mostly pulling cargo. The sole passenger car had been rented exclusively for them – courtesy of Princess Celestia – and the handful of crew were old, reliable railroad workers who had been cleared by Colonel Query’s staff. After bidding a fond farewell to Argent, the Ponyville trio boarded the train and headed for home.

As they clattered along the tracks, Rarity sank into one of the plush chairs – one facing the rear of the train – with the air of one too exhausted to bother pretending otherwise. “Never in my life have I been so eager to leave Canterlot,” she admitted. “Not even after that... regrettable incident at the Gala.”

Gala? wondered Jacques, who sat across from the alabaster mare, facing forward.

Oaken chuckled as he sat down next to Rarity. “If it’s any consolation, that Gala was probably the most fun Ironhide and I had that whole year.”

Rarity raised an eyebrow. “I find that rather surprising, as I assumed the guards would have had quite a lot to clean up.”

“The on-duty guards did,” clarified Oaken, “but Ironhide and I were on mandatory seven-day sick leave after an incident involving green hash.” Rarity’s eyes bulged and she opened her mouth to ask the obvious question, but Oaken pre-empted her saying, “Don’t ask. You’ll sleep better. Actually, we recovered by day four, but we still weren’t allowed on-duty that night.” He smiled. “We were bored though, so we parked ourselves on the Gala perimeter with couple bags of popcorn and watched the stampede until Captain Strike caught us and told us to beat it.”

“Fascinating, really,” deadpanned Jacques, who had been listening with a bemused expression on his face, “but, for those passengers who were in Provencal at the time of this stampeding Gala, would you mind elaborating?”

Rarity groaned and momentarily buried her face in her hooves, seeming torn between embarrassment and amusement. “It was a dreadful evening, darling, on which many mistakes were made by all of us. The first inkling of trouble we had was when dear Princess Celestia sent Twilight a pair of tickets...”

The passenger car was soon filled with merriment as Rarity related the absurd antics of the Bearers and their misadventures leading up to and during the Gala.

Occasionally, Jacques turned away from the telling and looked out the window towards Ponyville. He seldom caught a good look, as he could only see the town when the train turned enough to give him a line-of-sight, but he was able to see that dark clouds hung over the rural community.

It must be a scheduled storm, he thought, being rather proud of himself that he scarcely shuddered at the recollection of manufactured weather. I don’t recall such a storm on the schedule, but then, I don’t really pay much attention to the forecast.

All the same, it seemed rather ominous that such a storm would be brewing over Ponyville so soon after the grim happenings in Canterlot. The notion pricked his alertness, and n he found himself paying less attention to Rarity’s humorous story as he focused on getting a better look at the storm whenever possible.

“...so he takes the rose, bites off the stem inserts it into his own lapel...” Rarity was narrating, “... and says,” she adopted a mocking tone, “‘Thank you. It goes with my eyes.’”

“Rather self-aggrandizing of him,” remarked Oaken.

And rather harsh of that storm, thought Jacques as lightning forked in the grey-black clouds. The closer we get, the less that looks like a normal storm.

“... then, when there’s a drink spilled right in front of us, this insufferable ponce...”

I don’t see any rain, yet the lightning flashes. It’s not the right weather for heat lightning in Canterlot, and I doubt it would be that different in Ponyville.

“... he uses me as a shield!”

Oaken scoffed. “Poor form! Being the shield is his job.”

Those clouds seem to swirl around the center of town, and the flashes have grown more frequent and intense since we departed hours ago. As he watched, a bolt of lightning flashed red, sending smaller ripples of red lighting through the dark clouds. Jacques narrowed his eyes, searching for some intelligible clue in the clouds. What madness is this? Surely that is not nat—

—In his mind he saw a black amulet bearing the visage of a winged unicorn, its red eyes burning with unholy—

Jacques grimaced at the sudden headache and looked away, rubbing his eyes. What fresh foulness did that portend?

“Friar Jacques?” asked Rarity, her face concerned. “Are you quite alright?” Before he could answer, she winced and said contritely, “I shouldn’t have been gossiping, I know, it was just such a frustrating evening that—,”

The monk waved her words away. “It’s not that, Lady Rarity, it’s...” Oh, heavens, after the night she had, I hate to ask this. “Lady Rarity, please tell me: was there a storm scheduled in Ponyville today?”

She frowned, confused, then turned to look. “No, not that I recall, why do you—OHGOOD HEAVENS!”

Oaken followed her gaze. “What’s wrong? What’s... oh.”

The clouds had darkened from grey-black to black, and now swirled like a rolling vortex over the town.

“What on earth is that?!” demanded Rarity.

As they watched, the black clouds were brightened with another ripple of red lightning.

Jacques sighed as he rose to his feet and went to confer with the conductor. “That, I fear, is Dark Magic.”

Author's Note

Aura strode into the office, a stack of pages held in her magical grip. She found Antiquarian at his desk, plugging away at his typewriter. “Antiq, I... oh please tell me you’re not adding more to the chapter.”

Antiquarian snorted. “Hardly. It’s overdue as it is.”

“What, then?”

“It’s the standard reminder to not bring up modern politics in the comments section ever.”

Aura winced. “Doesn’t it hurt your voice to do that?”

“Not as much as you might think—cough!—okay maybe it hurts just a little.” He gestured to the pages she’d entered with. “Well? What did you think of the chapter?”

Aura glanced out the window before answering. “I think it’s rather... bold of you.”

“Because I brought up ponies eating meat, even though they do in the human world and it makes even more sense that we do so here with our advanced brains and eyeballs?”

“No.”

“Because I wrote Miru’s lines with a heavy dose of Australian slang?”

“No.”

“Because I obliquely alluded to the origins of Just War Theory, opposition to capital punishment, and the like?”

“Frankly,” she said as she took a longer look out the window. “I’m just happy you didn’t go off on a long-winded explanation about how theologians like Aquinas, Augustine, and dozens of others laid the framework for ethical standards which form the basis for such things in the modern world.”

Antiquarian shrugged. “I figured I’d just put something about it in the author’s note. You know, something un-subtle and on-the-nose like, ‘To horrifically oversimplify, the gist of it is that, if deadly force is truly the only reasonable way to protect the populace, then deadly measures may be used to the extent they are necessary and no further.’ Then I’d go into how things like the Geneva Conventions owe their existence to this, while noting that, as revolutionary as these early laws and principles were, they sadly weren’t always followed. To show the disparity I’d maybe use old-Templar-killer Philip IV as an example of ‘not followed,’ and contrast him with all the other monarchs who decried his actions as evil.”

“How topical,” she replied, still looking out the window.

“Thank you.”

“But, none of those are the reasons I say the chapter was a ‘bold move.’ No, that dubious distinction is owed to the fact that you’ve been gone for months... and you come back with a chapter full of new characters, side characters, and hardly any of the main cast. Quite a risk, wouldn’t you agree?”

Antiquarian grimaced. “Yeah, well, contrary to what the readers may think, I don’t pick the chapter order so much as the story does. Frankly, I think I’ll catch less flak for the cast lineup for this chapter, and more flak for the fact that people won’t know how much of this is background chatter and how much of it is me subtly setting up for something nefarious.”

Aura raised an eyebrow. “I think at this point, many of your readers are suspicious of nefarious set-up behind literally everything you write.”

“Good. I like my readers suspicious. Keeps ’em frosty. And I—” He was going to elaborate, but was distracted by the sight of her staring out the window once more. “Okay, time out, what are you looking for out there?”

“The Angry Mob,” she answered honestly. “You’ve been out of the game so long, I’m surprised they aren’t camped out in your office.”

Antiquarian smirked. “They probably would be... if they weren’t on a world-spanning journey of vengeance.”

Aura tilted her head quizzically. “Beg pardon?”

The stallion held up what looked like a travel schedule. “They’re following the fake itinerary I printed up for my ‘Around the World in 80 Sushis’ travel epic. I started a rumor I was going on this trip, then ‘accidentally’ slipped the itinerary to them, and they’ve been chasing me for weeks. Today I’m in...” he checked the itinerary, “General Tempura’s Sushi House in Amsterhoof. Apparently.”

Aura blinked. “That’s... unbelievable.”

“Yeah, who knew they had a taste for sushi in Amsterhoof?”

“No, that’s not— I don’t—” Aura gave her head a hard shake. “Antiq, you hate sushi!”

“Yes, I do,” he replied mildly.

“I mean, you legendarily hate sushi! They still tell stories at the faculty luncheons about your fifty-minute rant to the kitchen staff!”

Antiquarian smiled fondly at the recollection. “Ah yes, my great thesis, ‘Pony Invent Fire for Food-Cook: Why Pony Not Use Fire to Food-Cook Fish?’ Truly, some of my best work.”

“Exactly! There’s no way your plan should have worked! The moment the Angry Mob took a moment to cool off, reasonably examine the evidence, and research the rumor they heard they would have—” she stopped and face-hoofed, “... never mind, I just heard how that sounded out loud.”

The stallion chuckled. “As the human philospher Sun Tzu once wrote, ‘Know thy enemy as you know thyself, and you shall avoid being skewered by the pitchforks of the Angry Mob.’”

“I’m going to need to see your citation on that one.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

***

Seriously, though, I am very happy to be back. Don’t expect frequent chapters, but I’m getting “back on the horse,” so to speak. No pun intended.

In case anyone is curious about Miru’s funky line, it’s something to the effect of “This exchange is too complicated for me. I personally enjoy a rousing fight in the afternoon, with the self-deprecating implication being that this serves as my motivation for being in the military; there is, secondarily, a joke at my own expense expressing my lack of intellectual prowess.” Somethin’ like that. Australian slang is complicated.

Shoutout goes to The White Horseby Carabas. It’s set in Equestria just after Luna’s banishment, and what it might have taken for Celestia to save her country from being destroyed. Fits with the whole “sometimes, it’s necessary” theme.

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Thinning the Herd

Outskirts of Ponyville, the previous day...

From her concealed place overlooking the Ponyville train station, the Great and Powerful Trixie watched... and plotted.

When she’d first returned to the wretched little town, she’d thought to stride down Main Street with the boldness befitting her magnificence, there to demonstrate her might and cry for that miserable purple upstart to come and face judgment.

Until the finding of the Amulet, Trixie had not realized the true depths of the insult that Twilight had offered her in daring to upstage her Great and Powerful majesty. Things had changed since she put it on. Little by little, the Amulet had worked on her, opening her eyes to its wisdom, bestowing insight upon insight. But, still, it had waited, holding back the full depth of what it might offer, waiting for the appropriate time.

Now… now that time had finally come. Here atop this tree-topped hill, the Amulet decided the Great and Powerful Trixie was ready for the whole truth, which it had not revealed until that moment. Here, it showed her how all the glories her heart so greatly desired could be hers, if she could but defeat this new threat.

Yes, things had become much clearer since Trixie had set eyes on... him.

She did not know what the creature was – tall, coarse, weathered of skin and deep of voice, like a hornless minotaur or hairless ape, clad in black and bearing a sword. Trixie had never seen a creature his like in all her many years of travel.

But the Amulet... the Amulet knew. The Amulet named him Danger, Foe, a servant of the Enemy.

For the first time since putting on the Amulet, Trixie had felt fear, for the Amulet was afraid of this Enemy whom the lanky creature served.

So Trixie had not strode into town like a conqueror as she had first intended, for the Amulet had warned her not to contend at once with both this Foe and with those six blasted ponies, who, rumor had it, wielded a great power themselves.

Yes, yes it was more than rumor, the Amulet warned her. Now alerted to the danger by the presence of the ape, the Amulet sniffed out the power of the Enemy on those six terrible ponies as well, and it alerted Trixie that Twilight’s cabal had at one time wielded unspeakable power. Yet that power was dormant… for now.

Thus did the Great and Powerful mare understand; the Amulet had illumined the wickedness of Twilight Sparkle, as a stage lamp shines solely on the villain and casts the rest of the stage into darkness.

Twilight Sparkle - insect, vermin, worm - had known that she would bring the wrath of Trixie down on her. Sparkle must have sensed the power of her cabal would lie dormant so, crafty fiend that she was, she’d sought out this strange warrior, this Danger, this Foe, thereby to resist with their combined might the justice of Trixie. She had even gathered soldiers around her, lackeys to be cannon fodder in her war against the Great and Powerful Trixie.

The arrogance! The gall!

But now – Trixie chuckled – now that arrogance would be Twilight’s undoing, for she was sending her giant away, and with one of her five chief disciples to accompany him no less. True, the white unicorn had never struck Trixie as any sort of grave threat, but the Amulet was pleased at the white mare departing with the Foe, so Trixie was pleased.

As the train departed into the distance, bearing away those who would oppose her, Trixie allowed the Amulet to offer its wisdom to her planning.

She could see it now – pick off Twilight’s lackeys and followers one by one, then confront Twilight with her failure. Make her suffer. Trixie would drive her out and—

… No… no, not merely drive her out. Trixie chuckled. That was too good for the likes of Twilight Sparkle, Usurper of Magic.

Better to make her stay and bow.

Trixie allowed herself a well-earned laugh, and offered the departed giant, now some miles distant, a mocking mental ‘thank you.’ After all, ever since she’d set eyes on him, the Amulet had been much more forthcoming.

Later that day…

Following the departure of Jacques, Rarity, and Oaken, the various ponies who remained in Ponyville had partially dispersed to go about their business, though they made the effort to know where the others were and to not go anywhere alone. Morning Song, after making her rounds of the town, had opted to make a patrol of the Ponyville perimeter. She’d asked Ironhide to accompany her, in part to ensure that the Lunar Guardspony became more familiar with the same terrain elements as the REF ponies (which they’d been mapping since arriving in Ponyville), and in part to get to know her subordinate better. Up to this point, most of her interactions with him had been in the presence of Oaken. She wanted to get a measure of him without his battle buddy around.

They’d been patrolling Ponyville and the land around it for some hours and were now walking the border of White Tail Wood. The town was still visible some distance away – with the line-of-sight occasionally broken by the terrain – but they were far enough away to be functionally alone, with only the occasional cottage every thirty minutes or so to break up the solitude.

“Pretty country out here,” remarked Ironhide. “Shame we gotta keep an eye out for trouble. Though if Pinkie’s Pinkie Sense says something ‘dramatically ironic’ is going to happen, there’s probably nothing we can do to avert it.”

“Assuming it’s even us it will happen to,” said Song. “It may happen to somepony else, or it could happen to us but be a good thing, or it could be that we can’t stop it from happening but we can stop it from getting out of hand, or, or, or. Too many unknowns.”

Ironhide made a grunt of assent. “That’s the trouble with Pinkie Sense, I guess. Just enough details to make us worry, not enough to clarify the ‘how’ or ‘why.’”

Song glanced over at him, then resumed her study of the nearby treeline. “You seem rather sanguine about the fact that we’re traipsing about on the word of an inexplicable force of nature beyond even Twilight Sparkle’s understanding.” Though if Fritters were here, he’d probably say most everything officers do is beyond the understanding of enlisted ponies.

“I guess after spending a few weeks around Pinkie, the whole ‘Pinkie Sense’ thing isn’t too hard to believe,” chuckled Ironhide. “Now, if you’d told me a year ago what Pinkie Sense was and that I’d be having to take it into my strategic consideration, well… I’d have politely said ‘yes ma’am,’ you being an officer and all, while privately not believing a word you said.”

Morning Song smiled dryly. “I can’t say I blame you. Did Friar Jacques ever tell you he was convinced Pinkie Pie was some sort of Trickster Creature of legend for a solid week?”

“No, but that doesn’t surprise me,” said Ironhide as the two of them started down a low path that skirted a string of rolling hills. “There’s a part of me that thinks she might be draconequus like Discord, just younger and a lot nicer, and she just makes herself look like a pony because she has more fun that way.”

Song almost stopped in her tracks. “That’s… oddly plausible.”

“Right?” laughed Ironhide. “I spent eight months posted at Fort Menagerie, surrounded by a half-dozen sapient species and two dozen cultures, and none of that did a thing to prepare me for the Great Pink One.”

“The ‘Great Pink One?’” Song echoed, amused. “Did you pick that up from Fritters?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “It fits though, doesn’t it?”

“Mm. True enough.”

“It’s been night and day between Canterlot and Ponyville,” said Ironhide. “Canterlot was pretty quiet up until the end. Ponyville’s been anything but. I know the recruiting poster says ‘Join the Guard, See the World,’ but I didn’t really expect this.”

“I don’t think anypony did,” murmured Song. Then, in her normal voice, she asked, “Why did you join the Guard, if I may ask?”

Ironhide was silent a moment before replying, “It ain’t exactly a story for they’d use in a marketing campaign. I used to hate the idea of fighting. My dad was always getting into fights. Heavy drinker, had a temper, always ready to throw a punch… you get the picture. Mama took the beatings so that I wouldn’t.”

Song’s heart was moved to pity. It was hardly her first time hearing a story like that – even in Equestria, where such behavior was fortunately rare, there were still louts and scoundrels – but it was still a terrible thing to hear. She sensed that Ironhide was in the flow of the narrative, though, so she didn’t interrupt.

“One day he got real drunk and stormed out of the house,” continued Ironhide. “A few hours later, the cops showed up and told us a pony had been killed in a fight down at the docks. Three days later, my father got sent up the river for the murder.”

At one time in her life, Song would have exclaimed “That’s terrible!” but experience had taught her such reactions were typically unhelpful in circumstances like this. So instead, she said calmly, compassionately, “I’m sorry you had to go through that. How old were you?”

“Eight,” answered Ironhide calmly, with the tone of one who’d made peace with the reality of his experiences. “Not easy being the kid whose father murdered somebody, especially when the newspaper shills smelled a sensational story. Mama moved us to another city and she changed her name, but there are some things that stay with you.”

“That sounds like a heavy burden to carry,” Song observed.

“It was,” agreed Ironhide, “but it gave me a new chance, too. See, I’d only ever seen my father’s kind of violence. Cruel, uncontrolled, barbaric. I didn’t know there was a healthy way to use strength or that you could have a moral reason to fight. So, when I got bullied, I just took it. Then one day I saw a little colt getting picked on.” He smiled at the recollection. “It was like a switch flipped. I was scared but… I went over anyway. Told the bullies to buzz off. Think I called them ‘poo-poo heads,’ or something equally articulate.”

Song chortled. “Truly, an insult worthy of Shakespur. What happened next?”

“Oh, I got the snot beat outta me,” laughed Ironhide, “But it turns out I got a pretty thick skin. The bruises cleared in a few days, the bullies got caught and punished, the little colt became by best bud from school, and I got my cutie mark. Guess you could say I lost the battle but won the war.”

“Indeed.”

“The way I figured it, my special talent was protecting folks, taking the hit so they don’t have to,” he smirked, “which is kind of funny when you consider how Oaken is the meat shield way more often than me.” Song chuckled, and Ironhide continued, “I went and took boxing lessons from an old pony named Leatherface. He was like a father; a real father. He’d come from a hard life too. He could’ve talked down to me, saying his life was harder and I should toughen up. He could’ve been bitter about his life and taught me to be bitter. But he didn’t. He shared his own journey, its ups and downs, and taught me how to turn my suffering into growth. He taught me responsibility, discipline, self-control, how to respect others, and how to respect myself..”

Song’s heart swelled with reverent gratitude for all such kind and noble souls who took it upon themselves to be parents to those who needed such guidance. “The world is better for having such folk in it. I’m sure he’s very proud of you’ve come.”

“You mean how I’ve come to be traipsing along a low forest track on the word of Pinkie the Half-Draconequus, talking my temporary CO’s ear off? Oh yes, he’s very proud,” Ironhide remarked dryly, much to Song’s amusement. As they continued farther down the path, the stallion tilted his head in the direction of Ponyville, which was now fully obscured by the line of hills their path skirted. “Kinda inconvenient this track down here is outta sight of the town. We’re so far off I doubt anypony would hear us if the scat hit the fan.”

“It certainly makes security a hassle,” agreed Song.

Ironhide nodded slowly. “Yeah…” he said, his voice suspicious as his pace slowed. Song’s senses became fully alert as she surreptitiously scanned the area for any sign of what had set her companion’s danger sense off. “And it would be dramatically ironic if the ponies sent to protect the town were to be ambushed out on patrol. Like from behind right…” he whipped around and drew his sword to fend off some unseen attacker, “NOW!”

Song spun tensed for a right as she cast her gaze about and saw… nothing. She gave Ironhide a censorious look.

Ironhide scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “I, uh, I figured because of the dramatic irony… there’d be like… you know, an ambush or…” he cleared his throat. “Maybe I should have thought that through better.”

“Indeed you should have!” cried out an imperious voice, seemingly from all around them. There was a sharp *snap* of magic and a burst of smoke, and there on the path appeared a mare. She was blue, clad in magician’s hat and cloak and wearing a black amulet set with a red jewel around her neck. The strange mare reared on her hind legs and proclaimed, “For the Great and Powerful Trixie appears at no time but her own!”

At the blue mare’s voice, Song’s hoof had snapped instinctively to one of her concealed knives. Now she attempted to pass the movement off as mere surprise, and she tapped her hoof on her armor like a nervous tic. Song had never heard of this ‘Trixie,’ but under the circumstances she was inclined to cautious suspicion. “You certainly make a grand entrance, oh Great and Powerful Trixie,” she said, having learned from past experience that ponies who referred to themselves in the third person typically disliked being called by such common titles as ‘miss.’ “May I inquire what business such a great personage as yourself may have in Ponyville?” She kept her head bent forward as though in a half-bow as she said this, hoping with her deference to distract from the fact that she was fanning out to the right. Ironhide, to Song’s pleasure, kept his sword low and non-threatening and his mouth shut as he slowly fanned out to the left.

“You may inquire, peasant,” replied Trixie with the tone of one deigning to speak to a lesser being, her head held high with haughty dignity. “The Great and Powerful Trixie has business with a loathsome pretender to greatness by the name of Twilight Sparkle.” The name she spat as a curse, and at their utterance her eyes flashed as red as the jewel.

Oh, that’s never a good sign, thought Song. “Your Ladyship, I fear you may be disappointed in your quest. A train left for Canterlot this morning, and I saw Twilight Sparkle on the platform.” Song was careful not to lie outright, as it would be more likely for the other mare to detect her deception. Such a tactic of omission had proven successful on other occasions.

Trixie’s scornful laugh suggested this would not be one of those occasions. “You may dispense with your pitiful attempt at deception, oh boot-licking guard,” snapped Trixie, “and with your even more pitiful misdirection. Did you really think the Great and Powerful Trixie would not see you and your compatriot’s attempt to flank her, or that a magician of her caliber would fail to spot the concealed blades hidden within the cut of your armor?”

Well, horseapples, thought Song.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie ought to smite you for your impudence!” proclaimed the blue mare, her eyes flashing red. Then, she blinked rapidly and her natural color returned. “Still,” she continued, her tone hinting at concern, “the Great and Powerful Trixie is magnanimous; she… she admires the spunk of one who would attempt slight-of-hoof even against the Master of the Magician’s Arts.” Trixie smiled, almost as though she was relieved by her own explanation. “Yes, that’s it, Trixie could find use for you, if you would but forsake the lies of wretched Twilight Sparkle. When that impudent purple Usurper is forced to bow to Trixie, then perhaps Trixie would show her favor to those who wisely recognize her magnificence!”

Song’s mind raced as she analyzed the megalomaniac’s psyche on the fly. She briefly considered pretending to go along with the scheme, but quickly dismissed the idea. If she noticed my simpler attempts at deception, she’d probably notice if I tried to play the lackey. Besides… her mind went to the red-jeweled amulet, I’m betting that thing is twisting her perception, probably in return for a power-boost since not many ponies can teleport. Better to play to her ego.

“Oh Great and Powerful Trixie, you are truly gracious, but I feel I must clarify whom we serve. My companion and I are pledged to the service of the noble and wise Princess Celestia, not this common purple mare.” She deliberately put scorn into her voice when referring to Twilight. “Surely, if such a great mare as yourself were to bring your case against this ‘Usurper’ to the princess, then she, recognizing your quality, would see to it that you’re given your proper due.”

For a moment, Trixie seemed to consider the suggestion. Her face lit up with the fantasy of the immortal ruler deciding in her favor, bestowing titles and accolades with generosity worthy of her station. For a moment, Trixie’s eyes declared her agreement, and she opened her mouth to cry ‘Yes!’

Then the amulet pulsed red. Trixie’s eyes flashed, and her face screwed up first with consternation, then with rage. “No… no… NO!” hissed Trixie. “That spiteful white nag has no more love for us than her purple minion! We shall not bow to her! We shall not bow to any! The world shall bow to the Great and Powerful Trixie!”

Trixie’s horn sparked with power. Song grasped a throwing knife and made to fling it at the madmare. She had only half-completed the motion when a bolt of energy smashed her in the chest. The magic-dampening effects of her armor could only mute the impact, not stop it. Song was flung backwards and hit the ground hard enough to leave her ears ringing. She landed badly, and the impact knocked the wind out of her. She desperately tried to breathe as her lungs stumbled at the memory of how to function.

Ironhide had sprung into action in the same moment as Song. Lunging forward, he swung his blade, seeking Trixie’s horn. He came within a fraction of landing the blow when Trixie turned that horn on him. The madmare blasted him with such force as to knock his helmet from his head and send him sprawling.

“Impudence!” snarled Trixie, who reared up to trample him. Recovering with impressive speed, Ironhide swung his sword in an attempt to sweep her hind legs. He hadn’t the time to position his sword to slice, but the flat of his blade still knocked her down. He made to pin her, but before he could capitalize on his advantage, she caught him with a bolt of electricity that sent him writhing in anguish.

Song staggered upright, sucking down air and commanding her eyes to focus on her target through sheer force of will. The agonized cries of Ironhide lent strength to her actions. She drew two blades and let Trixie stand back up – Song couldn’t afford to miss – then threw. The knives sped straight and true, but not fast enough. Trixie conjured a powerful shield, and not even Song’s enchanted blades could penetrate it; they deflected harmlessly off the surface. Trixie smirked, and Song braced herself for pain.

She hadn’t long to wait. Trixie turned her electric attack on Song, and the soldier mare howled in agony as the shock took hold of her and contorted her on the ground. Time seemed to lose all meaning as her every sense was overridden with pain.

Abruptly, the anguish stopped, and Song lay gasping for air. The smell of ozone filled her nostrils, and her eyes stang with tears. Her mind was too overwhelmed to make conscious decisions, but her instincts still functioned. Training drove her to seek the status of her brother soldier. She saw him lying crumpled a few feet away, straining to rise, but his body failed to comply. In the end, he could do no more than raise his head and glare. Trixie stood over him, cackling. “This one still has some fight in him, doesn’t he?” remarked their enemy. “Trixie is impressed. A pity you backed the wrong mare. You’d have made a fine henchpony.”

Ironhide managed a defiant smirk. “They don’t… *pant* call me… *wheeze* Ironhide fer nothin’,” he gasped.

Trixie raised an eyebrow. “Ironhide, eh? An unfitting monicker, as you appear to be flesh and blood. Let’s fix that, shall we?” Her horn lit with power as her eyes flashed red, giving her a devilish countenance.

“No!” croaked Song. She tried to scramble upright, but only succeeded in smashing her face into the ground. “No, please, no!”

There was a bright flash, a gout of smoke, and when the smoke cleared, Ironhide had been turned into a statue of iron. Song moaned in helpless grief.

Trixie clicked her tongue chidingly. “Oh, he’s fine, don’t fret,” snapped the madmare. “A living statue, fit for one as great as my Great and Powerful self. As though Trixie would stoop so low as to kill…” she shook her head and talked as though speaking to someone else, “no, Trixie wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t. We… no, she wouldn’t.”

Before Song could ask who she was talking to, Trixie blinked rapidly, then fixed her haughty attention on Song. “What I’ve done is reversable…” she smiled coyly, “perhaps even reversible now if you cooperate. Tell me where the pretender Sparkle is hiding, and I’ll release him.”

The part of Song that demanded she aid a fallen comrade was tempted. The sight of Ironhide imprisoned in metallic body was distressing in ways she couldn’t express. But she was a soldier, as was Ironhide. Morning Song would not betray their charges, not even to save her brother-in-arms. She clamped her jaw shut in defiance.

Rather than enraging Trixie, the display seemed to amuse her. “So, you refuse to speak, eh? Not even to give your ‘name, rank, and serial number?’ That’s delicious.” Her horn lit, and Song fully anticipated to be transformed like Ironhide, but Trixie was just stealing her dog tags and unit designation.

“Let’s see here, ‘1st Lieutenant Song, Morning,” Trixie read aloud, “serial number 8015-blah blah blah… 2nd Battalion, 3rd Expeditionary— oo~oh!” She sqealed with genuine delight, and the redness left her eyes for a moment, allowing their true hue to return as she exclaimed, “You’re part of old General Wind Strider’s famed regiment, the 3rd Equestrian Light Horse, the great ‘Black Cav!’” Her eyes danced with stars. “Yes, Trixie performed for them six years ago while they were deep in Clan territory! It was late Fall, and the trees were lit up like fireworks… ah, that was a splendid performance! They loved it of course – one of the only crowds to truly recognize Trixie’s talent and…” she trailed off, downcast. Her gaze drifted over Ironhide, and for a moment, Song thought she saw regret.

Then Trixie closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the red had returned. “Well… much too late for that now,” said the blue mare quietly. She gave Song a hard look and said, “Song is your name? Then songs shall you sing.” Trixie’s horn flared, and Morning Song shut her eyes against the all-consuming glare that passed through armor and flesh. Then a darkness like unconsciousness claimed her, and she lost herself in the void.

How much time passed, Song couldn’t say. When she opened her groggy eyes, the first thing she saw was the bars. Steel-grey, trimmed with red and gold, like her armor. She made to let out a groan—

“Tweet tweet!”

The noise startled Song, as did the angular feel of her mouth. A shadow fell on her, and she looked up to see Trixie… a much, much larger Trixie… smirking down at her. Song hopped back in shock and landed on—

Two legs? Wait, why do my feet feel so different?! She called out in alarm, but only tweets and chirps came out. She brought her forehooves to her mouth and saw—

Wings. White feathered wings traced with black and gold plumage. Then, she understood.

Trixie had turned her into a bird and made a cage of her armor.

An evil chortle caused her to look up again. “Aw, what’s the matter little songbird?” mocked Trixie. “Cage not to your liking?” Song glared. “Well, you ought to be grateful. When you’re feeling less petulant, you’ll have the honor of serenading my Great and Powerful self. And, better yet,” Trixie leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “You’ll have the pleasure of knowing that you helped Trixie see even more clearly how much Greater and Powerfuller she is.”

“Chirp chirp!” replied Song, which wasn’t much of a taunt, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances.

“Trixie agrees, she does look good in blue,” responded Trixie. “And now, for her next trick, Trixie shall make the three of us disappear!” And in a puff of smoke, she did just that.

With Trixie’s vanishing act, that section of the White Tail Woods was deserted.

Or rather, it was almost deserted. For there, perched in a tree nearby, was a thrush who had witnessed the entire affair.

The thrush did not typically bother with the matters of ponies. He was, after all, a simple creature with simple drives. Even had he been a more complex entity, he was unable to communicate with ponies, save for Shy-Mare-Who-Flutters. Other ponies typically weren’t worth the effort.

On this occasion, however, he would make an exception. He recognized Singing-Mare-With-Shell and Pointy-Colt-With-Shell as being some of those ponies with shiny shells who had arrived recently. The Shiny-Shelled-Ponies were friends with Shy-Mare-Who-Flutters, but Pointy-Loud-Blue-Mare was clearly not friends with them. And, if she was not friends with the Shiny-Shelled- Ponies, then she was probably not friends withShy-Mare-Who-Flutters.

The thrush waited quietly, until he was sure that Pointy-Loud-Blue-Mare was well and truly gone. Then he took to the wind and set off in search of Shy-Mare-Who-Flutters. He only hoped he could find her in time.

As it happened, the thrush was not the only one looking for Fluttershy. The serenity of her cottage was disturbed by the airborne arrival of Rainbow Dash and Marble Slab, the former of whom looked much more upset than the latter.

Not that I can blame her, thought Marble. In her place, I’d be worried about Fluttershy too.

When the Bearers and their companions had left the train station, they’d all agreed to keep tabs on each other and be particularly cautious about security. Part of that meant making some other pony in the group knew where one was at all times. Rainbow and Marble had geared up to do some sparing (which served as both an excuse to do some aerial patrols and an excuse to be openly armed) and had been under the impression that Fluttershy was at Rarity’s taking care of her cat.

But, when they’d swung by to check in on her, only Sweetie Belle had been there. The young unicorn had told them Fluttershy had already come and gone, and wasn’t sure where she’d went. This led directly to an air sprint for Fluttershy’s cottage, and readily explained Dash’s less-than-sanguine demeanor.

Dash sped to the door, landed with an audible impact, and immediately began pounding on the wood. “Fluttershy!” she shouted. “Fluttershy, are you in there!?” She banged harder on the door. “Answer me for Celestia’s sake!”

“Rainbow,” interjected Marble mildly, “I don’t think she’s home—”

“Fluttershy,answer the dang door!” shouted Dash as she threatened to put a dent in the wood.

Huffing, Marble tried again. “Rainbow Dash, if you’d just take a moment to calm down—”

“Fluttershy! Answer the door!”

Marble noticed there was now definitely a dent in the door. Rolling his eyes, he barked in military fashion, “Officer Dash, may I have a moment of your time?”

At the word ‘officer,’ Rainbow stopped pounding. She looked askance at the staff sergeant. “I thought I told you not to mess with the whole ‘officer’ business.”

The red stallion raised an eyebrow. “Got your attention, didn’t it?”

Less-than-amused, Rainbow snapped, “Well, I’m listening. Spit it out.”

“As I said on the way out here,” said Marble patiently, “I think you’re overreacting—”

“Overreacting?” snarled Dash, who zipped over to flap mere centimeters from Marble’s face. “Overreacting? You heard Pinkie Pie! Something dramatically ironic is going to happen, we’ve got Shades on the prowl,andMorning Song said we need to hang near each other and keep our eyes peeled for anything suspicious! And Fluttershy picks today of all days to go flying off wherever?! Why are you not worried?!”

Carefully, Marble replied, “Because even if something is wrong, worrying about it isn’t going to do anything except cloud our judgments. If, and I repeat if we need to be concerned, then that’s all the more reason to keep calm and act rationally. And,” he added pointedly, “if I may say, Flight Officer, it is the duty of an officer in particular to remain cool under pressure. That’s certainly what the Bolts look for in candidates.”

His words had the desired effect. Rainbow Dash returned the personal space she’d borrowed from him and backed up to land a few feet away. Plainly unhappy, she was at least calmer now. “Would the staff sergeant care to make a suggestion?” she asked, all acid.

“The staff sergeant would,” replied the squat soldier, which at least earned a grudging half-snort of laughter from Dash. “If Fluttershy isn’t here, then perhaps one of her animals knows where she is. Now, neither of us can speak their language, but I’ll bet that bunny of hers is smart enough to pantomime.”

“Yeah, he’s smart all right,” growled Dash. “Smart, ornery, vindictive, and probably running some sort of critter mafia.”

“He’s also right behind you,” added Marble.

Dash turned and, sure enough, Angel Bunny was sitting on the windowsill by the front door, glaring at her with his paws on his hips, foot tapping impatiently.

“Oh, uh, hi Angel Bunny,” said Dash.

Angel Bunny pointed meaningfully at the dented front door and his glare intensified. Dash winced and rubbed the back of her head. “Look, uh, I’ll fix her door later. Or I’ll get Applejack to do it,” she muttered under her breath, “but there’s no time for that now! We need you to tell us where Fluttershy is.” Angel raised a scathing eyebrow. “Argh! Look, fluff butt, Fluttershy might be in trouble! We need to find her!”

At this, Angel’s hostility fell away, replaced by convinction. He hopped down out of sight and returned a moment later with a box of critter food, which he pointed at emphatically.

“Great, charades,” grumbled Dash. “Food box.” Angel turned it over and shook it, but only crumbs fell out. “Empty food box.” Angel tossed away the empty food box and pulled out a golden bit. “Okay, money, Fluttershy is… Fluttershy is going to town to buy food?” Angel nodded emphatically. Dash breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Angel. I’m sorry about the fluff butt comment. I promise I’ll get the door fixed later.” She flapped into the air and called down, “How was that, Marble Slab?”

Marble nodded approvingly. “Like a proper officer, ma’am. Now we’ll just—” he saw Angel’s eyes widen with fear as the bunny looked at something behind him. He felt a tingling in the back of his teeth from a magical charge. Snapping his head to scan the nearby treeline, he saw the glimmer of a unicorn horn aimed up at Rainbow. “Dash! Evasive!” he barked as he drew his sword and jetted for the attacker.

His warning came just in time. Dash banked hard, avoiding the bright blast of magic. Marble put on an extra turn of speed, but just when he was about to reach his target, she vanished in a cloud of smoke. He heard the *pop* of a teleport – Bad sign! – and looked behind to see the magician standing in front of Fluttershy’s door. He turned sharply, sling-shotted around a tree, and made an attack run on her.

Marble got close enough to see her smirk before a wave of magic washed over him, too broad for him to dodge. There was a *wvoom* of force, a bright light, then the cold feeling like stone covering every—

And he remembered no more.

The Great and Powerful Trixie had learned from the first two of Twilight’s lackeys that the purple usurper had come up in the world. Her footponies were no amateurs, but professional soldiers, dedicated and competent. It would be unwise to play around with them. After all, if one of them dared damage her royal personage, she might have to do something… regrettable. Better to handle them quickly, so that she might… she might…

Why was she showing restraint again?

So that Trixie may… have them as lackeys later. Yes, that’s the reason, surely, she thought.

The Amulet found her answer acceptable. It was very important to Trixie that the Amulet approve of her reasoning.

Thus, Trixie struck without warning at the shy pony’s cottage. She’d hoped to get that meddlesome blue pegasus first but, Eh. Things happen. At least now Trixie has another living statue. Honestly, ‘Ironhide?’ ‘Marble Slab?’ Almost too obvious.

Rainbow Dash flapped overhead, no doubt stunned by Trixie’s triumphant return. “What… I… Trixie?! How did you…” Her eyes lighted on Marble Slab, and her astonishment turned to rage. “Turn him back!” demanded Dash.

Well, at least she doesn’t think I’d stoop so low as to murder her friend. She opened her mouth to say as much, but what came out was, “Why don’t you come down here and make Trixie restore him?”

Yes, that was what Trixie meant to say all along.

“Why I oughta—” growled Dash who, in typical fashion, dove straight into an attack dive.

Trixie let the pegasus build up a full head of speed, then fired off a magical beam. Moving too fast to dodge, Rainbow flew straight into the blast… then fell with style as her wings absented themselves from her body.

“What the—woah! No no no no NO!” cried Dash as she continued on her ballistic trajectory. Trixie stepped aside at the last moment. There was a *CRASH*, a splintering of wood, and a low groan.

Rainbow Dash had plowed head-first through Fluttershy’s door, becoming stuck with the broken wood about her barrel.

“All too easily,” taunted Trixie. “Now you really need to fix the door. Here, let Trixie be of Great and Powerful assistance to you.” Before Dash could recover, the magician transmogrified the door into a stockade which held the wingless Rainbow quite firmly. “Much better.” She turned the stockade around so her captive could face her. “Now, have you anything to say?”

The pegasus struggled vainly against the stockade. “What did you— how did you— what are you— give me my wings back!”

Trixie tapped her chin as though pondering the request. “Wings, wings, now what wings could you be referring to…?” In a puff of magic, the wings appeared in the air. “Oh you mean these wings?”

“YES! MY WINGS!”

“Oh, dear, dear Rainbow Dash,” tutted Trixie. “There must have been some mistake. You see, these wings belong to Trixie now.” She tapped the alicorn amulet. “They’d rather complete the look, don’t you think?”

“What are you even…?” Dash’s eyes widened with horrified understanding. “Oh no! No, no, no!”

“Yes, yes, yes!” beamed Trixie as she levitated the wings to the side of her barrel and charged her horn to as-yet-unused levels of power. “And for Trixie’s next trick, I shall transform into—”

“DON’T YOU DARE!”

“The Great and Powerful—” there was a terrific burst of magic as the appendages knit themselves to her body, “Princess Trixie Lulamoon!”

“YOU DIRTY ROTTEN—”

What followed was a truly impressive display. Trixie had been insulted before. She had also been threatened. Beyond that, she had spent many days amongst sailors, firefighters, and other folk known for their colorful vocabularies. Her experience with insults, cusses, and threats was wide-ranging, multilingual, and thorough.

Still, nothing had prepared her for the dissertation on verbal fury that Rainbow Dash delivered that day. It was, in a word, astounding, albeit far from the sort of thing that a fine and upstanding member of society like Rainbow Dash ought to be proud of. As Trixie was planning on being the despotic sort, however, she thought it best to absorb as much as she could of the dissertation, thereby to be better prepared for verbally castigating her enemies.

She began taking notes which, in turn, only increased the vigor of Dash’s impassioned thesis. By the time Dash finished, the Great and Powerful Trixie was awed by the education Rainbow had given her, to the point that she was even willing to admit as much. “You have a fine tongue for insults, Rainbow Dash,” declared Trixie to the panting (and rather hoarse) pegasus. “Trixie has decided to delay transforming you indefinitely, and will perhaps consider engaging your services as a writer.”

Panting from the exertion, Dash grated, “I’m… gonna… rip… out… your…”

“No, no, save that for later,” chided Trixie as she pulled out a pocketwatch and checked the time. “The Great and Powerful Princess Trixie still has a schedule to keep, so you’re being sent off to cool your heels with the others until she’s ready for the grand finale.” She charged her horn for the teleport. “Tah-tah, now.”

“You little—”

There was a flash, smoke, and both Rainbow and Marble were gone.

“—nag!” finished Rainbow Dash as she reappeared in a cave with the Marble statue. Sputtering outrage, the pegasus looked around for the object of her ire. She did not see Trixie, but she did see another statue – that of Ironhide, now forged of his namesake.

The sight sobered Rainbow Dash somewhat, and she settled for grunting, “Well this is a real buck in the teeth. I wonder where Song is?” An irate series of chirps behind her alerted her to the presence of another living being. “A bird? Since when does Trixie have a bird?” She strained to twist her head in such a way as to be able to see behind her – no small task while in a stockade. While she contorted herself, she continued grumbling. “Come to that, since when is Trixie actually great and powerful? That was some Twilight-level horse pucky she was pulling there, maybe even higher than Twilight-level. How the heck did…”

She trailed off as she finally managed to catch sight of the bird out of the corner of her eye. By straining her neck and eyes, she was able to make out a few details, like the suspicious coloration of the bird and its cage.

“Ah, horseapples, is that you LT?” A series of angry chirrups answered her. “Yeah, hey, I’m not Fluttershy, okay?” interrupted Rainbow. “Just… one chirp for yes, twice for no.” A single, curt chirp answered her. Heaving a sigh, Rainbow relaxed her neck so she didn’t hurt herself looking at the Songbird. “This day just keeps getting weirder and weirder. Okay, Morning Song, I’m gonna try to get myself loose…” she began struggling, but was not optimistic; the stocks held her quite tightly, “…but these feel pretty tight. Anything you can do from there?”

Two disappointed chirps confirmed what Rainbow expected.

“Peachy,” sighed the pegasus. “So, while I’m struggling here, want me to brief you?”

One chirp.

“Neato. Okay, Trixie McPain-in-the-Flank’s a loudmouth who blew into town a couple years ago…”

Now alone in front of the cottage, Trixie stowed her notebook and glanced down at the bunny that had been watching. “Well. That was something, wasn’t it?”

The bunny looked up at her warily, but still nodded his head in agreement.

“The Great and Powerful Princess Trixie was right to spare her,” said Trixie. “Yes… yes she was. It would have been… a waste to destroy her, yes. Just like the others. That’s why I spared them… that’s the only reason…” She blinked rapidly, cleared her throat, and declared, “Trixie has business to attend to.” She powered her horn and teleported away, wondering all the while why she was trying to justify her actions to a rabbit.

As soon as Trixie had gone, Angel Bunny let out a sigh of relief. Then he hopped through the open door and whistled sharply.

At his summons, a dozen birds flew over and landed on various perches nearby. They all cheeped and chirped worriedly to each other, frightened by what had transpired. Angel scowled and whistled yet more sharply. The birds fell silent.

Chattering quickly, Angel outlined his directives to the birds. When they shifted uncomfortably, he sharply reminded them who they were risking themselves for. That rallied the birds’ courage, and they set off at once.

Satisfied that his first task was accomplished, Angel set about gathering the other animals who had the best chance of making themselves useful to Fluttershy. As he badgered them into their jobs, he allowed himself another scowl.

It was going to be a long day.

Applejack kept a weather eye out for trouble as she walked the winding road from the Acreage to town. Beside her, Big Mac pulled the apple cart for market, and on the far side Fritters ambled along as well. He affected a casual air, but she could tell he was keeping watch just as she was. “Thanks fer helpin’ us take the produce to market, Frit,” the mare said.

The lanky unicorn shrugged. Without his armor, it was plain how thin he truly was; even his saddlebags didn’t offset the effect much. “Well, it was either that or hide in the bushes – you know, ambush you, train up your True Sight, maybe pilfer some produce – but with Pinkie’s little warning I’d rather not give opportunity for the ‘dramatic irony’ to be you stabbing me because you mistake me for an apple-poacher or something.”

“An’ just what am Ah supposed ta stab ya with?” she demanded “Ah ain’t even armed.” Not that Ah wouldn’t rather be armed right now. Amazing how naked Ah feel without a weapon on me these days.

“I’m sure you’d find a way,” replied Fritters. “You’re a smart mare. Besides, I am armed.” He opened his saddlebag enough to reveal a spearhead, then closed it. “Maybe you’d stick me with my own pigsticker. Double the irony.”

Applejack knew he was trying to be funny, but wasn’t much in the mood for laughter. All these years with Pinkie, an’ her sense has never made me feel more jittery than today. “Ah just wish we had a good excuse ta be armored like the ones out patrollin’,” she remarked, referring to Rainbow, Marble, Song, and Ironhide. “Though Ah reckon it might frighten away the customers.”

“You just need a better marketing campaign,” said Fritters. “‘Apple Family Apples!’” he exclaimed with a bombastic sales-voice, “‘So good, we need armed security to keep the line orderly!’ You know. Something like that.”

Almost in spite of herself, Applejack started to chuckle. She was about to reply when she caught sight of a tree up ahead on the side of the track that looked… wrong. Outwardly, it appeared to be a normal part of the scenery, but the sight of it raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She glanced over at Fritters and saw that he was also gazing at the tree in suspicion. He cleared his throat and said casually, “Say, Big MacIntosh, what say we stop for a spell. I think I’ve got a pebble in my hoof.”

Big Mac slowed to a stop. His stoic face revealed little, but Applejack knew her brother well enough to know he understood to be on guard. “Eeyup,” replied the big stallion, before starting to unhitch himself from the cart.

Before he could complete the process, the tree vanished in a cloud of smoke. In a flash, Fritters had his horn charged, ready for a spell or counterspell depending on what came next. Applejack, mentally raging over her lack of weapon, scooped up a hoofful of stones, ready to buck them at any enemy that appeared.

Then from the smoke came a voice she’d never thought to hear again. “Behold, pitiful knaves, a wonder beyond your imagining!” The smoke faded to reveal—Sweet Celestia, has she got WINGS?!—“The Great and Powerful Princess Trixie!”

Applejack’s jaw nearly hit the ground. Her every effort to comprehend the situation fizzled out before it could start, and she stared in mute, total incomprehension.

“You commoners have such small minds,” mocked Trixie, who materialized a file to trim the rough edges on her hooves. “Armed security as a marketing ploy is crass and heavy-hooved. Clearly, if you want to draw a crowd, you ought to grow apples without those icky peels on them. Blech!”

“Ah… buh… wha… no peels… wings…” stammered Applejack. She gave her head a fierce shake. “How in the hay are you supposed to grow apples with no peels?!”

Fritters shot her a dry glance. “Really? ‘No peels?’ That’s what jumped out at you about this?”

“And how in the hay did you get wings?!” added Applejack belatedly.

Trixie preened. “Why, when Trixie’s greatness was recognized and she became an alicorn, of course.”

“Mm-hm,” grunted Fritters. “You’ll forgive me, Miss Grand and Powder-full—”

“It’s Great and Powerful Princess Trixie to you!” shrilled Trixie, her eyes flashing red.

Red eyes. That’s new, thought Applejack as she collected additional rocks and Big Mac finished unhitching himself.

“Sure,” said Fritters blithely. “Anyway, I trust you’ll forgive me for saying this … but those wings aren’t yours.”

The farmer mare’s ears flattened in confusion and she looked closer. He’s right, the colors are wrong. They look more like they belong to…

Applejack felt sick.

Trixie’s face contorted in a snarl. “You miserable Ponyvillians are all the same! Always mocking and vilifying Trixie! Well, you want a villain?” Her horn flared with power. “I’ll show you a villain!”

Four things happened at once. First, Applejack bucked a fusillade of stones full-force at Trixie. Second, Big Mac shoulder-checked one of the pulling bars off the applecart, hefted it like a spear, and launched it at Trixie. Third, Fritters activated his Surge ability, drew his blade, and launched himself forward at an incredible speed.

Fourth… Trixie countered them all.

The showmare shot the missiles with a spray of magic that transformed them into roses, which landed at her hooves as though thrown by adoring fans. Fritters, who moved with nearly the swiftness of a missile, very nearly managed to strike like one. At the last instant, Trixie threw up a protective magic dome around herself.

Fritters hit the dome with enough force to crack its shell, and for a second, Applejack saw fear in Trixie’s eyes.

Then they flared red, and her smile was cruel. “Gotcha!” she sneered. Fritters sprang back too late. Trixie shot a magical net that trapped him completely. The net pulsed with power, and its captive howled out in pain.

“NO!” bellowed Applejack, charging forward, with Big Mac pounding along beside her. Trixie launched a fireball which exploded between them. Both managed to escape its worst effects, but it cost precious seconds.

In that time, Trixie turned to the captive Fritters, who was attempting to cut his way out of the net with his own magic, gritting his teeth against the pain. “Scrawny thing, aren’t you,” remarked the bored showmare. “Skinny enough to be a spearshaft for that blade of yours.” She smirked. “A living spear would go well with my living statues.”

Big Mac ripped up a large stone from the earth and hurled it at Trixie, but it shattered harmlessly against another shield. Trixie ignored him and wrapped Fritters in her magic. “Behold, as Trixie transmogrifies this stallion into a living weapon!”

“Trixie! No!” cried Applejack. She charged again, knowing she wouldn’t make it in time. A bright flash blinded her, and when her vision cleared, Trixie was pointing a red- and white-trimmed spear at her.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie would advise you yokels stay where you are,” sneered the showmare. “Wouldn’t want to break this spear, would you.”

Applejack’s muscles tensed. A primal voice roared in her ears, demanding she rip and tear and rend the arrogant showmare limb from bloody limb.

But she couldn’t.

Hot tears of helpless rage rolled down her cheeks as she glared with such force that, if she could have turned her emotion into energy, she could have scorched Trixie from the face of the earth.

Trixie smirked. “Much better. Now, Trixie would be willing to change him back at a suitable time, if you yokels would be so kind as to grow some apples without peels. Trixie is much too busy to peel them herself.”

Applejack couldn’t even turn to look at her brother; her entire focus had narrowed to Trixie. “And just how do you suggest we do that?” she snarled.

“Oh, Trixie is sure you’ll think of something. You lot are rather close to the soil, aren’t you? Though maybe…” her grin turned manic, “… you just need to be closer to the trees.”

Once more, the hated mare’s horn lit. Applejack braced herself, but wouldn’t give Trixie the satisfaction of looking away. She held her gaze, unafraid as the energy washed over her, unafraid as her coat became like the bark of a tree. Unafraid as she took root and her barrel became a trunk stretching heavenward. Unafraid as she passed out of conscious thought and dreamed only of things green and growing.

Trixie stood and regarded her two new apple trees thoughtfully. Already, they were sprouting fruit, as peeled apples grew before her eyes, reaching maturity in moments before falling to the ground like tears.

She took in a deep, warm breath of air, and sighed in satisfaction, tapping the spearhead thoughtfully against her trees.

“Splendid,” she sighed. “Simply splendid. Only two more to go, and then… Sparkle.”

The Amulet pulsed around her neck.

“Perhaps Trixie shall fly into the city as befits royalty.” She gave her wings an experimental flap. Much to her annoyance, they flapped out of sync, more flopping than flapping. “Tsk! How typical. The rainbow one’s wings are defective.”

The Amulet pulsed again.

“Ah, well,” she said with renewed resolve. “There shall be time enough for Trixie to perfect her wings when her conquest is complete.”

With a flourish of her magic, she dismissed her trees and spear to her cave— no, not ‘cave. That sounds plebian. My… my ‘vault.’ Yes, ‘vault’ sounds better, befitting a princess. “Today, Ponyville,” she declared as she set her sights on the town. “Tomorrow…” the Amulet pulsed, “Canterlot.” Her grin was broad. “Twilight Sparkle, your punishment is nigh.”

High above, storm clouds gathered, and the day grew dark.

Author's Note

Aura poked her head into Antiquarian’s office, expecting to find him hard at work. He was. After a fashion. “Is that a Lego set?” she asked.

“It is,” he replied, not looking up from the castle he was building. “A vintage castle Lego set from the good old days before they got overpriced and unimaginative, only churning out franchise sets instead of creating new things.”

Aura rolled her eyes. “Must you insert biting social commentary into everything?”

He chuckled. “I think you and I both know the answer to that question.”

Deciding it wasn’t worth arguing with the irritable codger, she asked, “Shouldn’t you be writing a funny little short for the Author’s Note, or grading papers, or… something?”

“Nope,” he said bluntly.

“… and why not, may I ask?”

Finally looking up, Antiquarian said, “Because sometimes… we need to stop and smell the vintage Legos.” With that bit of wisdom, he went back to sorting through the pieces looking for a onesie-twosie-flatsy (to use the technical term for a 1-by-2 flat piece).

Aura stood watching him a moment, thinking about all the paperwork they both still had to do.

“Want to help?” asked Antiquarian.

“Oh yeah, definitely,” she said, and trotted over to search for the elusive piece.

Paperwork could wait.

***

I miss old legos.

Anyway, I realized that Ironhide needed a bit more fleshing out, so I threw it in here. It was originally going to be longer – there is more to his story and I might put it in later – but it felt bloated to put the full text in. I even still think the current amount may be too long but… meh. Sometimes, I just need to stop worrying about making it perfect and focus on making it sufficiently good. There’s a point where trying to do your best ceases to be a virtue and becomes an unhealthy obsession. That vice of mine has certainly contributed to it taking so long to make new chapters, so I’m trying to loosen up.

I always figured with the Alicorn Amulet that, left unchecked, it would have continued to amplify Trixie’s cruelty. To fit this AU, I needed to have a catalyst to speed the process up. I settled on it operating somewhat like a computer – certain prompts trigger certain actions, and a more dramatic prompt will trigger a higher-intensity action. Ergo, see Jacques, defensive programming kicks in.

Dark magic defense mechanisms are a real bother.

The 3rd Expeditionary Regiment – also called the 3rd Equestrian Light Horse, informally the “Black Cav” – to which Song and the others belong is a reference to the Eridani Light Horse (formerly 3rd Regimental Combat Team) from the Battletech universe. They feature prominently in Mechwarrior 3. The Eridani Light Horse are one of my favorite fictional military units – their whole schtick is basically “even if all the nations around us forsake justice and spit on all things good and righteous, we will still conduct ourselves with honor, integrity, and virtue, even if we die doing it.” Throughout centuries of constant, griding war, the Eridani Light Horse never lost their morality. The Equestrian “Black Cav” have a similarly proud heritage, though fortunately they didn’t have to struggle nearly as much to find a nation worthy of them. (Read more in the 14th Century Supplement).

Shoutout this week goes to Twilight Sparkle is in Outer Spaceby Palm Palette. It’s… an experience. An enjoyable, bizarre experience.

Jump to top

Agôn

Golden Oaks Library, Several minutes earlier…

Spike sat on the counter, happily indulging in his passion for ice cream. Twilight stood glowering at him, annoyed that he’d won the challenge, annoyed that she’d failed the challenge, and annoyed that she’d let the challenge occur in the first place.

“You’ll get sick eating so much ice cream,” she declared at the behest of her maternal instincts, which were thoroughly un-amused, firstly that she’d taken his challenge, and secondly – and far more egregiously – that she’d choked.

“That’s Future Spike’s problem,” replied Spike who, unlike Twilight, was quite amused by the outcome.

“That’s what you said last time,” she reminded him. “And when you became Future Spike you were less-than-pleased with the actions of Past Spike.”

“Well, Future Spike can file a complaint. I’ll make sure Past Spike gets it.”

Twilight didn’t bother to parse out how that would work and instead decided to focus her energies on belaboring herself for her perceived shortcomings instead because, while it was no more productive, it at least resembled productivity to her perfectionist mind.

“Yes, well, Present Twilight is thoroughly frustrated she couldn’t manage the shadowstep, and Future Twilight will no doubt be even more annoyed because – in addition to the fact that Past Twilight failed, Past Twilight’s failure will now result in Future Spike having a tummy ache.”

“Don’t worry, Present Twilight. Future Spike will be sure to remind her it was Past Spike’s fault for having the idea in the first place.”

Twilight groaned and put her face in her forehooves. “Past Spike, Future Twilight, Present Frustration… the sad thing is, this convoluted mess still makes more sense than shadowmancy.”

“To be fair, it sounds like most things make more sense than shadowmancy,” remarked Spike dryly as he started scraping the bottom of the ice cream carton.

“I wonder if it’s having some effect and I’m just not seeing it,” speculated Twilight. “After all, I’m casting something. Maybe the energy is going somewhere rather than just dissipating, and I’m just not seeing it.”

Spike chuckled. “Maybe failed attempts at shadowstepping and teleports just transfer the energy to Pinkie for some reason, and that’s why she just shows up places.”

Twilight shuddered. “Now that’s a disturbing thought. One I’d consider exploring if I wasn’t afraid of what I’d find on the journey. It’d probably…” she trailed off, distracted by Spike licking the carton to get every last drop of ice cream. “Must you do that?”

The dragon shot her an amused glance. “I think you and I both know the answer to that question.”

Snorting, Twilight started pacing and tried to focus on her actual problem. “Assuming your… unsettling theory is incorrect,” which I sincerely hope is the case, “it’s possible that the failed spells are having some effect locally, like lengthening of shadows, or a change in the temperature of the air in the lab, or—”

“Or the weather?” interrupted Spike.

“Mm? Weather? What weather?”

Spike pointed out the window with his spoon. Twilight trotted over for a better look, then jerked back, surprised by the sudden gathering of storm clouds. “Woah!” she exclaimed. “What on earth?”

“Do you think your shadowmancy could have done that?” asked Spike.

Twilight shook her head. “Not a chance. Too little power. No, there must’ve been a scheduled storm today that the weather team forgot about.” She snorted. “Rainbow Dash won’t be happy about that.”

“I can hear the rant now,” chuckled Spike. “‘I take some time off for training and you make a storm without warning? I oughta— hurk!” The dragon clapped a clawed hand over his mouth as his cheeks bulged.

The unicorn teleported off to the side, expecting imminent expulsion of stomach-contents. “Well, I guess Future Spike got here early, didn’t he—woah!” She had to duck as Spike turned to face her and spat a scroll at her head. Instinctively, she caught it with her magic. “Now what would have happened if that hadn’t been a message?!”

“You’d be reconsidering the wisdom of mocking my poor eating habits while standing in range of the Technicolor Yawn?” suggested Spike.

Twilight shot him a hard look for his euphemistic way of saying ‘vomit’ as she opened the letter from Canterlot. She was formulating a comeback when she read the first line of Celestia’s missive:

‘Your friends are safe, but I’m afraid there was an attack.’

Those few, short words snuffed out any spark of good humor and narrowed Twilight’s entire focus to the present task. The weather, shadowmancy, and even Spike’s questioning of her silence passed utterly from her awareness as her whole mind was bent to reading the letter.

So Twilight read it. Once she’d finished, she read it again. She read and scrutinized every word, every detail. The letter was from Celestia and Argent. It detailed an attack on the train – thwarted by Rarity, Oaken, and the Friar – an attack on Mason Grey – thwarted by Luna – and all associated evidence, names, speculation, and instructions.

With each clinical word of the report a new reality slithered in, snaking its way into her head and coiling about her brain like a python preparing to squeeze its victim. She tried to wriggle free from its grasp, bringing the full power of her intellect to bear in a series of mental gymnastics that would somehow allow her to extricate herself from the cold facts, but the coiling truth was inescapable:

War had come to visit her friends, and would not be leaving until it was through with them. That reality was as inexorable as it was dreadful.

The news did not, in itself, surprise Twilight. Her instincts had warned her such a day would come, and her intellect had known better than to assume she and her friends would escape this bloodlessly. She knew this was not just another one of their adventures, where even real and deadly dangers could be faced with wits, grit, and the largely bloodless application of magic and friendship. No, this would be a new sort of trial, and she’d spent weeks preparing herself for the inevitable.

But she hadn’t expected it so soon, hadn’t expected it to ambush Rarity on a journey that was as much a sight-seeing tour as a business trip, on a train that she herself had ridden without issue scores if not hundreds of times. That morning, the shadow war hadn’t been real yet. It had been a distant thing – a report from Canterlot and a new research project, albeit one with some martial training on the side.

Even Celestia’s slaying of the first of the new Shades to save Oaken hadn’t fully realized the shadow war for Twilight. After all, Celestia was an immortal princess who’d faced and bested countless threats to Equestria over the centuries. To Twilight, the princess being forced to kill the Shade was simply an extension of that role.

Likewise, Luna’s fight with the assassins was part of the job description – quite literally if one read the oaths the princesses had taken upon coronation. If her intervention on Mason Grey’s behalf had been the only item in the report, it would not have affected Twilight so.

Both princesses’ fights had fallen under the purview of what was expected of them, and thus neither required that the new war be given fresh categorization in Twilight’s mind.

The train attack broke that categorization.

One of Twilight’s closest friends – a civilian, a seamstress and clothier, a kind and generous pony who liked fashion and beauty and culture, who gave of herself almost instinctively and enriched by trade and by charity the lives of those around her – had just been in a fight to the death with an assassin who had been so blindly zealous as to take his own life simply for failing to take the life of another.

Now, this was no longer a distant war fought by soldiers or by diarchs. Now, it was fought by those she cared for the most.

And, just like that, this was Twilight’s war now.

Twilight’s face hardened as her mind went to work. There was a horrified, terrified part of her psyche that wanted nothing more than to hide. That terrified part of her took that moment to leave. It packed up, left the forefront of her mind, and quietly checked itself into the recesses of her thoughts for an extended stay. Meanwhile, the parts of her psyche that made her an analytical juggernaut and one of the greatest mages in Equestrian history strode in, dismissed all non-essential thoughts from her mental roster, and ordered the remainder into a mental council of war.

Her gaping jaw snapped shut and her wide eyes narrowed. It was time to go to work.

She glanced at Spike, sparing the briefest of moments to thank heavens that she’d read the letter silently to herself, thus keeping him ignorant of the danger for a precious little while longer. How long that while will last, I don’t know, but I’m grateful all the same.

Twilight knew she’d have to tell him the truth. She wasn’t sure how, but it would be wrong to lie to him, especially with danger looming.

In the meantime, there was work to do. “Spike, take a letter,” Twilight ordered. Spike looked befuddled by her intensity, but wisely opted to hold his questions for the time being. He produced quill and parchment and transcribed her dictation. “Begin with the usual honorifics, followed by, ‘Message received. I will see if I can determine where the passenger in question came from. I will also see if I can learn anything about Greystone Holdings and their activities in the same locale’,” referring to Mason Grey’s company, “‘in case there is any overlap that might give us a clue. Please give my love to Rarity, Friar Jacques, and Oaken. Yours faithfully, Twilight Sparkle.’”

Having finished dictation, she spoke before Spike could properly form his questions. “Please send the letter to Celestia immediately, Spike.”

Sensing her mood, Spike hesitated only briefly before sending the letter. Before he was even finished, Twilight was already trotting through the library, quill and paper in her magical grasp as she started inventorying what materials she would need, which ones she had on hoof, and which she would need to acquire.

I’ll have to requisition train logs and personnel lists to get more specific information, but I can narrow the search before requisitioning by checking train routes, which I have a reference book for somewhere…

“Uh… Twilight?”

We still get subscriptions of the Equestrian Business Quarterly, the Penny Pincher, and the Financier business periodicals, so I can make a start on looking into Greystone Holdings…

“Twilight?”

Of course, Greystone Holdings’ overseas divisions may have investments that aren’t on the public record, but I might be able to see if any of Mom’s old contacts from her ‘traveling’ days or Dad’s colleagues from his infrastructure days might know anything. Then again, I should probably go to their contacts directly so as not to involve my parents—

“Twilight!”

The unicorn stopped and turned, finding a worried Spike behind her.

“Twilight,” he said, quieter but no less earnest, “what’s going on? And don’t say ‘nothing!’ You just got a letter from Canterlot, went all pale, had me write a cryptic reply, and then went all machine-mode on me. Has something happened? Is Rarity…?” he swallowed, “Is Rarity okay? Are Friar Jacques and Oaken okay?”

“Oh, Spike, I’m so sorry to have worried you,” exclaimed Twilight, trotting over to put a hoof on his shoulder. She put on her best attempt at a smile under the circumstances and explained, “All three of them are okay. Something has happened that Celestia needs me to look into, but our friends are safe.”

Spike relaxed visibly. “That’s good to hear, Twilight. I mean, I wish you’d lead with saying they’re fine, but at least you got there.” He chuckled with nervous relief. “For a second there, I thought Pinkie’s warning had come true and something big had happened, but I guess we’re off the hook for now—”

The door banged open as the Cutie Mark Crusaders burst in. “TWILIGHT! EMERGENCY!”

“Spoke to soon,” sighed Spike under his breath.

Ponyville General

Nurse Redheart stared out the break room window, watching the storm clouds gather. Her stomach churned as though gazing at something repulsive. If asked, she would not have been able to explain why she felt that way, nor why this storm should unsettle her in a way that no other had. Yet she did not question the instinct, deep down in her bones, that this was a Dark event. Something is wrong, she knew. Something is horribly, horribly wrong.

Her hooves itched to take action and quell the Darkness.

“Red? You alright?”

Medevac’s voice jerked her from her focus. “Hm? What?” Redheart said blearily, as though waking from a doze.

“You’ve been staring out that window like you thought a dragon might appear over the horizon,” said Medevac, who’d looked up from his meal – wisely homemade rather than hospital food – to address her. His countenance was concerned as he edged out of his seat. “Worried about Friar Jacques?”

“No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean… yes, I am but that wasn’t why I… that’s not…” He trotted over and put a steadying hoof on her shoulder. She cleared her throat and indicated out the window. “Med, does that storm look… normal to you?”

Medevac looked at the storm in question. “Formed pretty quick, didn’t it,” he remarked. “Kinda weird that it came outta nowhere, but this close to the Everfree it’s not out of the realm of possibility—”

Red lightning arced across the sky.

“—buuuut, now that you mention it, that does look rather ominous, doesn’t it.”

“I knew it!” snarled Redheart. “Something… Bad is happening down there.” Her hooves itched, and her mind flashed Oaken’s struggle with the dark magic that had infected him.

But that was just an injury from battle. Whatever’s happening here… what could I do against that? What could I—?

There was a warmth in her hooves, as though her limbs remembered the healing of Oaken, and another memory besides – a memory of a passage from one of the writings Friar Jacques had left her, one drawn from his holy texts.

Comfort, oh comfort my people.

She spun and made for the door.

“Wait, Red, where are you going?” demanded Medevac, trotting after her.

Redheart snatched up one of the emergency medical satchels stored on a rack by the door and trotted into the hall without breaking stride. “Probably to do something stupid,” she responded honestly.

There was an uneven clatter of hooves behind her as the three-legged stallion quickened his stride, and then a pony-made breeze as he flapped up beside her, carrying a second satchel. “Woah, Red, I’m the combat medic, remember? Maybe I should go down first, just to get the lay of the land before you show up.”

Redheart quickened her pace. “No, Med, I can’t wait, I…” she paused, not sure how to explain the urge that pulled her, the conviction that she needed to go down there, the warmth in her limbs that longed to give healing and comfort. “I have to go, now.”

“Red, I…” started Medevac. She didn’t meet his eyes, not sure she could carry on if she saw his worry. There was a sigh, and then conviction as he said, “Okay, but we’re not walking all that way.” She yelped in surprise as he picked her up and took her weight on his back. “Hang on,” he ordered as he took to the air. “Marine fliers ain’t known for takin’ it slow.”

At first Redheart screamed in fear as they soared down the corridors at breakneck speed, but as they neared the exit she’d begun to find it exhilarating.

Not that she had time to enjoy it – by the time they got outside and started towards Ponyville proper, the Bunker Down Bell was already tolling.

Ponyville Outskirts

As it happened, Redheart and Medevac were not the only ponies to see the coming storm. Nor would they be the only ponies to act.

Burnt Oak had been stripping bark from the logs that would form the beams of the chapel roof. He’d been making good time on the construction project. As he’d said to Friar Jacques before that worthy man departed for Canterlot, building a structure as small as the chapel was practically a vacation; doubly so in the context of Ponyville’s construction oddities. He enjoyed construction that was not re-construction in the wake of the most recent monster attack, stampede, parasprite infestation, Pinkie stampede, threat to Equestria’s continued existence, or CMC scheme gone horribly awry.

The storm put an end to that peaceful work. He’d first seen the darkening clouds while at one of his small logging camps. At the sight of the clouds, he’d begun securing that which should not be left out in the rain. But the longer the storm progressed, the more uneasy he became. His eyes became fixed more on the clouds than on the logs he tended.

With practiced eye, he examined the grim clouds. They were dark, unnatural, and yet quite unlike the sort of rogue cloud to come from the Everfree Forest.

Burnt Oak knew much of woodcraft. The earth pony was well accomplished as a lumberjack, a carpenter, and an arborist.

But there was another side to his connection to the earth – a vocation which often took him into the woods to strengthen the land against the evil things which grew from the Everfree, and to fell that which sought to invade the clean soil untouched by its taint.

With a hunter’s gaze he watched the skies, and saw there a malice as wicked as any timber wolf from the Everfree.

So Burnt Oak set down his saw, took up his ax, and galloped towards the town. Through the red lightning and thunder, he heard the Bunker Down Bell toll.

The Golden Oaks Library

If the letter from Canterlot hadn’t driven Twilight into a state of stubborn focus, the three fillies’ report would certainly have done so. By the time the Bunker Down Bell clanged at the end of their report, it was almost an afterthought to her instinctive crisis management.

With a burst of magic, Twilight had brought her armor and weapons down from where they were hidden in her sleeping quarters and begun armoring herself without conscious thought – daily drills had made the action both precise and automatic; she could have done it blindfolded without inhibition. “Spike, take a letter to Canterlot relating what the girls just told us in briefest possible terms. Request instructions, a Pacification Squad, and a Decontamination Detail.”

“Wait, slow down, request a what?” demanded Spike.

“Trixie didn’t use to be this powerful,” explained Twilight as she finished attaching her armor and began double-checking her gear to make sure it was properly fastened. “She might have been affected by some dark artifact or…” she finished the thought in the privacy of her mind rather than say it in front of the fillies. Or she’s been recruited by the Shades. Though, if she’s still grandstanding in a… less violent capacity, she’s probably an unwitting dupe. Please, heaven, let her be an unwitting dupe.

Spike seemed to pick up on at least some of the subtext without her spelling it out, if the widening of his eyes and shaking in his claws was anything to go by. “Twi… if she’s got some new power, you can’t just go out there without backup. That’d be—"

“Let’s discuss my possibly poor tactical decisions after you’ve sent the letter, Spike,” interrupted Twilight. Distraught, but obedient, Spike did as he was bade. Twilight finished her armor pre-check and began a second automatic pre-check as she turned to address the Crusaders. “Girls, I want you to go to the Tuesday Bunker underneath Carrot Top’s cottage.”

Regardless of which ‘Tuesday Bunker’ she was directing them towards, the fillies were not happy with the order.

“No fair, Twilight!” exclaimed Applebloom, stomping her hoof. “We wanna help!”

“Yeah!” chimed Sweetie Belle, her voice full of misery and righteous anger. “She’s got my sister!”

“And my… basically big sister!” agreed Scootaloo.

The three were starting to kick up such a clamor that Twilight’s patience dissolved in less than a second.

“Girls!” snapped Twilight. She scarcely raised her voice, but the firmness in her tone and the grim light in her eyes silenced them far more effectively than if she had shouted. Now that she had their attention, she bent down to make eye contact, speaking calmly, but firmly. “Remember all the crisis-of-the-day-type adventures that blow through town, where some troublemaker or weird creature causes trouble for a while until the other girls and I sort things out with a talk about friendship or a heart-felt song?” The fillies nodded eagerly. “Well, this isn’t one of those times,” said Twilight soberly. “Whatever’s going on, the danger is very. real. If I have to worry about you girls being out there while I’m taking care of this, I’ll be distracted, and innocent ponies could be hurt. You don’t want that, do you?”

“No, Twilight,” chorused the three miserably.

Twilight smiled gently and gave them a quick hug. “Good girls. Now get down to the Bunker and stay there until you get the all-clear. Remember – you’re doing this to help your family and friends.”

The reminder didn’t do much to soften the blow, but it at least seemed to guarantee obedience. With clear reluctance, the three fillies slunk out of the library towards Carrot Top’s house, their typical ebullience extinguished.

Spike was just putting the finishing touches on the letter as the door closed behind them. “Why not send them to our basement, Twilight? Celestia knows it’s so stupidly reinforced that the library could get blown up and the basement would probably be fine.”

“Unless heavy duty magic was used on the basement directly,” corrected Twilight. “I’m Trixie’s target, remember? What if she knows where I live?” She hefted her spear. “Is the letter ready?”

“Just about,” said Spike, narrating the final line aloud “‘… oh gosh we need help, so please send help, oh Dear Sweet Celestia, send help.’ There, done.” He rolled the parchment in preparation for sending.

“Good. Be sure to—”

*KRAKOOM!*

Twilight staggered as the thunder sounded, but not from the noise. Rather, she staggered from the sheer wave of magical power that rolled over her.

What on earth was THAT?! came the horrified thought as she shook off the magic-induced vertigo that had come with the thunder.

Spike, not noticing her sudden disorientation, raised the letter to his lips.

When the lightning struck, it felt like a barrier went up! But a barrier of that power…

Spike opened his mouth to breathe his fire upon the letter.

A barrier of that power could— “Spike! Wait!” cried Twilight, reaching out to snatch the letter from his claws.

Too late. Spike engulfed the letter in flame. It was transformed in green fire and spiraled up to make its way to Canterlot.

It never made the trip. In a flash, the green fire coiled in on itself, compressed into an orb of fire, and turned white-hot.

“Spike!” Twilight shouted as she tackled the young dragon, shielding him with her armored body and encasing the orb of fire in a reactive bubble shield.

Not a moment too soon – the orb detonated with the force of a grenade, and Twilight’s hasty shield barely contained the blast. The strain sent a lance of pain into her horn, but, fortunately, did no real damage.

With the threat gone, Twilight dispelled what was left of the shield and released her friend from her protective embrace.

“Holy smokes!” exclaimed Spike. “What the hay was that?!”

“Magic backlash,” explained Twilight grimly as the ashes of the immolated letter drifted to the floor. “The storm isn’t just a storm anymore.”

“The storm’s not just a… what?”

Twilight trotted over to the nearest window and looked outside. She was greeted by the sobering view of a swirling wall of storm, not unlike a lightning-riddled tornado in appearance, but far, far larger. “It’s a storm shield,” she noted, slipping into her lecturing voice without meaning to. “A sufficiently powerful mage can create a swirling storm which circles the target area like the edges of a storm in the eye of a hurricane. It’s like if a tornado ate an angry lightning storm and washed it down with my brother’s city shield.” Checking the other windows confirmed her suspicions. “Right now, all of Ponyville is walled in by a magical storm. Heck, judging by the side, even a good-sized chunk of the Everfree Forest is probably inside the storm.”

“Sweet Celestia!” exclaimed Spike, sitting down heavily in shock. “So, what, we’re trapped here?”

“I’m afraid so, Spike.” She gestured to the storm wall. “Nopony could walk through that alive.”

Spike nodded slowly. “I believe it. And you probably can’t teleport us out of here because you’d rebound like the letter did.”

“That’s a safe bet. It’s pretty similar to Sombra’s anti-teleportation spell,” observed Twilight. “I can teleport anywhere within the field, but not through it.”

“Great,” snorted the dragon. “Now what?”

“Now…” began Twilight, glancing down at her spear. Sweet Source, I hope it doesn’t come to that. “Now…” she looked at Spike. I can’t let him see that. “Now, you take care of the fillies.” She teleported away before he could respond. She didn’t want him to make it any harder than it would already be.

The heart of the storm did not take much finding. Twilight remembered that the Bunker Down Bell had tolled thunderously but once, suggesting that whoever had rung it had not had the chance to hit it more than a single time. Combining that with a rough estimation of the radius of the storm based on what she could observe from the ground, and on her sense of the flow of magical energy around her, Twilight felt confident that Trixie was in or near the town square.

With that in mind, she teleported herself into one of the streets that led to the square. The street she chose was more or less an alley; the back walls of multiple shops opened onto the street, and there were always stacked crates, garbage cans, and other such things to provide cover.

It was fortunate that the cover was there, as from her hidden vantage point Twilight had a clear view of the action, and what she saw was rather grim. Trixie had imprisoned her friends, transmogrifying most of them and trapping Fluttershy, Pinkie Pie, and Ditzy Do in a cage; the latter two appeared unconscious.

Trixie was bandying words with Fluttershy at that moment, though soon the showmare seemed to be bandying words with only herself. Twilight could not pick out what was said over the crescendoing storm, but in a way it didn’t seem to matter. Trixie had thrashed her friends, stolen Rainbow Dash’s wings for herself, and, from the looks of things, had been especially brutal with Pinkie Pie. Her power was plainly on display – she’d beaten and captured three elite soldiers, five national heroines, and two tough locals who were no strangers to catastrophe or danger. She had transmogrified her opponents in a display of magnificent power, and summoned a storm barrier equal to one an alicorn might summon.

Twilight knew, deep down, that she could not beat Trixie horn-to-horn.

But, if she doesn’t know I’m here…

The spear made its presence felt in her grasp.

Trixie might have casting power like an alicorn, but she probably isn’t as durable as one. She’d see the flash of a magic beam, and may be able to react fast enough to redirect it or block it. But if I accelerated my spear fast enough…

Almost automatically, she raised the weapon and aimed. Telekinetic power built behind it as she prepared the weapon for its awful task.

Can I really do this? she demanded of herself as she watched Trixie pace, hissing to herself in the darkening storm. Can I really kill her?

“TWILIGHT SPARKLE!” roared the red-glinted Trixie, her voice magically amplified to be heard throughout the town, even over the storm.

The shock of her sudden outburst almost caused Twilight to loose her missile early. Her training let her keep hold instead of reacting. Some instinct or insight told her Trixie was simply shouting to the sky, and that she did not know where Twilight was.

“TRIXIE HAS BESTED YOUR LACKIES!”

I know! I see!

Stinging, icy rain fell from the roiling black thunderclouds.

“TRIXIE HAS STRIPPED THEM OF THEIR POWER!”

And you might die for yours!

“TRIXIE HAS CLAIMED YOUR HOME!”

And left me with no choice!

“TRIXIE IS THE GREATEST AND MOST POWERFUL UNICORN WHO EVER LIVED!”

You will die because you’re too powerful for me to fight!

Trixie paused for breath, as the downpour became a torrent, mirroring the deluge of warring thoughts in Twilight’s mind

I can’t just kill her!

I can’t let her hurt them!

Strike fast! Strike hard!

Can’t kill her!

Have to save them!

Have to stop her!

Source, is there no other way?!

The spear trembled in her magical grasp, from the power building behind it, from the weight of what she might have to do.

She prepared to strike—!

—and saw her friends. Her friends, whom Trixie had not slain. Her friends, who yet lived, and for whom she had hope.

Trixie lives, and there is hope.

Twilight lowered her spear, for there was, perhaps,another way.

I at least have to try.

She shed her armor with a magical shrug, but kept it close by in case she again had need of it. She mentally readied her spells as Trixie shouted again, her voice as much a shriek as a warcry.

“YOU CANNOT ESCAPE, SPARKLE! STOP HIDING AND FACE TRIXIE!”

Chains of lightning flashed across the sky, casting the town in a harsh, red glare.

Love your enemies, eh Friar? came the wry thought. Using some of the shadowmancy she’d successfully learned that day, she threw her voice to give Trixie an answering call. It was loud enough to be heard over the storm, yet conversational in tone.

“No need to shout, Trixie,” said Twilight.

There was a bright *snap* of teleportation as Twilight disappeared from the alley and reappeared before Trixie in the square. The maddened showmare glared at her with baleful redness in her eyes. Twilight returned the gaze evenly.

“I am here.”

The storm raged around them, unabated. Yet it seemed as though a silence settled over the square as the two unicorns sized each other up, a silence born not of the absence of noise, but of the absence of distractions. Twilight did not spare a glance for her friends as she studied Trixie, and Trixie scrutinized Twilight with equal intensity.

It was Trixie who broke the studied silence. “Finally, I have you,” she hissed through the storm.

“Why are you doing this, Trixie?”

“THAT’S GREAT AND POWERFUL PRINCESS TRIXIE TO THE LIKES OF YOU, SPARKLE!” roared the blue unicorn.

The force of the shout nearly pushed Twilight backwards, but she dug in her hooves and stood her ground. That was like an evil Royal Canterlot Voice, thought Twilight, recalling the time Luna had almost knocked her over with her voice. Twilight tried to not think too hard about it.

“Your powers are impressive,” responded Twilight honestly. “And you’ve got the Royal Canterlot Voice down pat.” Twisted, but down pat. “I ask again, why are you doing this?”

“Why?” hissed Trixie. Her horn flared, and the wind picked up. “Why?” she snarled, and her wings – Rainbow’s wings – flared as she rose into the air on the wind. “WHY?!” she roared, forcing Twilight to brace against the shockwave. “You and your precious little friends took everything from Trixie! Made her a laughingstock! A mockery! A joke everywhere she went! She even had to take a job as a rock farmer! A ROCK FARMER!”

Twilight did her best to keep the quaver out of her voice as she replied, “One of my best friends is a rock farmer. There’s no shame in—”

“SILENCE!” Lightning crackled across the sky at Trixie’s yell. Twilight fell silent. Best not push it if I still want to talk her down. “You did this, Sparkle! You embarrassed the Great and Powerful Trixie! You with your wretched magic brought Trixie low!”

Biting back a protest that what happened was in no way her fault, that she’d tried to avoid the confrontation entirely and had done nothing whatsoever to Trixie, Twilight instead chose to focus on seeing things from Trixie’s perspective. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be the laughingstock of book-lovers, to never be able to work in a library again because of her reputation in the community. Suppressing a shudder at the horrible thought, she replied. “I am sorry that your livelihood was hurt, Trixie. It was never my intention to cause harm to you. In fact, it was your story of vanquishing the Ursa Major that inspired me to learn the spells that I did; in a way, it was you who saved the town.”

For a moment, Trixie’s features seemed to soften in surprise. The harsh light in her eyes dimmed, replaced with surprise and – it wrenched Twilight’s heart to see it – an almost forlorn hope, that perhaps Trixie had indeed done well and was being recognized for it.

Then the amulet pulsed, and the red glare returned. “Of course Trixie saved the town!” snarled Trixie, “But then you drove her out!”

What is that amulet doing to her? wondered Twilight grimly. Plainly it’s giving her power, but it seems to be controlling her too, twisting any words I say or any memories she has to evil purposes. Maybe the best I can do is focus her anger on me and not the others.

“If I was responsible, Trixie, then I’m the one you want. Please, let my friends go, and we can try to fix things!”

“Your friends are as guilty as you!” hissed Trixie. “Your friends mocked Trixie, derided her, challenged her!”

Ah, horseapples. “That… I understand your frustration, Trixie.” I mean, sure, you were belittling the crowd, talking down to them to stroke your own ego, and that probably was what prompted my friends to heckle you… but they still shouldn’t have heckled you. It’s impolite to heckle the pony on stage, and there were some bruised egos on both sides. Twilight tried to focus on that fact as she added, truthfully, “I am sorry they acted that way.”

“What?!” exclaimed Rainbow Dash, her voice cracking. “Twilight, look what she’s done! You’re not—”

Whatever else Rainbow might have said was cut off by a magic zipper Twilight closed over her mouth, followed by a sharp glare.

“It was wrong of them to heckle you, Great and Powerful Trixie” she continued pointedly. Even if you have a colossal ego, to the point that you challenged me – an obviously shy audience member – in an effort to inflate your own ego; my friends still should’ve just walked away or at least handled it more diplomatically. “In hindsight, I should have said so at the time, but I… am insecure,” she admitted. Trixie blinked rapidly, her eyes switching between her own and... whatever was going on with the amulet. “Really, I am super insecure,” Twilight said humbly, “and I especially was back then because I’d never had a bunch of close friends before. I was worried about how my friends would perceive me, so I didn’t think of how they were disrupting your show. I am sorry that happened.”

The fact that Trixie’s eyes had been changing back and forth had given Twilight hope that she might be getting through, but what came next dashed that hope. Red-eyed with fury and ill-gotten power, Trixie returned to the earth and smote the ground with her hoof, hard enough to crack the cobblestones and dent to land beneath. “‘Sorry’ doesn’t bring my reputation back you pathetic nag!”

Please, Trixie, don’t escalate this! “This doesn’t have to go any farther, Trixie. This isn’t who you are! You’re a showmare! A great showmare! A powerful showmare!”

“TRIXIE KNOWS SHE IS GREAT AND POWERFUL! SHE DOESN’T NEED A BEARER OF HARMONY TO TELL HER!”

Twilight opened her mouth to retort, but the way Trixie had addressed her gave her pause. She called me ‘Bearer,’ and her words were dark. Why? Why the focus? And how would she know? We don’t advertise who we are or where we live. Does she know from rumor or from… some other source of information? Something told her she wouldn’t like the answer. “What did you call me?” she asked, hoping to tease the information out.

A malevolent chuckle bubbled up from Trixie’s throat as the amulet pulsed. “Oh, don’t play coy, Sparkle. We know you and your minions bear the Elements of Harmony. We know you are our enemy.”

‘We’ know? ‘Our’ enemy?

The amulet now gleamed with a constant red light. Twilight had a strong hunch she knew why.

So. It’s going to be like that. One more try then.

“What makes you think the Bearers are your enemy, Great and Powerful Trixie?” Twilight asked carefully. “After all, we serve the citizens of Equestria and all folk who desire freedom. We have no quarrel with you.” She gestured towards the amulet. “Perhaps it is something else that makes you think we’re your enemy. And the Trixie I remember wasn’t the sort to take marching orders. The Trixie I remember wouldn’t let be content to get pushed around like that.”

A flicker of concern crossed Trixie’s face. A flicker of remembrance. Most heart-wrenchingly, a flicker of fear.

But the red returned, and Trixie could not stop it.

“You want this power for yourself!” shrieked Trixie, recoiling as though Twilight had attacked her. Her horn flared like a bonfire, and blood-red sparks flew in all directions. “You want to murderTrixie, to stealTrixie’s power!”

“No, Trixie, please, I—"

“TRIXIE WILL NOT STAND FOR IT!”

She loosed a torrent of energy at Twilight, a mighty swarm of magical lances to pierce any barrier and flay the mare behind it.

But Twilight was not there. She’d teleported the moment Trixie made her attack. Landing behind the showmare, she pleaded, “Trixie, please! I don’t want to fight you!”

“You’d rather kill Trixie without a fight, is that it?!” roared Trixie, spinning and firing a precise beam at Twilight.

Rather than teleport, Twilight threw herself into a combat roll, and as she tumbled she charged her horn to call her arms and armor. Her gear warped in behind Trixie and spun through the air towards Twilight.

The equipment nearly collided with Trixie, and Twilight had hoped that a lucky strike from a flying helm or peytral might knock Trixie out, or at least daze her. But the tormented showmare vanished in a cloud of black smoke tinged with red lightning, and reappeared a few yards to the side.

Twilight fired off a quick blast of energy at Trixie to distract her. Trixie casually deflected the shot, but it bought Twilight the time she needed to telekinetically arm herself. Her armor folded around her with the ease of a glove, with her sword at her side and her spear in her grasp.

Not a moment too soon. Trixie fired a trio of shots from her new position. Rather than burn energy on another teleport, Twilight hefted her spear. As an Equestrian military weapon, the spear was enchanted both for durability and to be effective against magic. Twilight made two small wards to absorb the smaller magic bolts, and simultaneously boosted the spear’s counter-magic enchantments. Neither ward held up to Trixie’s power, but they did deflect the shots upwards where they could do no harm. Twilight disrupted the third shot with a blow from her spear that sent shattered tendrils of unspent energy flying like wild sparks. Several landed on her armor, blackening the surface without damage.

Trixie let out an inequine shriek of rage and charged her horn again, but Twilight was already on the move. She galloped towards the rubble of the brick wall that had been around the Bunker Down Bell. Trixie called down a bolt of red lighting from the storm that cratered the place Twilight had been standing, and even the near miss sent a discharge of electricity through the air that made Twilight’s hair stand on end.

Not halting her gallop, Twilight reached into the rubble with her magic and started flinging bricks at Trixie. The move put Trixie on the defensive, giving Twilight a few precious seconds to think. Her mind sprinted through a battlefield analysis as Trixie began striking down the stones with her power.

She dodged my armor rather than deflecting it or weathering the hit; she destroys the bricks instead of turtling behind a shield; she’s vulnerable to an attack if I could just land one; her current defense is offense.

Trixie spat an expletive, seeming to belatedly recall that she’d formed the brick wall from magic in the first place. She dispelled the bricks with a flash, returning them to a state of energy and leaving Twilight without ready ammunition. Twilight instinctively teleported as Trixie went on the offense again, and a fireball incinerated the place she’d been a moment before. But Trixie tracked her movement faster than expected, and Twilight had to form a hasty shield to ward off a beam of energy. She made the shield as strong as she could, but it was not strong enough. The sheer power that hammered the barrier almost brought Twilight to her knees. Twilight feared if – when – the barrier broke, the backlash would put her on the ground. That would be the end.

Just before the barrier gave out, Twilight dove to one side and dropped the barrier. The beam cut past close enough to scour the side of her armor. The left-flank enchantments gave out and the plates were blackened, but Twilight was unharmed.

Left flank weak. Distract and disengage. She launched a hasty fireball at Trixie. The showmare contemptuously destroyed it with an ice blast of her own but – as Twilight had hoped – the flashes of the attack and counter-attack split her foe’s focus enough to let her break into an evasive gallop. Trixie lobbed powerful shots at her, forcing Twilight to zig-zag unpredictably to avoid being fried.

I can’t win head-on, thought Twilight, firing the occasional blast to break up Trixie’s attack rhythm. I have to split her focus, she realized, remembering Fritters’ use of frontal attacks to distract his opponents and leave them vulnerable attacks from other directions. Feint, disrupt, strike!

Twilight took a risk and cast a rock-moving spell on her hooves. The spell took a lot of energy – more than she was comfortable with – but this was no time to hold back. She would not win a game of endurance.

Spell charged, she stomped, sending out a shockwave that momentarily shook Trixie on her hooves and – more importantly – loosened up the already damaged cobblestones of the square. With a quick jerk of magic, Twilight hefted the rocks into the air and sent them in staggered volleys to bludgeon Trixie from all sides. The strain of the spells meant that Twilight couldn’t put much force into the stones, but she gave enough to get the job done.

Trixie had to deal with the rocks. Cussing up a blue streak, the showmare made a trio of lashing electrical whips which she swung in a windmill of attacks to shatter the stones as they came at her. Bits of gravel pelted the crazed Trixie, but none of the cobblestones connected intact.

But they don’t need to. With a snap of magic, Twilight sent both sword and spear into the air, high above Trixie, with points poised downwards. Feint, disrupt, strike!

She readied her attack, watched Trixie twirl and strike at the offending cobblestones, waited for the right moment to send wrath from above—

… wrath… Trixie is so filled with wrath…

Twilight’s eyes followed the red-gleaming amulet on Trixie’s neck, the amulet that had somehow warped her mind and made her…

It’s not her doing this! came the anguished thought. She’s not in control!

My friends need me! I have to do this!

“She’s… she’s my enemy!” whispered Twilight aloud, trying to force herself to attack. “She’s my enemy,” her weapons tensed, “She’s… she’s…” tears rolled down her face, “… a victim.” Her weapons returned to her side, their blades clean.

She could not do it. She could not bring herself to attack a mare who enslaved in her own body.

Twilight hesitated.

Trixie did not.

In her distraction, Twilight had slackened the fusillade of stones keeping Trixie occupied. By the time she realized her mistake, it was too late to correct it. Trixie smashed the remaining stones and turned her attention to Twilight.

The young mage tried to teleport, but Trixie acted faster. A ring of energy blasted out from Trixie’s horn, stretching its edges to the limits of the town square. Twilight’s teleport flashed a moment after—

And rebounded. Twilight vanished into her teleport only to reappear inside the ring, head throbbing and horn aching. An anti-teleportation ward! she realized with horror. She cast a hasty ward on herself to dampen magic attacks and amplified the protective enchantments of her own armor, while at the same time trying to shake off the headache and break into a gallop to evade Trixie’s next attack.

Too late!

Trixie’s lightning whips lashed out, snatched her, wrapped around her like living chains, and tightened. Twilight had just long enough to throw more power into her protective wards as Trixie smirked, winked, and then sent joules of electricity through the magic whips.

Twilight screamed as the shock coursed through her. The military-grade armor – amplified by her own magic - dampened the effects significantly, but the power washing over her was too great to be stopped entirely. Fire seemed to flow through her veins and tendons, especially on her left flank where her armor had been damaged before.

She fell to her knees in pain, brought low by Trixie’s power. Gritting her teeth against the agony, she tried desperately interpose her magic shield between herself and the whips, to extricate herself from Trixie’s magic. If she could create a buffer between herself and her enemy’s grip – even for a moment – she could perhaps counterattack, or at least dispel the whips. But she knew she hadn’t the strength to do it.

Trixie shouted something mocking over the sound of the surging electricity, but Twilight could not make it out. She heard Fluttershy and Rainbow Dash crying out, begging Trixie to stop, but the words of their pleas were lost to Twilight, drowned out by her impending demise. I have to break free! she thought desperately as her power waned, fighting a losing battle to get a buffer up even for a moment. I have to get—

“GRAAAAAAAAAA!”

The roar cut through the storm, the lightning, the crackling electricity. A roar Twilight had heard precious few times but knew instantly all the same.

The roar of a dragon.

Spike had entered the fray.

Spike ran.

Ran harder than he’d ever run in his life. Run harder than he’d run from Garble and his gang, harder than he’d run from the giant dragon whose gems he’d taken, harder even than he’d run from while bearing the Crystal Heart.

The rain-slicked cobblestones did not slow him, nor did the crash of thunder, nor did the calls from ponies on their way to their bunkers urging him to join them. Several tried to block his path, to make him stop and bring him with them to safety.

Spike did not slow. Spike did not speak to them. Spike ran.

Something about him made them get out of his way. Maybe it was the knowledge that Spike, though young for a dragon, was a mature teen or even young adult in pony years. Maybe it was the fact that Spike was often on the front lines of whatever catastrophe assailed Ponyville and had survived threats just as grave as whatever was happening in the square. Maybe they remembered that he’d faced Sombra and lived, had defied the tyrant to his face and still had the victory.

Maybe it was just the look in his eyes.

Whatever the case, they did not hinder him, and Spike ran.

Ran for the town square. Ran for Twilight. Ran for his family. Ran for one who had raised him as though she were his own mother.

Spike ran.

Ahead, through the storm, through the crash of lightning and the roar of thunder, the sheets of rain and the flashes of magic discharge, Spike saw Trixie. Trixie did not see Spike.

Spike saw Trixie fight his kin, saw her bat aside Twilight’s attacks like they were nothing.

He saw Twilight outmaneuver Trixie, saw her raise her blades for the killing blow.

Spike ran.

He saw Twilight hesitate, saw her hold back. Saw that Trixie did not hold back.

Spike ran.

He saw Trixie catch Twilight, saw her grab Twilight in her magic, saw her entrap Twilight with hate and malice and deathly rage.

Spike ran.

Spike saw Trixie. Trixie did not see Spike.

Trixie made to strike down his friend. His family. His mother.

Spike leapt upon his enemy, claws outstretch.

Spike saw red.

Twilight had seldom seen an enraged dragon, but even once had been more than enough. Even a juvenile dragon was a foe worthy of caution; their hides were thick, and their scales resistant to most magics. Well did she remember the grim tales of the Red Sands War, one of the only subjects about which she’d never dared ask Celestia. She knew what it had taken to kill dragons in that war, and how many of Celestia’s brave warriors had died to bring the giants down.

She was confident that she could defeat a dragon – at least a young one – in extremis, but not confident enough to fight one if there were literally any other realistic option. That was why she had risked injury teleporting herself and her friends away from the gang of dragons whom Spike had defied to save the phoenix. It had been far less risky than fighting them.

For all that, she’d grown accustomed to Spike being a gentler sort than the other dragons she’d encountered. Spike was kind. Spike was cordial. Spike was caring, compassionate, and empathetic to those around him. And, for all his maturity, he was still a baby by dragon’s reckoning.

Twilight had never thought to see him enraged, never seen him as dangerous (except perhaps to her books when he had a sneezing fit). He was… well, he was Spike. Baker of cookies, teller of jokes, master of good-natured sarcasm, Number One Assistant Extraordinaire, and her oldest and truest friend, like a little brother or even a son.

Through the many dangers and foes to have come to Ponyville, he’d typically run rather than fight – and wisely so. He had courage – the Crystal Empire had proven that fact with such force as to silence any doubters who had a shred of honesty – but he was a gentle soul by nature. His courage had always been to stand firm or to run into danger to assist, not to seek battle head on. Twilight could not have imagined seeing him attack anyone with the ferocity of his dragon kin. She’d thought it impossible.

She’d been wrong.

With a roar as mighty as a drake many times his size, Spike flung himself on Trixie like a lion full of bloodlust. Though small enough to sit on her back, he bore Trixie fully to the ground and struck with the savagery of a ravenous wolverine.

Trixie instinctively warded herself with a mage’s armor, shielding her body from the dragon’s claws, and that likely saved her from grievous harm. Even so, in the brief moments before the shield went up, Spike’s claws had gouged bloody gashes upon her side, showing that, for all her power, she was yet mortal, and there were limits to her power.

Limits that set Twilight free from the coiled agony of the electrified whips. Now distracted by pain, terror, and the claws of an enraged dragon whelp, Trixie lost concentration on the whips that bound Twilight, weakening their power and ending the painful attack. Twilight sent a jolt of energy through her armor in a burst of reactive magic that shattered the whips and dropped her to the ground. She landed hard and had the wind knocked out of her by the cobblestones, but she knew she could not linger.

Trixie was already rising to her hooves, eyes as blood-red as the streaks of blood flowing from her wounds, horn charging with terrible power.

Operating on instinct, with no time to think or plan, Twilight aimed at the amulet, charged her horn, and fired!

Too slow did the beam move.

Trixie, as though echoing Twilight’s earlier move to free herself from the whips, charged a reactive shield on herself that sent out a shockwave in all directions. The shockwave struck Spike like a hammer and sent him flying. Trixie smiled cruelly and aimed to shoot him from the air like skeet.

Then Twilight’s shot landed.

It was not enough to penetrate Trixie’s shield. It was enough to deliver a gut punch that sent Trixie skating backwards along the ground, her hooves digging furrows through the stone as though she were an earth pony, or an alicorn.

Twilight spared no thought for this as she caught Spike out of the air and cradled him to herself. He was unconscious, smoke-blackened, and in that moment seemed oh so very small.

In that moment, something in Twilight’s brain clicked.

Trixie’s mocking cackle cut through the air, bubbling up like boiling tar rising to the surface of a swamp. “You cannot win, Sparkle,” sneered Trixie as she stepped closer, flaring Rainbow Dash’s wings out dominantly. “You cannot win. And, without your ability to teleport, you can’t even run.”

Twilight turned her gaze away from the fragile bundle she held and glared at Trixie. “You’re right,” she acknowledged. “I can’t teleport.” Trixie’s sneer broadened… then faltered as Twilight smirked, “But I can do this.”

She charged the spell, wrapped it around Spike and herself, reached out to a patch of shadow some many streets away, and stepped, vanishing from sight.

Author's Note

Beware the gentle man pushed to wrath.

***

Antiquarian emerged from his mini-painting studio – which, in point of fact, was really just a card table crammed into a storage room – and made to head upstairs, much relaxed from the painting, and not at all worried at that moment about Writer’s Block.

Until he noticed the weapons room had been opened, and several weapons taken.

In their place, he found a note, written in Aura’s exquisite calligraphy. It read,

Aura will return in the next Author’s Notes.

Antiquarian said the only thing that came to mind. “Aw, crap.”

***

Okay, without Aura here, I’m just going to hit a few of general trivia/explanation/over-explanation things.

‘Agôn’ is the section of a Greek comedy wherein the two sides debate. I realize this chapter isn’t exactly a comedy, but I’m working with random tidbits of stage-trivia here. Sue me.

“The Red Sands War” is referenced in this chapter from the 14th Century Supplement, which you’d know if you read the Supplement. If you aren’t signed up for notifications on the Supplement, well... I'm not angry, just disappointed.

(I’m kidding. Please don’t be mad).

I decided the Alicorn Amulet would more or less operate like the One Ring in LOTR, albeit less powerful, and – very fortunately – is not directly linked to some Sauron-type guy. While not a Sauron situation though, it is still very bad news, very much an evil instrument which corrupts the user, and very much packing a grab bag of evilness which twists the mind of the user and enslaves said user to evil, sin, and vice, while also making any good thing (or person) seem like an enemy to be destroyed. There will be elaboration in future chapters of how it got to be so super evil-ified, but that’ll be a tale for another time.

I was originally going to end the chapter at Spike showing up, but then I thought, “Mmm, better not.” There are cliffhangers, and there are cliffhangers. This chapter was going to be a cliffhanger either way – extended fight scenes/crises end up doing that – but at least pushing the end to a little farther along lets the chapter end on a (relatively) high note with Spike getting some proper hits in – the first to do so – and Twilight doing a shadowstep successfully.

I also figured that pushing it a little farther would make it less likely for the Angry Mob to perforate me with pitchforks, perfume me with pitch, and flambe me with… uh… flames.

…

Okay you try coming up with a quippy line!

Shout out for this chapter goes to… um… lemme see here… *checks bookmarks* to, um… We Were Soldiers Once, and Young, by Lt. General Harold Moore (ret.) and Joseph Galloway.

What’s that I hear you say? “That’s not an MLP fanfic, nor is it a little-known story like most of the shoutouts,”? That’s true. However, I feel it’s an often-overlooked story, and one that will be increasingly relevant as the story progresses.

I think a lot of people misunderstand soldiers, especially soldiers of the Vietnam War. We Were Soldiers is an unromantic, honest look at the war which takes the Battle of Ia Drang not only from the side of the US troops, but also from the side of the North Vietnamese troops. The introduction of the book notes that the book is a tribute to the men who fell on both sides. It’s a window into the real people who fight wars, and demonstrates that – even when war and killing may be necessary – war is an ugly thing, something that should only be seen as a last resort, and that one should never hate one’s enemy. It is a story of heroism, brotherhood, sacrifice, and loss. It’s about courage and, fundamentally, about love. I encourage you to pick the book up and read it a piece at a time, or to listen to it in audiobook form.

With all the casual talk of violence these days, I think it’s vital that people remember that while there are things worth fighting for, even worth warring for, killing should never be seen as anything but a tragedy and a grim necessity. Even when it is morally necessary and just to take a life, it is never a small thing. We need to remind ourselves of the vital importance of acting with common decency, and remember that it is not only the enemy who dies in war, but our friends as well. That and it’s important to remember that the enemy is still just as human as you and I.

You can find it on Triftbooks and various other sources so you don’t need to buy it from a certain shady company (cough cough Amazon), and there are plenty of editions to choose from.

And, for something light, Mr. Rogers being God’s gift to humanity in two beautiful clips (Part 1, Part 2).

Until next time, happy reading.

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Exit Stage Right

Had any Ponyville residents of Maple Street been foolish enough to be on the ground floor watching out the window as rain lashed the cobblestones and battered the houses, they would have born witness to a frightful scene as might have been ripped from the pages of a horror story, or transplanted from the stage of a thriller play making full use of nightmarish magical effects to make the audience shiver in fright. Such a scene, whether in a novel or a play script, would perhaps be rendered thus:

Past the window lies a rain-drenched street, half-obscured by the torrential downpour, darkened as by night but lit by flashes of red lightning and an eerie, malignant, magic glow, such as a stage performer might use to illuminate the scene whilst still evoking an evil midnight. Such a street would be deserted by all, save only the villain, or the desperate.

Then, spectral-like, a shadow bends and twists and disgorges into the street an armored unicorn. Whether male or female is uncertain, but the figure is plainly in a sorry state. Like a haggard knight fresh from the war, the unicorn is battered and bent, armor plates and chainmail blackened and scoured by battle. A sword and spear hover in the knight’s magic grasp, though the former is swiftly sheathed, and the latter shouldered.

Clenched in the knight’s foreleg is a delicate bundle – a foal perhaps, and likely an injured foal, for the babe makes no outcry at the storm, nor does he shift at the words spoken by the knight.

With a jerk of magic, the knight rips down an awning from a nearby storefront and transmogrifies it into a crude but watertight carrying satchel. The knight transfers the babe – revealed, startlingly, to be a dragon welp – to this enclosed satchel upon her back, and turns her tender gaze upon the babe as she does so. The lines of her features show her to be a mare, and the ache in her eyes reveals her as a mother, in practice if not in name.

Yet the tender scene is not to last.

A keening shriek splits the air, like the wail of banshee or wraith. Stiffening at the monster’s cry, the mother-knight sprints off in a clatter down the rain-slicked cobblestones, the limp in her gait slowing her not at all as she flees the horror that seeks her end.

Such would the scene have been rendered, and thus might an onlooker have thought.

But there were no onlookers to the appearance and disappearance of the strange pair, and it is well that this was so, for such an onlooker would have been in danger from the horror that stalked the city, and Twilight had no time to spare to protect those foolish enough to venture out.

She had to get out of Ponyville. Where she would go, she did not know. Trixie’s storm barrier surrounded not only the town, but also much of the countryside which encompassed it. While it was objectively a large space, it was not nearly large enough to evade Trixie forever.

Worse, Twilight could not simply flee indefinitely, even if she had the space to do so. Trixie has my friends, and she has the town hostage. I can’t leave. I have to stop her.

Somehow, I have to stop her.

Such plans would have to wait. Twilight didn’t know how badly Spike had been injured, but the fact that he was fully unconscious was a bad sign. Unlike most ponies, Twilight had a good sense of how tough a dragon could be, even a baby dragon. For him to be knocked out cold was a frightening turn of events, and all she could think of now was getting him to safety so she could tend him while she figured out what to do.

Her mind bent its incredible power to the crisis, operating in perfect tandem with her instincts and making snap decisions without conscious deliberation. She cut a semi-random course through town, staying under cover where possible, sticking to shadows, altering her speed when in cover to buy time to briefly survey paths whilst relatively obscured from view before sprinting across gaps. She hoarded her remaining magical energy, only shadowstepping when necessary to cross a large gap, and all the while conscious that detection meant death.

As she passed by an alley, a hoof snaked out from the alley behind the tavern to snatch at her.

Twilight sidestepped the snatch and leveled her spear to strike—

—only to see that the hoof hadn’t been trying to grab her, but gesturing for her to follow.

“Twilight!” the gruff Burnt Oak called, “Come on, girl, we gotta git you off the street!”

“Burnt Oak, wha—” she left the word unfinished as she saw the grizzled pony was not alone. Medevac and Redheart, both wearing medical satchels slung across their backs, were with him. The retired Marine was scanning the skies, while Redheart had her eyes fixed on Spike. “How did—?”

“We’ll explain later,” interrupted Medevac. “We need to get under cover, now.”

“I can’t!” exclaimed Twilight, pressing Spike into Redheart’s hooves. “Trixie’s hunting me. I can’t risk another pony’s safety by hiding in someone’s house.”

“Trixie?!” exclaimed Medevac in shock as Redheart began looking Spike over. “That stage performer is why Redheart’s Dark magic sense started tingling?”

Burnt Oak cut in, declaring, “We’d best discuss this indoors.”

“Did you not hear me!” snapped Twilight. “I’m not hiding in somepony’s house!”

“Not asking you to,” countered Burnt Oak. “The Punch Bowl’s not far, and it ain’t occupied. We can reassess and regroup there. We need to know what you know so we can tend to Spike and plan our next move!”

Twilight’s fear screamed at her to just shadowstep away. Spike was in good hooves – literally – and he would be safer if she vacated the area. However, her instincts told her Burnt Oak knew what he was doing. She wasn’t sure why, but something in his confidence assured her that taking a moment to collect her thoughts and make a plan of attack would not go amiss. Wordlessly, she nodded and followed Burnt Oak.

The Punch Bowl was a popular Ponyville tavern, run by one Berry Punch. The maroon-colored mare was a distiller as well as a tavern-keeper, and made a variety of non-alcoholic drinks as well as her adult beverages.

Local lore had it that, when Berry Punch and Applejack were young adults, Berry had once gone three rounds in the boxing ring with Applejack over a matter of cider sales in Ponyville. The story went that Berry Punch had lost – Applejack was a farmer and a boxing champion – but had impressed Applejack so much by lasting three rounds that they worked out a mutually beneficial business arrangement instead of becoming rivals. While the tale might have grown in the telling, Applejack and Berry Punch were certainly on amiable terms, and Twilight had been to the tavern more than once.

She had never been to the cellar, however. That was where Burnt Oak led them, letting them in through the cellar door after opening it with a key. “Ah make barrels for her,” explained the laconic woodspony as he led them inside.

The sounds of the storm were muted by the cellar, and the rows upon rows of casques, barrels, firkins, and other such vessels made the vast cellar seem like a cozy maze.

“How’d you find me?” Twilight asked as they made their way into the cellar. “Why were you in town?”

“Miss Redheart’s studies o’ the healing arts appear ta have borne fruit,” explained Burnt Oak as he led them through the winding rows of barrels. “She sensed something was wrong, and Medevac flew her inta town. Ah encountered ’em on the way to the center o’ the storm. Not long after that, we bumped inta you.”

Twilight felt like part of the story was missing. Based on the look on Medevac’s face, he felt the same way. She noted the axe slung at the lumberjack’s side. “Okay, but why were you looking for me?”

Burnt Oak gave her an odd smile and drawled, “Miss Sparkle, Ah hunt timber wolves an’ the like on the regular. Ah guess Ah don’t know when ta walk away from a scrap.”

He led them to a discreet corner of the cellar. There Redheart laid Spike down, and she and Medevac began looking him over.

“How is he?” asked Twilight anxiously.

“Hurt, but stable,” replied Redheart after a moment. “It looks like he was knocked out by the magic shock, not head trauma. Based on Zecora’s findings and my own research, dragons tend to bounce back from magic shocks.” Glancing up, she asked, “You said Trixie used Dark magic on him?”

“Yes, or— well… sort of Trixie, sort of… maybe not Trixie.”

“Wait,” said Medevac, frowning, “Did Trixie shock him or not?”

“Trixie shocked him, but… she’s got this… amulet around her neck. It’s… it’s Dark. Very Dark. I don’t know where she got it,” even if I have a really horrible suspicion, “but it gave her a serious power boost. She... she transmogrified most of my friends and the soldiers, stole Rainbow’s wings, and shrugged off my attacks like they were nothing. If Spike hadn’t stopped her, she would have…” she trailed off miserably.

To the nurses’ credit, neither of them stopped working on Spike while she talked, but both of them plainly became more disturbed. Burnt Oak just looked grim.

After a moment’s pause, the grizzled woodspony spoke. “You said it was ‘sort of’ Trixie who shocked Spike.” His eyes narrowed. “You mean part o’ what shocked him weren’t Trixie’s doin’?”

Twilight shuddered. “The amulet was… I think it’s controlling her, or at least twisting her thoughts. She’s not in full control of herself. Her eyes would just go red and… and whenever that happened, it was like she wasn’t the one making the decision.”

“Peachy,” grunted Medevac grimly. “Red, does that mean Spike’s got Dark stuff affecting him?”

Oh, Celestia, I didn’t even think of that! thought Twilight with horror.

Redheart, apparently having already considered the possibility, had closed her eyes and laid her hooves over Spike, looking for all the world like she was praying. “Yes,” she said, but before Twilight could panic she added, “but it’s minor compared to what we dealt with when Oaken first showed up. Between the neutralizing agents in our med bags and what I’ve picked up from my studies, I can handle it.”

Twilight felt a great weight lift from her withers. Oh, thank the Source! “I know he’ll be in good hooves with both of you,” she said to the nurses. Shifting her gaze to all three, she said, “Thank you.” Then, with a final glance of love at Spike, she turned to leave.

Burnt Oak’s weathered hoof caught her shoulder. “Now hold on a moment, Miss Sparkle—”

She shrugged him off. “I can’t stay!” she insisted. “I’m Trixie’s target, remember?”

“An’ what’s yer plan when ya leave here, young’un?” he demanded. “Ya said yerself ya can’t take her on horn ta horn. If ya can’t out-muscle her, ya gotta out-think her. An’ ya can’t do that without knowin’ what yer up against.”

“What we need is reinforcements,” said Medevac. “Is there any way to get a message to Celestia without Spike?”

Twilight shook her head. “Even if Spike was awake, the storm barrier is blocking anything from getting in or out. We’re stuck inside the ring.”

“Well, what assets do we have?” asked the Marine. “Work the problem like Song or Fritters would have you work it.”

The unicorn gritted her teeth in frustration, nearly storming out of the cellar, but the soldier’s words rang true, and Burnt Oak’s warnings struck a chord as well. “A Dark artifact like that probably has some weakness,” she said, turning her mind to the problem. “If I could get to my library, I might find a solution but—” she snorted in disgust, “the library’s the first place Trixie would look for me!”

“Assuming she knows where you live,” Medevac pointed out.

“She found an evil amulet and came back to town just to make me suffer,” said Twilight, all acid. “You want to bet she can’t figure out where I live?”

“Touché.”

“Isn’t there somewhere else you can find some relevant books?” asked Redheart. “I mean, how far out does this… storm barrier thingy reach?”

Burnt Oak stroked his chin. “By my reckonin’, all the way into the Everfree—” he broke off mid-sentence, eyes widening, and both he and Twilight stiffened at the same time.

“Zecora!” exclaimed Twilight aloud. “She knows all kinds of esoteric artifacts! I’ll be she can help!”

Burnt Oak smiled approvingly. “My thoughts exactly, Miss Sparkle. If anypony ’round here knows ’bout that fancy black neckware, it’ll be our Zecora.”

“Yes!” agreed Twilight. “She’s our best chance of—”she stopped and blinked. Wait, did he say ‘our’ Zecora? Does he know her?

The woodspony galloped past her. “Come on, then, Miss Sparkle. We’d best git a move on! Ah know a shortcut.”

“Agreed, there’s no time to— wait, ‘we’? ‘Shortcut’?! Burnt Oak, wait!” she shouted as she galloped after him.

As the sounds of Twilight’s and Burnt Oak’s hoofbeats departed the cellar, Redheart double-checked the work she and Medevac had already done on Spike. Neutralizing compress to deal with the magic; bone-knitting salve on his fractures – none needed on the head, fortunately; blast treatment gel infused with stabilization agent… everything that can be done with our medkits, we have done.

“Storm sounds like it’s getting worse out there,” Medevac observed. “Which means Trixie’s getting angrier.”

Redheart swallowed and tried not to think about Twilight and Burnt Oak trying to make it all the way to the Everfree Forest. How strange that running into the forest is probably safer than staying in town. “He’s stable enough to move,” she stated, referring to Spike. “Should we try to get him to an actual Tuesday Bunker?”

Medevac shook his head. “No telling where Trixie is. If she spots him, she might try to finish the job.” He tapped the wall with his prosthetic hoof. “Berry once told me this cellar was built to withstand serious damage up top. Only reason she made a different bunker was she didn’t want ponies sampling her stock while they waited out the disaster-of-the-day. Apparently the flower triplets once took shelter here and downed enough spiked punch to pickle a minotaur.”

Redheart snorted in amusement; it wasn’t a laugh even by the most generous margins, but it was close as she was likely to get under the circumstances. “I guess we do this here then.” She took a deep breath to steady herself.

“Anything I can do to help?” asked Medevac.

Redheart held her hooves over the unconscious dragon and said, “Say a prayer and stand by with the smelling salts for me in case I overdo it on the magic expenditure.” Closing her eyes, she prayed, Oh Author of Life… please don’t let me screw up. With that honest petition, she concentrated her power, and her hooves began to glow.

Ponyville Town Square, minutes earlier…

Morning Song had not been idle since her transmogrification into a songbird. While she’d been unable to communicate with anypony else, she’d been able to understand them just fine.

When she had been in the cave with Rainbow Dash and her incapacitated soldiers, she’d absorbed Dash’s report with careful scrutiny. She’d studied her surroundings – noting that Trixie appeared to have made camp in the cave – and began forming a plan of action while refining her understanding of Trixie.

Psychoanalysis on the fly was never her preference, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do it when pressed. Each new unpleasant turn of events – the transmogrification of her Colour Sergeant and the Apples; being teleported into a rainstorm; being forced to watch her friends fight losing a battle in the town square – lent new insight to her portrait of Trixie’s psyche.

Pinkie’s serious injuries and Fluttershy’s brush with immeasurable danger in confronting Trixie to protect Pinkie Pie was torturous to watch, yet it yielded critical insights into not only Trixie herself, but also – and perhaps even more importantly – into what effect the Amulet was having on her.

Fortunately, Song’s eyes and ears were just as keen – if not keener – as a bird as they had been as a pony. She’d tracked the changes in Trixie’s eyes, the changes in her voice, and even much of the conversation the crazed mare carried on with herself.

She’d seen Twilight get the drop on Trixie, watched her spare the showmare’s life, and agonized with the rest over Twilight’s own brush with death. Spike’s timely arrival and Twilight’s equally timely disappearing act had been the only thing worth cheering for in a long, bad afternoon.

Not that anypony had time to celebrate. For Twilight and Spike’s vanishing was a catalyst for Trixie’s titanic rage.

The dark enchantress fixed her shocked gaze at the spot they’d been, and stared for three precious heartbeats of stunned silence. Then her face contorted in an animal snarl, and her eyes turned a burning, wrathful red. Magical power built around her horn like a swirling crimson vortex. She spread her wings and rose into the air, but her wings did not flap. Rather, she was born aloft by her mounting, ruthless power. Her cape flared and flapped like the cloak of Nightmare Moon.

Trixie threw back her head and let loose a shriek as dark as a banshee’s wail, a cry of agony and hate that struck the square like a shockwave, bowling Song off her feet and shattering nearby windows.

Yet for all that, Morning Song had a plan.

Even as Trixie raged at the heavens for their supposed cruelty, Morning Song put that plan into action, leveraging the one piece of good fortune that Providence had laid at her feet:

Fluttershy was not transformed.

The mare who spoke to animals had not been altered to a form not her own, and she had the use of her ears and her tongue.

So Morning Song tweeted and chirped and cried above the storm with all the speed of a songbird, and Fluttershy listened.

Fluttershy listened. She did not want to. In fact, she wanted nothing to do with anything else spawned by this horrible day. She wanted desperately to wake up and find that it had all been a cruel nightmare. She would have given her wings to see Princess Luna part the walls of her dreamscape and assure her this horrible misadventure was nothing more than the fears of a tired mind inflicted upon the sleeping consciousness.

Even if it was real, she wanted to feel, not to think. She wanted to grieve for what had happened, to worry for Spike, to rejoice at Twilight’s escape, not to plan or connive or convince. She had saved Pinkie’s life already, and wanted to tend to her while she prayed for Twilight and Spike, all while keeping her head down to avoid Trixie’s wrath. She wanted to take no risk that drawing Trixie’s attention would endanger Pinkie and the rest of her helpless friends.

But she listened. She listened to Song, listened to her plan, and knew in her heart it was the best chance to keep them all safe.

She waited for Trixie to pause for breath from her banshee shriek, and then called out, “Hail, Great and Powerful Princess Trixie, Breaker of Mages and Mistress of Magic!”

Trixie closed her mouth, her next shriek halted.

Fluttershy swallowed and continued, “Hail, Uncrowned Queen of Equestria and Trampler of the Strong!”

Trixie turned her gleaming bloodred gaze upon Fluttershy.

Instinctively, Fluttershy bowed as a shudder ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the savage storm. “Hail, Trixie Dragonsbane, whose power none can deny.”

Trixie descended from her pillar of power, floating down to Fluttershy and alighting to the ground before her cage. Fluttershy kept her head bowed to the dirt, staring at Trixie’s hooves, waiting for her to speak.

“‘Hail?’” echoed Trixie. “You, who are one of the accursed Bearers, say unto Trixie ‘hail?’”

“Y-yes, Your Merciful Highness,” stammered Fluttershy. “The Bearers are b-broken, oh Great and Powerful Princess Trixie. W-we c-cannot hope to match your power, and you have d-defeated our leader, shown her to be unworthy of our d-devotion.”

Behind her, she heard the apple trees sway as though angered, and Rainbow Dash – still muzzled and mute – snarled and strained against her bonds.

A malevolent chuckle bubbled from Trixie’s throat. “Your wingless pegasus does not seem to agree,” she mocked.

Morning Song tweeted rapidly, telling her to get Rainbow Dash under control while also telling Fluttershy what to say to appease Trixie.

Fluttershy turned her head enough to shoot Rainbow Dash a meaningful look. Rainbow strained furiously against her bonds, her mouth desperately attempting to express her rage through the muzzle. “The wingless one is emotional,” said Fluttershy honestly. “But even she understands,” she gave Rainbow a hard Stare, “that the wise adapt in the face of power.”

At the Stare, Rainbow – though still furious – recoiled in her stockade and stopped struggling.

“And your little Song-bird?” said Trixie, who chuckled cruelly at her own joke. “What say you of her?”

Again, Song tweeted what she wished Fluttershy to say. “Your servant Morning Song wishes to be your herald, oh Great and Powerful Princess Trixie,” said Fluttershy, her confidence growing as Trixie seemed to listen. “Ponyville shall fall in line quickly when they hear tell that you have vanquished the coward Sparkle.” She felt bile rise in her throat at the words, but kept speaking. “They have no love for the purple mare, and will bar her from shelter on your Ladyship’s behalf.”

“And why should Trixie not find the coward herself?” demanded Trixie, her voice rumbling with thunderous echo.

Fluttershy bowed low again and repeated Song’s words. “If it pleases your Great and Powerful self to hear the words of your humble servant, it is beneath your Ladyship to do the menial work of hunting a coward whom you have already bested. Let such tasks fall upon your servants, who deserve such petty work.”

Trixie laughed, and it was a sickening sound. “Your words are pretty little mare. Or rather, the Song-bird’s words are pretty. Yet she makes for a poor herald – a tiny bird who would be drowned in this storm and who can communicate to none but you.”

“If it pleases Your Mightiness, the brute Rainbow Dash might be employed as a vehicle for your herald—”

Rainbow grunted in mute outrage at the characterization.

“—and your herald’s voice might be restored, so as to better sing your praises, even as she remains in her Song-bird form as a reminder of both your benevolence and your rule—urk!”

Fluttershy found herself yanked upwards by Trixie’s power, dragged across the cell, and brought eye-to-eye with the madmare. Trixie’s dark gaze bored into hers, and Fluttershy tried not to panic as she Stared back.

Eye-to-eye, gaze-to-gaze, will-to-will, the two mares stared, their words unspoken as Fluttershy prayed in the silence of her mind that Trixie would believe the ruse.

Then, as abruptly as Trixie had seized her, Trixie dropped her. Fluttershy landed with a splash and a grunt of pain as Trixie threw back her head and let out a booming laugh. “Yes, grovel, grovel little ponies! Crawl in the mud before Trixie like the worms you are!” Fixing Fluttershy once again with her arrogant gaze and fierce smile, Trixie declared, “A herald for Trixie then!” With a flash of magic, Song appeared on Rainbow’s head and Rainbow’s muzzle was removed, while her stockade was replaced with hobbling chains that would let her walk, but not run. “What do you say, heralds?”

Morning Song placed one wing over her heart and bowed, then spoke in her old voice. “You are a gracious audience, oh Uncrowned Queen Trixie.”

Rainbow stood glaring at Trixie, a snarl on her face, until Song jabbed her with her clawed feet. Reluctantly, Rainbow bowed. “Hail, hail,” she grated.

Trixie chortled. “Marvelous! Marvelous! Even the braggart now bows, if grudgingly.” With her magic, she grasped Rainbow’s head and pulled her up from the bow. “Don’t fret, Rainbow Dash,” she said sweetly. Then, she flared out her wings – Rainbow’s wings – and waved them mockingly at the pegasus. “You’ll learn.”

A growl built in Rainbow’s throat, but a sharp “Flight Officer Dash!” from Morning Song forced her to stand down.

“Run along now, heralds,” Trixie dismissed them with a wave and a laugh before turning her cold gaze on Fluttershy. “As for you, you shall see to the pink one’s health,” she ordered. “In fact…” there was a blinding flash of light, and when Fluttershy could see again, she found herself inside the tower of town hall, along with all of her captive friends, sans Morning Song and Rainbow Dash. The Apple trees had even been transported with beds of earth for their roots. Fluttershy, Ditzy, and Pinkie – with the latter two still unconscious – were hobbled with chains in much the same way Dash was.

Fluttershy noticed the chains bore an engraving of Trixie’s cutie mark and the words, ‘PROPERTY OF THE UNCROWNED QUEEN, TRIXIE LULAMOON.’

She wondered if Dash’s chains said the same.

Trixie continued haughtily, “You promised Trixie that the pink one would cheer the loudest when she awoke… and Trixie does not regard failure with kindness. Tend her well, and then see to the care of the rest of Trixie’s collection.” With her magic, she caught up one of the pre-peeled apples which fell like tears from the Apple trees and took a bite of it. Chunks of apple and flecks of juice sprayed over Fluttershy’s face as Trixie loomed over her and smirked, “The Uncrowned Queen must have her collection looking its best for the coronation.”

Morning Song had only been a bird for a few hours, but found that it felt surprisingly natural to do certain things – gesturing with her wings, balancing on two feet, moving by hopping more than by walking, all seemed to come rather naturally.

As she rode on Rainbow Dash’s head, she discovered another ability that came naturally.

The ability to feel the abject, seething rage of her equine transport. Rainbow’s quivering wrath seemed to bleed off of her, shooting up through Morning Song’s feet like lightning through a metal rod and sending shivers down Morning Song’s spine that had nothing to do with the frigid rain.

Rainbow Dash was utterly silent until they were well out beyond Trixie’s line-of-sight and much farther than they could have been overheard even on a clear day. Morning Song knew the exact moment that Rainbow Dash decided there were far enough because that moment coincided with Rainbow rearing her head and throwing Morning Song to the ground.

The pony-turned-bird landing with a great splash as a puddle cushioned her fall. Well, at least she threw me at water, Song thought to herself, choosing to believe it was a deliberate choice on Dash’s part. Using her wings to help push herself up, she stood as straight as she was able in her present state and turned to face Rainbow Dash.

More accurately, she looked up at Rainbow Dash, who was currently looming over her, crimson eyes hard with fury and hot breath steaming in the cold rain.

“I must say, Flight Officer Dash, you’d make a terrible cabbie,” observed Morning Song dryly as she flicked excess water out of her wings.

“Morning Song,” snarled Rainbow Dash, “You’d better have a darn good reason why we left Fluttershy with that freakshow.”

“I assure you, Flight Officer, I do,” said Morning Song calmly. “Simply put, we need to keep ponies from getting killed, and this is the best way to do it.”

“Explain.”

“Certainly,” replied Morning Song as she brushed at the mud in her feathers. That won’t be washing out any time soon, she thought absently. “Trixie is quite plainly not in full control of herself. It’s been nothing short of miraculous she hasn’t dropped any bodies yet, and it’s our duty to see it stays that way. If we’re her ‘heralds,’ we can keep the citizens from panicking and doing something that ends fatally. We can run interference for Twilight and buy her time to figure a way out of this. As for Fluttershy, she’s the best equipped to keep all our friends safe and stroke Trixie’s ego so the showmare doesn’t cause further havoc. Fluttershy is positive, gentle, naturally inclined to be emotionally supportive and complimentary even of the outright villains she’s fighting, and she made Trixie back down. Out of all of us, she’s the best equipped to keep everyone safe while we work the crowd.” Flicking her wings, she asked archly, “That a good enough reason for you, Flight Officer Dash?”

Rainbow Dash held her furious gaze for a moment, then heaved a grim sigh and grated, “Yeah. Yeah it is. I just…” her expression was pained, “I hate leaving her there, LT.”

“I know,” said Song gently. “But the sooner we get back on our mission, the sooner we can take the load off of her and make it easier for Twilight to get help and save all of us. You got me, soldier?”

“Yes ma’am!” barked Rainbow Dash.

“Good. Now bend your head down here to pick me up.” She ruffled her wings. “I haven’t had the chance to try these out, and this doesn’t seem like the best weather for it.”

Rainbow Dash gave an amused snort and bent down. “Maybe I can give you some pointers.”

Morning Song awkwardly clambered up on the pony’s head. “Hopefully it won’t come to that. You’re the one who should be flying; I prefer the ground.” As Rainbow stood erect again, Morning Song added, “Oh, and, Rainbow Dash?”

“Yeah?”

The lieutenant bent over to speak directly into Rainbow’s ear. “This is a gentle reminder that you assaulted a superior officer and then had the nerve to be insubordinate on top of it. I’m going to let it slide this time because today’s been one heck of an awful day, but if you ever pull that horse crap again I will personally throw your tail in the brig and leave you there until your hair falls out. Clear, Flight Officer?”

Rainbow wilted. “Yes ma’am. Sorry ma’am.”

“Apology accepted. Now march.”

While Rainbow Dash marched Morning Song around town running interference, Burnt Oak was leading Twilight through the Everfree Forest.

The path he took was not one to which Twilight was accustomed, winding as it did through gullies and thickets. They entered the forest at a place that was unfamiliar to her. Though her mental map of the area suggested it was the most direct route to Zecora’s home from where they’d started, she would have been lost if Burnt Oak hadn’t been there. For his part, the lumberjack seemed to know exactly where he was going, and set a rapid pace for their travel.

While they trotted along, Twilight couldn’t help but wonder at Burnt Oak’s relationship to Zecora. Are they close? I’ve never seen him around her cottage, and she hasn’t mentioned him. Not that she’s obliged to tell me about all her friends, but she’s still a rare sight in town, so not many ponies know her that well. Though, to be fair, I don’t see Burnt Oak around much either... and he does venture into the Everfree more than most. Did they meet there?

Whatever her musings, the pace of their travel made conversation was impossible. The only words he spoke were to advise her about various hazards to avoid, lending further weight to her theory that he patrolled this section of the wood regularly, perhaps as part of his efforts to keep the forest at bay, or perhaps to visit his zebra friend.

They reached Zecora’s cottage far quicker than Twilight would have thought possible, though she guessed her muscles would not thank her for their haste tomorrow.

While still at the edge of the little clearing around the zebra’s hut, Burnt Oak halted, pursed his lips, and whistled a warbling bird cry, such as Twilight had never heard before. A moment later, an answering bird cry was heard from within the cottage, and Zecora stepped forth. Seeing them, she smiled and spoke in verse,

“Though dark clouds above do bring tidings bad,

Seeing you both now makes my heart glad!”

She beckoned them inside.

“Come now friends, come, and be of good cheer,

With tea and talk our plans will be clear!”

Twilight ran forward eagerly, words tumbling out of her mouth as she began pouring out her tale of woe as Zecora poured the tea. She sat at Zecora’s table and reached with gratitude for the drink, but paused when she saw Burnt Oak linger at the door. “Aren’t you coming in?” the unicorn asked.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Sparkle, but no,” replied Burnt Oak, who took off his hat and held it in one hoof in a gesture of respect for the two mares. “Now that yer safe here, Ah gotta grab a book or two that might shed some light on this whole amulet business.”

“But you can’t go to the library!” exclaimed Twilight, aghast. “Trixie would catch you for sure. You can’t go, I…,” her dismay hardened into determination, “I won’t lose somepony else!”

Burnt Oak gave an odd smile. “Ain’t talkin’ about the library, Miss Twilight. Don’t you worry none. Ah’ll be back after night falls, an’ mayhap bring some answers with me.” Without waiting for a reply from Twilight, he turned his gaze to Zecora and said, “Ah trust you start us off strong, as always.”

To Twilight’s surprise, Zecora answered in Zwahili rather than Ponish.

To Twilight’s even greater surprise, Burnt Oak responded in the same tongue, then dipped his head respectfully to the both of them and departed.

Once he’d gone, Twilight turned in astonishment to Zecora and managed, “Wait... I... how does he know Zwahili? Better question, how does he know you?”

Wearing her typical enigmatic smile, Zecora replied,

“As to your first query, I taught him of course.

He speaks it quite well, though his accent is coarse.

As for your second, too long for the telling

Is the tale of our meeting, when far south I was dwelling.

This much I’ll say, a long friendship we’ve held,

And timber wolves aren’t the sole monsters he’s felled.”

Twilight’s curiosity demanded answers, but her dutiful nature would not allow such a distraction. Shoving aside her queries, she instead detailed the grim happenings of the day. Zecora listened patiently, asking clarifying questions when necessary, and maintaining her poise and emotional control even as she was aggrieved by the troubling tale.

The zebra’s calm did much to help Twilight’s own state of mind. She did not become less fearful – after all, the danger was quite real – but instead the unicorn experienced an even more important change.

In the face of her fear, she felt braver.

As the storm worsened and the day drew on towards night, the two mages sat, pondered, and planned.

Burnt Oak was well adept at moving quietly and leaving little trace in his wake. The storm made it that much easier to pass unseen.

Not that there was much worry of being spotted; he had not gone anywhere near Ponyville, as his destination lay well to the outskirts of the community.

Still, he kept to cover and passed through open terrain only when he had no other option. Such evasion was a well-practiced skill, and he’d had many years to learn the hidden byways within and around Ponyville.

His path sometimes took him within easy sight of the storm barrier. The tempestuous wall that shrouded Ponyville was a frightful sight – a swirling curtain of blackened storm and red lightning, like the wall of a dark hurricane conjured by hellish might and impassible to any save perhaps an alicorn or something of equal power. If there was another force that could penetrate the barrier, he did not know it.

Burnt Oak grimaced. Such a titanic display of evil power had many implications, none of them pleasant. If Zecora and Twilight can’t think of a workaround… he pushed the thought aside. Zecora was more steeped in lore than virtually anyone he knew, and Twilight was the most brilliant mage of her generation, perhaps even the most brilliant of the century. If any could find a workaround, it would be them.

His destination lay deep in a grove of maple, oak, and birch – a log cabin, his log cabin, sturdily built and well-worn with the passing of years. It was a simple affair, neither showy nor especially large. Some had suggested that a pony of his talents could build something far grander, but Burnt Oak had no intention of doing so.

After all, he’d built it with the help of Bright Mac many years ago. The logs had their sweat and labor steeped into their very cores. No new structure, however refined, could capture the labor of love of two folk who had been as brothers.

Yet there was no time for reminiscing. Upon entering his cabin, Burnt Oak wasted no time trotting over to his fireplace, where his heavy crossbow rested over the mantlepiece while a quiver and harness hung from a knob beside it. He buckled the harness on and thrust his axe and a pair of knives through the loops designed to hold them, then slung the crossbow and quiver on his back.

Trotting to the middle of the room, he then pushed aside the heavy maplewood table that dominated the space and rolled up the old rug that carpeted the floor beneath, revealing a hidden trapdoor.

It had been a long time since he’d needed to use the trapdoor, but it still swung freely on its hinges as he threw the portal open and descended by ladder into the cellar.

The far wall opposite the ladder was dominated by three triangular wooden cases with glass fronts and flags folded within, along with a plaque bearing various ribbons and medals, several pinned newspaper clippings, a goodly number of sketches, photographs – most of them of an older type – and a variety of keepsakes ranging from an old griffon saber to a pith helmet to a shard of clay from a heavy grey jar, the inner part of which appeared fire-blackened.

Other walls were taken with shelving and other means of storage for books, maps, charts, tools, equipment, and clothing suited to various environment.

Burnt Oak paid most of the cellar’s contents no mind, focusing solely on his books. One in particular caught his eye – a dusty old tome labelled ‘Field Advisory, RERC.’ He’d received it years ago, a couple years before Bright Mac and Buttercup’s wedding, and it had served him well in that time. He hadn’t had much cause to ponder since returning to Ponyville, but had never considered throwing it away.

“Kept for a rainy day,” the lumberjack muttered to himself. “Well, it’s rainin’ now.”

Burnt Oak shoved the book into his satchel along with two others, then made his way over to a footlocker tucked away in the corner. Throwing it open, he pondered the contents a moment before removing two things – a kukri, and a bundle of crossbow bolts.

He kept other crossbow bolts upstairs – a wise precaution, especially when living near the Everfree – but the bolts with which he now filled his quiver were not sort he used for timber wolves, nor was the curve-bladed kukri the standard weapon he carried in the Everfree.

No, these were weapons intended for a more intense sort of contingency, one beyond the threats of the Ponyville-bordering sections of forest.

Burnt Oak hadn’t thought to need them again. But then, almost no one ever expects catastrophe to befall them.

He cast a glance back at the trio of flags and the pictures beside them, nodded respectfully, then ascended the ladder. Twilight and Zecora are the greatest minds in Ponyville, he thought to himself as he covered the cellar again. If any can find a workaround, it’s them. And, if there is no workaround… he threw a cloak over his withers to protect his equipment and tried not to think about how Twilight would react. If there’s no workaround, then I’ll make sure Twilight makes it out alive. No matter what.

And he strode forth into the darkening storm.

Author's Note

The smell of sea air permeated the air as Aura de Patience entered the Doc Yard, a medical clinic in Capetown, an unimaginatively named port town on the Cape of Forlorn Wishes. The Doc Yard’s proprietor – the eponymous ‘Doc’ himself – was an ugly lump of a stallion with a beer gut who looked more like a small town drunk than a doctor. By all accounts, however, he was an excellent surgeon and a long-time fixture of the community.

More importantly for Aura, however, Doc was an information broker par excellence. He knew where the bodies were buried, and was prepared to exhume any of them. For a price, of course.

Doc was seated at a table in the waiting room, reading a newspaper as Aura entered. Even from across the room, she could see the headline: “ANGRY MOB DESCENDS ON SUSHI RESTAURANT IN AMSTERHOOF DEMANDING NEXT CHAPTER OF BOOK.” He kept reading even as she sat down across the table from him.

“Hey Aura, listen to this,” chuckled Doc through a throat caked with sea air, salt, and tar. “Angry Mob continues its international manehunt to find D-List Author,” he read aloud. “Their vengeful expedition has traveled for months through no less than twelve sovereign nations in search of the half-rate author Antiquarian, whose capacity for insulting the hard work of excellent journalists such as myself is only exceeded by his penchant for inciting the Angry Mob with his snail’s pace of writing his trivial work. ‘Where Next Chapter?!’ chanted the Mob as they surrounded General Tempura’s Sushi House in Amsterhoof, ‘When Friar Come Back?!’ was another common chant”.

“General Tempura, far from bowing to the Mob’s inconceivable obsession with a mediocre hack, instead announced the grand opening of his sushi buffet, at which the Mob promptly sat down to dine. General Tempura’s Sushi House apparently raised enough money in one day to open three new restaurants while having very little overhead cost, because people pay at the buffet like they’ll eat for a weak, but no one wants that much raw fish. General Tempura could not be reached for comment, as he was laughing all the way to the bank.”

“Bringing accidental customers to General Tempura may be the first good thing that miserable Antiquarian has ever done. More interesting than his current status and whereabouts is examining the detrimental impact folk like him have on society, along with many questions raised by the scientific community as to how the Angry Mob manages to keep their torches lit for months on end without them ever going out. Continued Page 7.”

“It’s a fair question,” said Aura. “How do they keep their torches lit?”

Doc snorted. “My question is what ole’ Antiq did to piss off this journalist this,” he glanced at the newspaper article, “this Mr. ‘Sweet Nothings.’”

Aura raised an eyebrow. “Doc, if you don’t know what Mr. Nothings did that Antiquarian exposed, then perhaps I’m talking to the wrong information broker.”

The heavyset Doc smirked. “Mayhap it had something to do with Mr. Nothings saying that Writer’s Block was just a conspiracy theory, denied by three separate administrations.”

“Except they weren’t denying his existence,” finished Aura. “They said ‘no comment’ because Writer’s Block had gotten to their speech writers.”

Doc chuckled. “And ole’ Tiq blew the whistle on Sweet Nothings, for that and a host of other lies, as well as evidence suggesting Mr. Nothings works for Writer’s Block. Ever since then, Nothing’s had it out for ’im.”

Aura shrugged. “And yet Mr. Nothings still has a job.”

“Indeed he does,” nodded Doc. “Two, if the evidence is accurate.” Then, more sharply, “In fact, word is that work has recently taken him down here to little ole’ Capetown for a meeting.”

“Really,” said Aura, smiling. “And… do you happen to know with whom he was meeting?”

“I know it wasn’t for one of his employers, but mayhap it was for the other, if you take my meaning.” He set a folded piece of paper on the table and slid it over to Aura. “A little bungalow, just outside of town. Heavily guarded, but not such that most anypony would notice.”

“Excellent,” smiled Aura. “And, for payment…” she took out a slip of paper and passed it to him, “the method by which the mob keeps their torches lit.” Doc raised an eyebrow, and Aura’s smile turned sly. “It pays to keep tabs on one’s enemies, wouldn’t you agree.”

Doc chuckled. “You’re a clever one and no mistake, Aura. Be seeing you.”

“Take care, Doc. A pleasure as always.” Turning to leave, Aura checked her weapons. “Now,” she said quietly, “off to my next appointment.”

***

This is usually the part where I say something about the chapter. What I have to say is... I’m not really sure what all to say about it.

…

I enjoyed writing it.

…

I hope you enjoyed reading it.

…

I guess I do have a couple things. Briefly. Writing dialogue for Zecora is… not great for me. I’m very intermittently capable of doing rhyming and poetry and whatnot, but basically never when I’m trying to do something like this. She won’t be showing up much in the story because of that. Sorry, Zecora, I love your character, but I want scream every time I have to write your dialogue.

Song and Fluttershy both get some moments to shine (Flutters has really done well for herself lately in that regard), and we see a little of how Redheart’s studies have been coming along. Trixie is also coming along... though not in a good way... you know, in case that was unclear.

Burnt Oak… well, I’ll talk about that in a future chapter once a few more things have been established. It’ll be interesting seeing the speculation.

Lots of people are asking when the friar is going to show back up, how things will resolve with Trixie, etc., and to that I can only say, “We’ll get there when we get there.”

That’s not me trying to be evasive, it’s just the reality of the weird nature of posting chapters as the book gets written.

Consider a normal book: a fight scene (or other conflict) will kick off and run for something like 3-12 chapters, with each chapter ending on something of a cliffhanger (or at least ending with the situation unresolved). But, while it gives the feel of a cliffhanger in certain respects, you also know that you can just read the next chapter (unless it’s the last in a book before the sequel).

Publishing chapters as they come means that I can’t do that though. Pacing demands that the chapters end where they do, and I can’t just wait until a whole bevy of chapters are done before publishing them all at once or you wouldn’t get new content for a year. I’m not willing to do that. If things get delayed that long, it’ll be because of circumstances beyond my control, not because I was building up a bunch of chapters for one big dump.

You know, I couldn’t really think of much to say about the chapter itself, but I do have a comment on the little shorts with Antiquarian, Aura, the Angry Mob, and, of course, Writers Block (the true villain of the story).

It’s weird to me that it’s become its own little sub-narrative. I mean, I enjoy it, and a lot of you seem to enjoy the little easter eggs too, but it’s still strange. I wonder if part of the inspiration came from The Adventures of Dr. McNinja, wherein the author started putting little behind-the-scenes clips and jokes that popped up when you hovered your mouse over the page of the webcomic.

But, I don’t know. Maybe it’s unrelated. I’m no expert. I just work here.

Shoutout this week is another break from shouting out other fanfics. It’s a super wholesome comic called Pixie and Brutus. There are various knockoffs that claim to be part of it, but they’re not. Accept no substitutes for the real deal. If it’s not clean and wholesome and child-friendly (with one comic that’s necessarily dark), then it’s not the real deal.

Pixie and Brutusis a comic about a grizzled, retired Marine MWD (military working dog) called Brutus and the tiny, innocent kitten he looks out for named Pixie. It’s humorous and sweet, but also has some genuinely moving moments sprinkled throughout; I read it as an excellent examination of how people can bring out the best in each other, and it just leaves me feeling a little better about the world every time I read it.

I think we could all use a little more of that in our lives. Hopefully you find some goodness in it too. In a world where it feels like we’re all being told to be at each other’s throats, we just need some examples of people just… seeing the good in others and helping them do the same.

Happy reading!

Jump to top

Agôn, With Chorus (Pt 1)

The Everfree did not like Trixie’s interference.

At least, that was what Twilight surmised.

As with anything concerning the Everfree Forest, it was difficult to say for certain. The notorious unpredictability of the forest was a reality to which Twilight had long since consigned herself. This had only been confirmed when Zecora made it clear that she herself only understood the forest to a point.

Still, one thing that seemed consistent about the Everfree was that it in many respects resembled a macro-organism – a vast, complex, and self-sustaining entity that sought to grow and devour the lands around it. The forest seemed to tolerate the presence of creatures – both magical and mundane – as a shark might tolerate a remora. It had its own drives, its own impulses, its own instincts, and it acted upon them. The forest was chaotic, yes, but it was the sort of ordered chaos as one might find in a wild animal. It was not simply a forest; it was an entity, an entity with its own sort of primitive, animal will.

And right now, it looked to be willing Trixie’s storm to leave.

Rogue weather from the Everfree had a tendency to intrude into Ponyville’s airspace, as if testing its borders for weak spots. Sometimes it would send a cloudburst or even a storm to exploit openings in Ponyville’s weather coverage. Twilight had often wondered whether it was simply that nature abhors a void, and thus the clouds were drawn to Ponyville, or if was a deliberate action of the Everfree’s animal instincts.

Now, seeing the Everfree storms battle Trixie’s rising gale, Twilight was leaning towards the latter.

The clouds of Everfree and the clouds of Trixie had drawn up as if in battle lines, row upon row, rank upon rank; the wide, arcing clouds of Trixie’s vortex of tempestuous fury against the great, towering thunderheads of the Everfree. The harsh red and smoky black of the Dark Magic tempest crashed against the grim and grey towers of the Everfree.

It was unsettling to see the often-erratic forest and its strange magic cast as the defender in the present drama, and even more disturbing to see it seeming… normalized. The Everfree clouds typically looked bizarre or at least unusual compared to Ponyville’s clouds but, judged against the unnatural fury of Trixie’s tainted maelstrom, they appeared disturbingly orderly.

Most disturbing of all, the Everfree Forest seemed to be losing.

Such power… what sort of artifact could have given her such power?

Twilight wanted to tear her eyes away from the scene, but she could not.

Every second her power grows. If she can even push back this blasted forest…

A sickening feeling settled in her stomach like a rotting pit.

I had a chance to stop this, to stop this power. It would all be over now if I just… if I just…

“Twilight Sparkle,” said Zecora.

The unicorn did not turn around. She didn’t need to. She knew Zecora would be standing at the door, holding it open with the intent that the two of them go back outside to resume training.

Twilight Sparkle, time you waste.

If we are to train, you must make haste.

Twilight still did not turn, but kept watching the sky. “What’s the point?” whispered Twilight to herself. “I had one shot, and I blew it.” A horrible image of her Ponyville friends, dead and dying at Trixie’s hooves, flashed in her mind. “I should have stopped her… I should have done something…” She shut her eyes against the storm. “Now… there’s no point.”

Your voice is too soft, it would appear.

Whatever you said, I did not hear.

“I said there’s no point!” snapped Twilight, finally turning to glare at the zebra. “There’s no point, Zecora! I can’t fight…” she gestured out the window, “that! I might as well pick a fight with Princess Luna!” Twilight let out a bitter half chuckle, and there was no humor in it. “You know, when we faced Nightmare Moon, we were only facing a fraction of her power. The greater part of it was bound up in containing Celestia. And she still could have swatted me like a fly if she’d laid off gloating and just smacked me. THAT,” again she gestured out the window, “is more power than Nightmare Moon had in my encounter with her by a factor of ten!”

Twilight spun from her place by the window and started pacing back and forth, hooves clomping hard against the wooden floor.

“Oh, but I could have stopped it, Zecorra. I could have stopped it right there in the town square. I had the perfect chance to end it. Didn’t matter that she has the power of an alicorn somehow; didn’t matter that she could swat me like a bug; she was distracted, I had her, and then…” Twilight gritted her teeth and swung one forehoof futilely through the air, “and then… I couldn’t do it.”

Twilight hung her head in shame, not wanting to see Zecora’s judgment.

The zebra didn’t speak for a moment, and the longer she was quiet the more Twilight wished that she would just get on with it, even as she feared what Zecora would say. Yet, when the zebra spoke, her voice was soft, gentle even, devoid of anger and of judgment.

She is in truth a deadly foe.

Why then did you not lay her low?

“I don’t know!” Twilight exclaimed. “Pity? Cowardice? Mercy? Stupidity?” Her horn sparked with pent-up emotion. “Six of one and a half dozen of the other, Zecora, I don’t know!” She turned to the wall and let her head thump to a rest against it. “I keep turning the moment over and over in my head, analyzing my reasoning. I know the justification I gave myself was that I pity her, that I think she’s being used by that darned necklace. She’s not in control of her actions, she’s… enslaved to that thing, I think. She’s not in her right mind and I just… I just couldn’t ki—” Twilight swallowed, then softly concluded, “That’s what I tell myself, anyway.”

Zecora opened her mouth to respond, but Twilight spoke again before she could.

“But Celestia and Luna had to kill the mind thralls of Sombra just to get to him; their soldiers had to fight a long, grueling campaign against ponies who were being mind-controlled. It wasn’t the thralls’ fault, but they were still being used to kill innocent ponies. The thralls had to be stopped, so the princesses and their troops had to… and should I have done the same?” She turned to Zecora, her face anguished. “Did I condemn my friends to death because I didn’t have the courage to do what had to be done? Am I just a coward after all this?”

Again, Zecora tried to speak, and again Twilight cut her off.

“Fluttershy knew we would have to fight, Zecora! Fluttershy!” Zecora left the door and strode over towards Twilight. “The pony who’s been spooked by her own shadow, and she—”

Zecora struck with a viper’s speed, seizing Twilight’s muzzle and firmly clamping it shut. The zebra brought her face close to Twilight’s and said:

It is not a weakness to value life.

It is strength, in fact, in times of strife.

Pity it was that stayed your blade,

Because you think she can be saved.

The pony who redeemed Nightmare Moon

Should not give up on Trixie so soon.

The zebra stared levelly at Twilight, and the unicorn felt herself growing calmer under the reassuring gaze of the elder mare. After a moment, Zecora released Twilight, who in turn sat down.

“Then what should I do, Zecora?” asked Twilight, suddenly very tired. “We’ve been training for hours but… it’s not gonna help me beat her. I can’t beat her. So what should I do?”

Zecora stood in silence for a moment, nodding slowly as if conversing with herself. After a thoughtful pause, she spoke.

If you would lose a stand-up fight,

Then with guile you shall set things right.

We must find a weakness to exploit…

The zebra trailed off and gestured towards the door with a knowing smile.

And Burnt Oak will help us on that point.

True to the zebra’s prediction, Burnt Oak strode in out of the rain, sopping wet and quite muddied from his long journey. Twilight sprang up and ran to him, ignoring the muck and grime to enfold him in a relieved embrace. “Thank heaven you’re all right! I was so worried you’d run into trouble!”

Burnt Oak chuckled as he gently extricated himself from her grip. “Oh, Ah was thinkin’ of gettin’ inta some trouble, but it just wouldn’t do fer me ta keep two pretty mares waitin’ on me just ’cause Ah got into a scrap.” He winked at Zecora as he spoke.

Zecora smirked and replied,

Such gentlecolt manners you have got,

But stop you in Zeb’babwe they did not.

I was waiting beneath the wall,

While you were fighting in a brawl.

“Yes, but Ah was younger and stupider then,” smiled the stallion as he reached beneath his rain-soaked cloak to access his saddlebags. “Ah found a few books that might help, Miss Twilight.” He passed one large, heavy volume to her. “Ye’d best start with this one.”

Despite the dire circumstances, Twilight still felt a little childlike delight at the prospect of a new book, especially one which apparently covered such grave matters as whatever amulet Trixie was wearing. Or maybe it should be ‘whatever amulet is wearing Trixie,’ depending on what’s really going on here. Her delight turned to confusion, however, when she studied the book’s cover.

It wasn’t a scholarly publication or an old tome of lore as she’d been expecting. Rather, it was more like a manual. A field manual, in fact, such as might be issued to firewatch ponies or sheriffs or…

I know Zecora said he’s fought monsters other than timber wolves before, and the two of them clearly know each other and have some history, but…

“Miss Twilight?” said Burnt Oak. “There a problem?”

“Burnt Oak,” she spoke his name slowly as she looked up at him intently. “This is an Equestrian Field Advisory. An R.E.R.C. Field Advisory.”

“That it is, Miss Twilight,” he admitted. “My old copy.”

“Burnt Oak… these are only issued to Rangers or to… um… how, no, why do you have this, exactly?"

The stallion seemed to chew his answer over for a moment before dipping his head slightly and saying, “Miss Twilight, Ah’m sure you’ve got questions, an’ maybe with all’s said an’ done we can see about answerin’ some of ’em but, with deepest respects Miss Twilight, we’d best remain on task. Suffice it ta say, Ah’ve served the realm in an official capacity. Ah’ve had my share of adventures over the years, an’ Ah came by that book by honest means. Ah’m… qualified to assist ya,” he tapped the book with one hoof, “but it’s gonna take a great mind like the one you got in that pretty head o’ yers ta make proper use o’ this old RERC manual.”

Twilight blinked several times as she processed what Burnt Oak had said. Once again, her curiosity over the increasingly mysterious stallion begged for answers, and once again she shoved that curiosity back down. Burnt Oak’s right. We have a job to do. “All… all right then,” she sighed at length, moving over to the table and opening the book. “Let’s have a look.”

Rainbow Dash and Morning Songbird – Dash was wise enough not to call the lieutenant ‘Songbird’ out loud, but the joke was too easy to not at least make in the privacy of her own mind – had made goodly progress in reaching various ponies in their Tuesday Bunkers and laying out the situation to those within with as much reassurance as was possible under the circumstances.

Dash had expected to need to explain the concept of Tuesday Bunkers to Songbird, only to discover that Songbird and the other troopers had been thoroughly briefed on many of Ponyville’s… oddities. I wonder how big a file they have on Pinkie, Dash mused with a smirk.

A smirk that quickly vanished when she remembered that Trixie’d done quite a number on her cheery friend. Which is nothing compared to the number I’ll do on Trixie when I get my hooves on her.

“All right,” Songbird said from her perch on Dash’s head, “the next Tuesday Bunker should be down Appleway Street—”

“Nope,” Rainbow cut her off. “Berry Punch’s tavern cellar.”

Dash could picture Songbird tilting her head. “Really? I guess I didn’t memorize the map as well as I thought I did.”

“Naw, it ain’t on the map,” replied Dash, oddly relieved there were some things the Ponyville Dossier seemed to have missed. “It ain’t even a proper Tuesday Bunker. Berry just reinforced the cellar after the…” she paused to think about it, “the Bearadillo Incident maybe? Or it might’ve been that time a minotaur picked a fight with Big Mac… or maybe it was when Twilight was trying to make a reverse alcohol that sobered you when you drank it but turned out to be highly combust—”

“So Berry reinforced her cellar after a Tuesday happened?” interrupted Songbird dryly.

“No, actually it was a Monday. Weirdly enough, I remember that fact clearly.”

“I’m sure,” demurred Songbird. “All right, the bar it is.”

It wasn’t much warmer in the cellar than it was outside, but it was, by Dash’s estimation, one hundred and twenty percent drier. Song graciously flapped over to rest on a nearby keg and dry herself off so Rainbow could give herself a thoroughly doglike shake. “Anypony in here?” she called out. “It’s Dash.”

There was a muffled sound deeper in the cellar, then a returning shout of, “Sound off, Troopers.”

Rainbow blinked in shock and exchanged glances with Morning Song. “That sounds like Medevac,” she said to the bird lieutenant.

“Agreed,” replied Song.

More loudly, Rainbow called back, “Flight Officer Rainbow Dash and Lieutenant Morning Songbird.” Even as the words left her mouth, her eyes widened in horror as she realized she’d just called Song ‘Songbird.’

Wincing, she cast an apologetic glance at the lieutenant. Even as a small bird, the flat gaze Song gave her made Rainbow want to flinch away. “How long have you been sitting on that one, Dash?” asked Song dryly.

“Uh… since about when Trixie first ’ported you into that cave and I realized you were a bird, LT.”

“Mm. You’ve shown remarkable restraint then.”

Further banter was cut short by Medevac, who emerged around the corner with a relieved smile on his face. “Ladies, am I glad to see you—” the sight of Song jolted him into immobility. He stared at Song for a long moment. “So, to clarify,” he said with remarkable aplomb, “when you said ‘Songbird,’ did you by any chance mean you found a bird with her colors and thought it would be funny if—”

“She did not mean that,” declared the bird in question.

“—that’s what I was afraid of,” sighed Medevac. Turning, he gave Dash an appraising look. She sighed and braced herself for the abject horror. Each Ponyville resident’s reaction to the loss of her wings had been… hearty. Strangely, it seemed to upset them more than Song’s transformation. Song, thankfully, had been unbothered, noting that depriving someone of limbs was the sort of thing that might in the moment seem worse than transmogrification. After all, transmogrification was a common theme of fairy tales – or, in some cases in Ponyville, a common theme in personal experiences – and so the average citizen concluded (likely without even being aware of it) that transmogrification was more readily reversible than de-limbing somepony.

So, Dash waited for Medevac’s reaction.

After staring for a moment at her absent wings, he grimaced and tapped his prosthetic leg against the floor. “Dang, you too, huh?”

Wait, that’s it? thought Dash. It was so mundane, so calm so… kinda nice, actually.

Medevac shrugged and continued, “Welcome to Club Amputee, I guess. We have monthly brunches and membership perks.”

“Don’t bother ordering my punchcard,” retorted Dash with as much devil-may-care jest as she could manage. “Trixie just magicked ’em off. Twi should be able to magic ’em back on. And, if not, I’ll just have you surgically remove ’em from Trixie and stitch me back together.”

Medevac smirked with a veteran’s grim humor and said, “Sure thing, Dash. Just let me just get my sewing kit and—” he jerked his head suddenly, giving himself a firm shake before asking, “wait, did you say remove them from Trixie? What, is she wearing them or something?”

“Yeah, she’s going for the whole ‘dark alicorn princess’ thing.”

“Huh,” snorted Medevac. “That nag sure doesn’t do anything by halves, does she.” He turned to go deeper into the cellar. “Well, you might as well bring Redheart up to speed at the same time as me. Just don’t let Song sample any of the adult beverages down here, what with her being a featherweight and all that.”

“Very droll, I’m sure,” said Song, mild amusement coloring her dry tone. “I see they fed you the Marine MREs with quality crayons.”

“Yup. The sixty-four pack special with the little crayon sharpener in the back. De~ee~licious.”

The brief break for jokes they’d enjoyed didn’t last. Both parties swapped their respective stories. There were islands of good news sprinkled throughout the sea of catastrophe, but on the whole the situation was grim, with little to lighten the mood.

Rainbow was immensely relieved to see that Spike was under the nurses’ care, but seeing him hurt and unconscious brought her fierce anger back to the foreground. Intellectually, she knew that punching Trixie repeatedly in the face was a Bad Idea (and that she probably wouldn’t get to ‘repeatedly,’ and would be lucky to get one), but that didn’t mean she didn’t really, really want to.

“Stay on mission, Dash,” said Song softly.

Rainbow looked at her in shock, wondering how the lieutenant had known what she was thinking. Though I guess I’ve never had much of a poker face.

“If you think you’re peeved,” continued Morning Song, “take a second to think about how Twilight feels.” She indicated Spike with a tilt of her head. “If Twilight can stay on mission, you can too.”

“And what is the mission?” asked Redheart. The part of the cellar they were in wasn’t large, and the nurse had clearly heard the exchange. “Is the plan for you two just to keep folks from panicking?”

“That and keep Trixie sitting fat and happy,” Medevac pointed out. “No small mission.”

“I’m not saying it is,” Redheart clarified hastily. “I didn’t mean it to sound like I don’t think you two are doing something important, especially when we can’t do much but keep an eye on Spike, but…” she trailed off miserably, “I just feel like we’re sitting on our hooves and Twilight is out there somewhere and… what are we doing?”

“Buying time,” replied Morning Song. “It’s the most helpful thing we can do right now. We can’t fight Trixie, so we can at least keep her from hurting anypony worse than she already has until Twilight can find a workaround to the amulet.”

Medevac chuckled humorlessly. “They also serve who stall and distract, eh? You’re right, of course, but I can’t say I’m happy about it.”

“Now you join the club,” snarked Rainbow Dash. “The ‘Stall While Twilight Figures It Out’ Club.”

“Please. In this town, we’re all members of that club.”

Redheart sighed and stroked Spike’s head gently. “I just wish there was more we could do to help her. I know she has Zecora and Burnt Oak, but… three of them against Trixie?”

“If we stall long enough, it might be six,” stated Morning Song. The others looked at her in confusion. “Friar Jacques, Rarity, and Oaken are outside the barrier, remember? When they get back, they’ll bolster her forces.”

Redheart gave a tentative grin. “And Friar Jacques has both magic nullification and Curatrix Magic, so he can stand up to Trixie better than the rest of us.”

“Or they could call in the big guns,” Medevac pointed out. “If they’re on the other side of the barrier, why not call Celestia?”

“I don’t understand how Celestia’s not here now,” said Redheart. “Can’t they see the storm from Canterlot?”

Song shook her head. “Canterlot may be highly visible from Ponyville, but the reverse isn’t true; you can barely distinguish it from the surrounding terrain, and then only if you know where to look.”

“But that storm…” protested Redheart.

“Perhaps it just looks like a bad storm,” responded Song. “One with a splash of Everfree chaos. Hardly unheard of."

“With red lightning and a vortex?” said Rainbow, skeptical. “I don’t think so. Somepony’s got to think something’s up.”

Medevac frowned. “I don’t think we should make any assumptions about this magic of Trixie’s. She’s an illusionist, remember? With that amulet amping her, how do we know it doesn’t look like a normal storm from Canterlot. Maybe it’d be hard to keep up the illusion when you get closer, but from that far away?” He shrugged. “The storm barrier itself shouldn’t be possible, but it is. So why not a massive illusion too? If Celestia’s on the way, great, but I don’t think we can count on it.”

Song chirped in agreement. “Quite right, Marine. Help is coming – of that I’m sure – but we don’t know what or when, so until then we have to hold the fort. Which means…” she sighed, “we should probably get back to it.”

Rainbow groaned. “And I was just getting dry, too.”

“Look on the bright side, Dash,” Medevac urged, a mischievous smile on his lips, “at least you don’t have to fly in this weather.”

“So,” said Twilight, letting the word fall off for a time without completing the thought. “That’s it then.”

The three companions said nothing to fill the dead air, and only the storm outside and the guttering flame in Zecora’s fireplace broke the stillness. All of them were staring at the entry in Burnt Oak’s Field Advisory labelled: ‘Alicorn Amulet.’

Numerous grave warnings filled the pages. While the amulet did indeed endow the wearer with a level of power appropriate to the name, the book also made it abundantly clear that the amulet should not ever, under any circumstances, be put on.

The amulet was said to infect the wearer with dark magic, stroking their pride, feeding their paranoia, and even driving them towards megalomania and violence.

We blew through that stage with a full head of steam.

It was noted that the amulet could even come to so dominate the mind of the wearer as to render the wearer nearly incapable of making his or her own decisions. Instead, the amulet’s scripted directives would run the show. While the drives which moved the wearer would still be somewhat unique to the wearer, how those drives would be pursued would essentially be at the amulet’s discretion.

Throughout these distressing details, the book regularly repeated the command to never put it on.

Should that instruction not be heeded – or should the subject have put it on without knowing the danger – soldiers were advised to never attempt to engage the pony wearing the amulet directly. They were instead to evade and escape and call in a Tier One Pacification Squad. Failing that, they were advised three principle options.

The ideal method would be to persuade or – more likely – trick the wearer into willingly removing the amulet, the only non-lethal way to reliably remove it. Assuming the amulet had yet to take grievous hold, this could be accomplished without serious danger, so long as things did not escalate.

Failing that, they were advised to drive the wearer to magical exhaustion. While the amulet contained within it a tremendous amount of power, it still needed the wearer to use it. If she could be pushed sufficiently hard sufficiently quickly – and if the process was helped along by other means, such as potions – the wearer could over-exert herself and hopefully be rendered unconscious until such time as the problem could be dealt with. With the amulet boosting the wearer’s power reserves to staggering levels, it was an extraordinarily difficult hurdle to clear, but it was at least possible.

The final option was as simple as it was grim. While tremendously empowered by the amulet, the wearer would still be an ordinary pony. As such, while certainly possessing enough power to raise a shield or block most any attack, a strike from an unexpected direction would still be a strike against a pony’s vulnerable body, without even an alicorn’s natural resistance to attack. Thus, it was possible to catch the wearer off-guard and incapacitate her… or kill her.

One shot and you blew it, accused a familiar force in Twilight’s head. She waved a hoof as though to dismiss her own self-criticism. “Well, Zecora,” she said aloud, her voice geared toward an attempt at sardonic humor, “it’s a good thing you already drove the ‘don’t try to outfight her, try to outthink her’ concept home to me, or else I’d probably be freaking out right now.”

That, or I’d be freaking out about how this thing twists the wearer’s mind. Poor Trixie, she doesn’t even… nopony deserves this.

Burnt Oak cleared his throat. “Miss Twilight, if Ah might make a suggestion, why don’t we make a list of our available assets so we know what our options are.”

“Okay…” breathed Twilight. “Yes, okay, that makes sense. Well, I’m, uh, I’m hardly proficient at it, but I can shadowstep now. I can make some illusions and throw my voice, and I wonder if I’d be capable of…”

Twilight outlined the various schools of magic with which she was familiar, which happened to be a rather long list. Zecora followed on this by noting various potions and concoctions she had which could either enhance the effectiveness of Twilight’s abilities or else supplement them. Before they had even finished listing their respective assets, the beginnings of a plan began to organically emerge, one which would involve a great deal of misdirection, subterfuge, and pure bluff.

The ideal result of the plan would, ideally, involve tricking Trixie into removing her amulet. Since that was unlikely at this point – with the whole ‘amulet having such a hold of her’ thing – the next best plan would involve convincing her to drop the storm barrier, allowing a message to be sent to Canterlot. Despite the Alicorn Amulet’s power, Celestia or Luna – or, ideally, both of them – would be able to contain Trixie until the amulet could be removed.

In line with the rest of ‘option two,’ the three conspirators reasoned that it might also be possible to drive her to the point of exhaustion. Twilight wouldn’t have had much hope for that working, save that Trixie’s storm barrier had to be draining a lot of energy.

Cadence kept a barrier up against Sombra for days, but her love and light magic is practically tailor-made for fighting a creature like Sombra, and she had the endurance of a flesh and blood alicorn to back it up. Shining Armor kept his shield up over Canterlot for days, but that’s his special talent and he spent years training his body to handle that kind of magic load. And that was just a static shield that he could top off and let sit, with other unicorns giving it boosts which he fed stabilizing spells into; it’s nowhere near as complicated as the storm barrier, much less a storm barrier that’s fighting a magic forest with a bad attitude. Even with that amulet boosting her, Trixie’s got to be feeling the strain.

If I’m interpreting this book correctly, that is. And if I’m gauging the strain of the storm accurately. And if it’s been going long enough for her to feel the effects. And if she hasn’t been training up her magical resilience since the last time I saw her… and I didn’t even get that good of a read on her capabilities that time anyway.

If, if, if, if! Too many ‘ifs’ in this scenario!

Still, the exhaustion option was better than the final option, and it could be naturally incorporated into the rest of the plan. Even if they couldn’t trick her, they could at least try to wear her out.

Try and wear her out, and pray we don’t need ‘option three.’

Zecora has some potions that can help with that. Delivered via my magic, we have the assets to speed up the process and… her thought trailed off as she realized she was forgetting something.

“I’m sorry Burnt Oak,” she said. When he looked up quizzically, she explained, “You were the one who suggested we start by listing what assets we have at our disposal, and then we got so caught up in the planning that I forgot to ask you to list what you have on hoof.”

Burnt Oak shifted in his seat, and he had an expression on his face that suggested he was about to deliver some news he would rather not have to deliver. Rather than say anything immediately, he simply took off his cloak and laid his tools on the table.

Specifically, a heavy crossbow, multiple knives, a kukri blade, and a number of crossbow bolts which – along with the kukri – were products of a rather particular forging technique. A technique Twilight recognized from her studies into combat magic.

“These,” Burnt Oak gestured to his weapons, “are my current assets, Miss Twilight. Ah’m afraid they are of the… direct action variety.”

For a moment, Twilight didn’t speak, but instead picked up the kukri blade to examine it more closely. A quick scan with her magic sense confirmed what she’d already suspected. “This… this is a spell-splitter weapon.”

Burnt Oak nodded. “Some o’ the bolts too. Rated fer Master-level magics. Wouldn’t stand up against an alicorn or a particularly powerful unicorn who was expectin’ it an’ had shields in the right position, at least not without more’n one hit, but a surprise attack or repeated hits’d get the job done.”

Twilight’s mind flashed to the letter she’d gotten from Canterlot just before the storm barrier went up, the letter that warned her of the attacks on Windforce and Mason, the letter that now seemed so long ago.

One of the assassins managed to cut Luna in a melee. Maybe he was quicker, or maybe she just didn’t see it coming, but he got through either way. I had the drop on Trixie and could have gotten her without even needing a spell-splitter blade. She studied the grim edge of the kukri, a blade designed to cut and rend with brutal efficacy. Even if she puts a shield up, this might go through if she doesn’t treat it like a real threat, and if it does…

Twilight felt sick.

“I… I don’t want to kill her, Oak.” I’m not sure I can.

Burnt Oak reached over and gently took the blade from her. He spoke with a tone that was at once fatherly and sorrowful. “Truth be told, Miss Twilight, Ah don’t want to kill her either. The thought o’ that poor girl bein’ twisted by that evil thing…” he shook his head. “T’ain’t right fer such a thing ta happen, especially to a young’un who Ah reckon ain’t really cruel, just… lost.” He sighed deeply, then, with resigned conviction, said, “But she might not give us the choice. Heck, she probably don’t have the choice herself. Ah don’t like it any more’n you do, an’ Ah’ll certainly do everythin’ in mah power ta make this plan work out so it don’t come ta that. Best case scenario, everypony walks outta this one in one piece. But, if it comes down to it…” he tapped his blade, “Ah ain’t gonna stand by an' let her kill an innocent pony. Ain’t no mercy in lettin’ bad folks do bad things.”

“But she’s not a bad pony!” protested Twilight. “She’s just… lost! It’s like you said, she’s just lost!”

Burnt Oak’s eyes were full of sorrow and regret. “Miss Twilight, Ah’ve fought fer justice in some dark places. Ah had ta take lives. Some o’ them folks Ah killed over the years were as evil as the night is dark, but some of ’em…” he looked past her shoulder, and Twilight got the sense that he wasn’t looking so much at Zecora’s wall as he was looking at something much farther away, “some of ’em were just like Trixie. Not evil, just lost. Slaves ta some ideology or lie or awful thing that had ’em all twisted up inside, an’ even if they were just ordinary folk deep down, the things they was fixin’ ta do were monstrous, whether they knew it or not.”

He reached a hoof up under the bandana that hung around this throat. Likely, he was just shifting it around to settle it more comfortably, but as he did Twilight caught sight of scars beneath his coarse hair; scars she suspected were not the product of his logging.

“Sometimes, Miss Twilight,” he sighed, “sometimes there ain’t no happy outcome. Sometimes the only mercy is the mercy of stoppin’ them before they do somethin’ truly evil.”

The nauseating feeling in Twilight’s stomach soured further. Not because she thought Burnt Oak was wrong, but because she knew he was right. She felt tears tug at the corner of her eyes, and sagged miserably forward to hang her head over the table. “I… I’m not sure I can do it, Oak. When I thought she was going to kill Pinkie or Fluttershy that was one thing, but in the fight… I couldn’t… I’m not… I…” she trailed off as emotion welled in her throat.

She was startled by the rugged hoof that ever so gently reached out to clasp her cheek and tilt her head to look him in the eye. Burnt Oak’s weathered features were kind, and his words earnest. “Ah can’t promise how this’ll go down, Miss Twilight. Ah pray ta the Source that we don’t need ta take such measures. If needs be, though, Ah want you ta leave that up ta me, if ya can. A fight ain’t always so generous with the choices it gives us, but if possible… Ah’ll take that burden. Source willin’ you won’t have to.”

Twilight sniffed and rubbed her teary eyes. “I know she’s dangerous. She almost killed Pinkie, I…” she gulped and stifled a sob, “oh, Celestia, I feel like such a coward!”

Burnt Oak stiffened, and his gaze grew stern. “Now listen here, Twilight Sparkle, you ain’t no coward! You done saved the world three times now, and saved towns and cities a dozen times over at least. On any one o’ those adventures ya coulda shuffled off this mortal coil, but ya went along an did ’em anyway ’cause they needed doin’. Ya ain’t a coward fer valuin’ life. It’s because ya value life that you gone an’ risked yer own ta save others so many times. That ya don’t wanna kill this poor girl ain’t a mark against ya. It’s yer strength.” He gave her a light, encouraging tap beneath the chin, keeping her head from sagging as he gave her an encouraging smile. “Ah got confidence that if anypony can figure a way ta get everyone out alive, it’s you. An’ if that don’t happen, it’ll be on account o’ nopony coulda done it. So howsabout we finish hammerin’ out this plan an’ see if we can bring ’em all home safe, eh?”

Twilight sniffed again and rubbed her muzzle, then glanced at Zecora, still unsure. The unicorn wanted to believe Burnt Oak, but after the mistakes she feared she’d made, she didn’t trust her judgment.

Zecora nodded warmly, mirroring Burnt Oak’s encouraging gaze, and said:

What else can I say?

Listen to him I pray.

Let us now focus on the plan.

It can be done; it’s you who can.

Twilight nodded, sniffed once more, then wiped her eyes and sat up straight, brushing her mane back and giving her head a firm shake. “All right then. Let’s review. We start slow, with auditory illusions and mindgames. Then we draw her out away from ponies, with the main problem of course being how we do that. We’ll need to come up with a plan that risks as little collateral damage as possible and…”

It was the morning after the attack, though the vicious weather made it nigh-impossible to tell.

Fluttershy wondered how it went unseen in Canterlot. Though it was far harder for the citizens of Canterlot to see Ponyville than for Ponyvilleans to see Canterlot – in fact, from what Twilight said, it was only barely possible to spot the township amidst the surrounding countryside – the storm above it should have been visible for miles. Had it been a regular storm, there might not have been much cause to notice. But the red-lightning-tinged vortex was far from normal.

Perhaps it looks like a normal storm from a distance, though I don’t know how that would be possible. Twilight might know… but Twilight isn’t here, thank heavens.

The yellow mare was sick with worry, but she forced the nausea down with the same iron will she’d imposed on herself since the catastrophe started. Instead of worrying, she focused on her charges, her injured friends chief among them.

Pinkie Pie and Ditzy Doo were resting. Not sleeping, and not unconscious any longer either, but resting. The pink mare had come to sometime the previous evening, not long after Twilight’s fight with Trixie.

Ditzy Doo had come to a short time after that with a throbbing headache and eyes that bounced back and forth between being more and less cross-eyed than usual.

Fluttershy had tried to explain the situation to them as best as she could under the circumstances, but with Trixie’s tendency to appear and disappear at a whim, it was difficult to give more than a cursory explanation in one sitting.

The trio currently resided in a gilded cage – one large enough to house multiple tigers – inside town hall. Also within the cage were their transmogrified friends, the tending of whom also fell under Fluttershy’s list of duties.

Another item on her list of duties was acting as a sort of herald or major domo to Trixie. It was Fluttershy’s job to coordinate Trixie’s ‘staff’ – various Ponyville citizens who had been conscripted into transforming town hall into a courtly seat for Trixie, complete with banners, statues, heraldry, and other baronial trappings. As Trixie plainly had designs on royalty, Fluttershy guessed that the merely baronial décor was but a placeholder, but she dared not speculate aloud.

Much as she would have preferred to continue monitoring Pinkie and Ditzy – she still did not know the extent of either of their head injuries – she had to play the part of major domo in order to keep the conscripted Ponyvillians from panicking.

Since she could not spend all her time monitoring her injured friends, and in fact could only tend to them periodically, she insisted they keep an eye on each other, ideally keeping each other awake until Fluttershy could be certain of the extent of their respective head injuries.

In Ditzy’s case that wasn’t a particularly hard request to make; the mailmare seemed immune to any hardship but a lack of muffins, and even that she bore with remarkable sanguinity, so staying up late into the night after a head injury while also staying relatively quiet was not much of a sacrifice to ask.

Pinkie, Fluttershy had thought, would be a different matter altogether. Simply sitting still was a hardship for the pink mare; sitting still and quiet was tantamount to torture. Fluttershy had been afraid that Pinkie would bring Trixie’s wrath down upon her within ten minutes at most without Fluttershy being there constantly to distract her.

Had feared… but no longer, for Pinkie was unsettlingly quiet.

Once she’d heard what was going on, Pinkie had simply donned a white-and-black striped prison uniform, pulled out a tiny stonecutter’s hammer, and begun carving soapstone into chess pieces whilst playing cards with Ditzy. Once she finished carving the set, the hammer vanished into her tail, and she started playing chess with Ditzy. She hardly raised her voice, broke into exactly zero upbeat song numbers, and scarcely wiggled.

Pinkie did sing one song. It was a chain gang song. And, far from angering Trixie, the mare seemed to take malevolent delight in a room full of captive ponies singing along with Pinkie about loading sixteen tons of coal and the sound of folks working on the chain gang.

Fluttershy was genuinely concerned that some damage had been done to Pinkie, damage serious enough to harm her brain, but when quietly pressed about it the pink mare had simply given a broad grin and a huge wink that was all Pinkie. So Fluttershy decided to let the matter rest the time being.

Of more immediate concern was Trixie’s rapidly deteriorating mood. The crazed showmare would frequently vanish in lightning-tinged smoke – where she went Fluttershy had not the slightest inkling – only to reappear in much the same manner at random, monologuing all the while.

Or maybe it’s a dialogue and not a monologue, thought Fluttershy, suppressing a shudder. She certainly talks as though there’s another pony in the conversation.

Trixie’s crazed ramblings varied greatly in tone and volume. Sometimes she was sickeningly, disturbingly happy, chortling and cackling to herself as she muttered, raved, and rollicked. Then she ranted, raged, and railed in the very next breath, uttering vile threats and spitting dire pronouncements, sometimes in a mumbled whisper, sometimes in a structure-shaking shout.

Most of the time, Trixie’s voice was low, just at the edge of hearing even for Fluttershy’s sharp ears, and her mumbling rants were so disjointed that even when Fluttershy could hear the other mare’s words she couldn’t always make sense of them.

What was clear was that Trixie was becoming antsy. If uttering murderously detailed threats can be called ‘antsy.’ Trixie was ‘antsy’ that Twilight Sparkle had yet to be found. While Fluttershy was thrilled to the point of fainting that Twilight had evaded capture, the problem remained that Trixie wanted Twilight in chains at her feet, if not something worse.

“—what dreadful heralds, a bird and a wingless pegasus…” Trixie was snarling. “Useless! Useless! We should fry them for their incompetence and find the Pretender ourselves!” Then, with a furious shake of the head, “No, Trixie is above hunting for such worms as the Purple Witch! The serfs shall find her, and then Trixie shall have her vengeance!” Snarling again, “Vengeance, VEANGEANCE! Vengeance now! If the serfs be in our way, then fry them too!” A gasp. “But, Trixie’s audience! Trixie deserves a captive audience!” A cruel, burbling cackle arose in her throat. “And if the worthless heralds and serfs fail to find the Purple Witch, they’ll find themselves the volunteers in our Dark Performance!”

Fluttershy shuddered. Rainbow and Song are in trouble. The whole town is in trouble! She’ll start tearing this place apart to find Twilight if I can’t keep her occupied! But what to do, what to do?!

She curled forward and pressed her hooves to the sides of her head. Think, Fluttershy, think! What would Morning Song or Friar Jacques do in this situation? She played through Trixie’s rants in her mind, looking for a common thread. It’s all about an audience to her. She has a huge ego, a need for attention, a need for…

Unbidden, a memory of Iron Will sprang to mind. Or, more precisely, it was a memory of how she’d acted following the minotaur’s questionable tutelage.

She had been abrasive, aggressive, and in one instance even violent. But it hadn’t been from cruelty or meanness. It had been lashing out after years of being treated as a doormat, a pushover, as somepony who could be safely mistreated because Sad Fluttershy, Weak Fluttershy, Pathetic Fluttershy would never retaliate.

She winced. Even now, the mocking words and dismissive actions of all too many bullies rang in her ears. To be disrespected like that, mocked like that… I just wanted to run roughshod over others the way they’d run roughshod over me.

And in a flash of insight, she understood Trixie.

How much mockery did she endure after fleeing Ponyville? And how much is that awful necklace now making it seem even worse? In her mind, she was probably run out of Ponyville, rather than leaving of her own volition. The consequences on her career seen as malice and not happenstance. The heckling of Rainbow and the others as the viciousness of Twilight’s ‘minions’ and not ordinary rudeness from ordinary ponies.

She’s doing all this because she craves respect, or at least an audience. So, to distract her… give her what she wants.

“Pinkie Pie,” Fluttershy hissed. “Pinkie Pie!”

“Yeah, Fluttershy?” asked Pinkie with her usual perkiness, looking up from the chess game she’d been playing with Ditzy.

“Quietly, Pinkie, quietly,” whispered Fluttershy.

“Oh, right,” stage-whispered Pinkie. “I’ll just do your voice then.” In an eerily-accurate impression, she asked, “Um, excuse me, but, how does this sound?”

Like hearing myself talk, thought Fluttershy. “Very, um, impressive, Pinkie Pie,” she replied. Pinkie smiled. “I need you to do something for me.” Fluttershy glanced at Ditzy Doo. “And, ah, probably you too, Ditzy, if that’s all right.” Ditzy nodded.

“Ooh, what do you want us to do?” cooed Pinkie, regaining her exuberance but somehow keeping it at Fluttershy’s volume. “Break into a now stage-accurate rendition of ‘Sixteen Tons’ from the hit stage production Perpetually Plaid? Because we’d either need some more stallions for that, or for you to get some Poison Joke so you can tackle the bassline.”

Despite the urgency of the situation, Fluttershy took the time to blink rapidly as her brain tried – and failed – to follow Pinkie Pie’s line of reasoning. “Er, um, no, Pinkie Pie, that’s not it.”

Before she could say what it was, Pinkie nodded and said, “Ah, then you need us to be an adoring audience for Trixie to stroke her ego, right?”

Again, Fluttershy allocated valuable time to rapid blinking. “That’s… how did you know—?”

Pinkie shrugged. “Eh. Process of elimination. I mean, it obviously had to be one or the other, right?”

“I… well… okay,” murmured Fluttershy. “Well then, yes. That’s what I… need you to…” she cleared her throat. “I know it’s a lot to ask, what with her almost, um, killing both of you, and i-it’s probably dangerous, but…”

“Pfft!” snorted Pinkie, waving her off with a light wave of the hoof. “Easy peezy, eggs over-easy. Not like it’s the first time I’ve sat around laughing and applauding at some unstable megalomaniac that could easily kill me. How about you, Ditzy?”

Ditzy shrugged. “Meh. I’ve shaken off harder landings doing mail deliveries.”

In spite of herself, Fluttershy smiled. An impossible task, but I can’t think of any ponies better suited to the job. “All right. Do you have any ideas what we should—”

There came a knocking sound, as one might expect to hear from a door.

It came from underneath Pinkie’s chessboard.

Fluttershy and Ditzy Doo froze. Pinkie – in a manner entirely too sanguine for Fluttershy’s taste – remarked, “Hm. Looks like somebody’s at the tunnel.”

A moment of silence followed for the three of them. “The… tunnel?” asked Fluttershy, who was rather surprised by how calm her own voice sounded.

“Yuppers,” replied Pinkie. “I’ve been digging it whenever Ditzy’s napping and you’re off keeping Trixie busy at the same time.”

Another silence followed, broken only by a second round of knocking.

“So…” said Ditzy, “were you, like, digging a tunnel out of town hall, or…?”

Pinkie snorted with laughter. “Pssht! Nah! That’d take way too long! I just dug a little tunnel down to my Ponyville network of tunnels.”

There was probably another knock during the third stunned silence, but Fluttershy was too busy thinking through all the implications of the Pinkie Pie Tunnel Network to pay it any mind.

Pinkie Pie, not so inhibited, reached for the chessboard. “Howsabout I answer the board before whoever it is thinks we’re being rude.”

“Wait, Pinkie, we don’t know who— Angel Bunny?!” Had the exclamation come from any pony besides Fluttershy, it would have been a shout loud enough to alert Trixie. As it was, Fluttershy’s astonishment at seeing her pet barely reached the decibels of an average pony’s conversation.

The little white rabbit scarpered up out of the hole, leapt into Fluttershy’s forelegs, and gave the mare a surprisingly strong hug for all his tiny size. This was immediately followed by remonstrations about the danger she’d put herself in, though his rant was rather short when compared to his usual histrionics. With admirable brevity, he relayed several key points of intelligence.

Firstly, he and the animals had located Twilight. She was working in close concert with Zecora and Burnt Oak.

Secondly, the three of them had devised a plan for dealing with Trixie so as to incapacitate her or drive her off, or at least warn Celestia and Luna.

Thirdly, Angel Bunny – or, more precisely, the animals at the scene – had listened in long enough to know that the three conspirators were still hammering out a plan for how to draw Trixie out of town with the least amount of collateral damage possible.

Having made his report, Angel Bunny rather stridently advised to Fluttershy wait this one out, keep her head down, and not involve herself further. Zap-Happy Mage Mare (Angel’s name for Twilight) had a plan. No need for Fluttershy to further involve herself.

The problem is… I think he’s wrong, Fluttershy thought to herself. Throughout Angel’s relatively brief report, Trixie had continued to pace and rant and dialogue with herself in ever-darkening tones. Knowing that Twilight had a plan was somewhat reassuring, but the fact that it hinged on drawing Trixie out of town – and who knew how well that would go – was… distressing. There are no good choices here, only risks and tradeoffs, thought Fluttershy. Well, it’s a twist on the old plan, but…

“Pinkie? Do you have quill and ink on you? A-and some paper?” Fluttershy felt her voice tremble, not over the message itself, but over how much the stakes had just been raised. It was always going to be risky to distract Trixie by being an ‘audience’ and helping with her ‘show’ she tried to tell herself. The only difference is that now we get to see how it slots into Twilight’s plan to get us all out of this mess. She was pleased to see that her hooves didn’t tremble as she took the proffered writing materials from Pinkie Pie. “Angel, I need you to take a message to Twilight for me. Something that can, or really should, help with her plan. I hope.”

Of course, she had to discuss the specifics of that plan to the others first.

“The… well… the short version is, Twilight needs to get Trixie outside the city so she and the others can fight her away from the innocent ponies trapped here. W-we can help them do that with the distraction ‘show’ we were going to do with Trixie. We just have to convince her to move her ‘show’ outside.”

After kicking around a few ideas, it was Pinkie who lighted upon the best option.

“Like to the old mining camp!” suggested the pink mare perkily. “You can be all, ‘Ah! Great and Scary Trixie, the mines were once infested with something something vile diamond dog denizens something something Ponyville would thank you for trashing the land there blah blah blah something about testing her destructive power on the terrain ahead of time so as to get the best use out of the show stage before carting all the Ponyvillians out there, etcetera. And, since the dogs got pushed out of the old mines, the land’s abandoned, so any blowy-uppy won’t be blowy-uppying anybody.”

“That’s… not a bad idea,” Ditzy agreed. “But what if she thinks it’s a trap? I mean…” one of Ditzy’s eyes drifted to track Trixie’s erratic pacing, “she’s paranoid. Like, super paranoid. Rainbow-when-she-read-her-calendar-wrong-and-thought-we-were-hiding-cider-from-her-on-opening-day-of-cider-season-but-she-was-off-by-a-week paranoid.”

“Which is a bad kind of paranoid,” agreed Pinkie with a sage nod.

The three mares furrowed their brows, trying to think of a solution.

Angel Bunny, who’d been sulking about Fluttershy again placing herself in danger, jabbered unhappily under his breath, then made a suggestion that once again drove Fluttershy’s decibels up into a normal register.

“You want me to do what?!” she exclaimed, aghast. “Say you’re my spymaster?!”

“I could see it,” observed Ditzy.

Impatient, the rabbit pointed out that Trixie already had the town ‘working for Trixie’ to find Twilight, and that Fluttershy was supposedly ‘working for Trixie.’ He stated that it would keep the townsponies safe – though he also made some editorial remarks about whether some of them were worth the trouble – and give Fluttershy another excuse to entice Trixie outside: playing to her ego and desire for vengeance. Angel Bunny smugly pointed out that a megalomaniac like Trixie could be persuaded to ‘enjoy herself by blowing things up while her underlings did all the work’ and that ‘since the townsponies couldn’t find Twilight in the town, that meant she was outside, and perhaps blowing things up at the old mines could draw Twilight out’ or some similar excuse.

Fluttershy found herself disturbed both by Angel Bunny’s language – in saying ‘blowing things up’ he had most emphatically used words other than ‘things’ – and by how confidently he talked about manipulating megalomaniacs.

Nor was she enamored with the fact that it would place herself and – more importantly – Ditzy and Pinkie in the danger zone when the trap was sprung. Still, without a better idea, she put it to the other two mares.

It was to her relief – and dismay – that they agreed to it. She was relieved not to do it alone, but would have much preferred the other two mares be kept far, far away from the danger. After all, before, we were just going to be doing a dangerous ‘show’ with her. Now, we’ll be on the battlefield, and if it goes wrong it will all be my fault for having the idea. And I still have to propose it to Trixie without being suspected, because if she does suspect me she might take it out on the others and if they get hurt I don’t know if I can—

A steadying grey hoof pressed her shoulder, and she looked up to see Ditzy giving her a reassuring smile as Pinkie absolutely beamed at her and made the odd squee-ing noise that so often accompanied her toothy smiles.

“You’ve got this, Fluttershy.”

As Fluttershy turned and made her way towards Trixie, it occurred to her that she wasn’t quite sure which one of them actually said ‘you’ve got this,’ or if either said it out loud at all. Both of them had such tangible positivity to them that the words probably wouldn’t have been necessary anyway.

Approaching the raving lunatic whose raw, magical danger rippled off of her like lightning, Fluttershy bowed low, cast her eyes to the ground, and intoned, “Oh most Illustrious and Beneficent Ruler, Trixie the Great and Powerful, I, Fluttershy, your humble servant, do request an audience.”

Outside town hall, above the Everfree Forest, and around the whole of Ponyville raged the black-red storm. Beneath its malice, ponies sheltered. Some quivered in fear. Others waited with baited breath. A select few deceived, plotted, and readied themselves for battle.

At one abandoned edge of the thunderous dome, near the railroad tracks, out of sight and mind of all within the dome, there swept the unbroken, deadly, swirling wall of the great storm.

Then a blade – gleaming white and wreathed in fire – punched through the wall like the lethal strike of a lance. The metal hummed with battling magics as the storm beat itself upon the blade and the blade held itself firm against the storm, bending and vibrating, but neither breaking nor withdrawing.

Slowly, painfully, the blade was forced downward towards the ground as though cutting.

There was the sound as of a sail being torn in twain in a roaring gale, and, through the tear, a ray of light pierced the corrupted gloom.

Author's Note

The travel typewriter Antiquarian had been using was flung across the room by the blast of magic that punched through the hotel wall and sent him flying. Flecks of fire spilled across the page he'd been writing, a page which seemed to detail the end-of-chapter author's note into which he put a bizarre amount of thought.

As the flames began to lick at the bottom of the page, Antiquarian sprang up, having fortunately possessed the wherewithal to throw up a defensive shield and thus spared himself the full effects of the blast.

As the assailant - garbed in a cloak bearing the sigil of a blank page trapped under a block - began exchanging magical blows with Antiquarian, the page continued to burn. The page itself perhaps contained a longer fight sequence, some context for what Aura was doing and how this all tied into the bizarre side-story of Antiquarian and Aura which had far less editing and fewer qualms about reusing words - 'bizarre' for example - and maybe some explanation for why progress had been so slow.

The last of the options was least likely, as the real reasons were mostly either too complicated to give or not things Antiquarian felt like sharing, and any reasons he might share would have seemed like hollow excuses - which they would be - but honestly, it wouldn't matter anyway because the page was actively burning.

Maybe the author's note might have gotten somewhere useful if only Antiquarian wasn't wasting your time writing this buildup to a joke that probably isn't funny, but we'll never know because the page was swiftly being consumed by fir-🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥A deeper Sixteen Tons🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

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Agôn, With Chorus (Pt 2) - or - Deus Ex Machina

Rain sleeted against the despoiled soil that covered the surface of the old diamond dog mines. The land was an uneven patchwork of holes, divots, low hills, and shallow ditches, some of which broadened and deepened enough to be called a sort of proto-ravine, with scale too large to be a ditch but too mundane to be a ravine or valley. Here and there were stubborn little trees subsisting on limited nutrients, along with the occasional patch of shrubbery.

Some old mining equipment – abandoned by the dogs when they were driven from the territory – remained on the surface, often under makeshift tarpaulins or within the partial enclosures of three-walled sheds. These latter constructs were of pony origin, for the diamond dogs seldom bothered with such things. Having driven the dogs from the mines, it now fell to ponies to survey the mines and ensure they were stable.

The survey work was slow, but thorough. When it was finished, it would bring new jobs to the town, and thus the new prosperity of fresh cash flow in the economy.

But, for now, the mines were quiet. And, with no survey work scheduled for several days, they were also abandoned, both above and below the ground.

There was a stillness about the place – or else there was what stillness could be had in the midst of such a wicked and unnatural storm – but it was not to last.

Red tendrils of electricity flared and sparked amidst the rain and the muck of the place, unwelcome intruders upon the natural world. With violence they arced and crackled in sizzling chains of power towards one another, and black smoke filled the air, as though set aflame by the malice of the flecks of magical lightning.

With a loud, menacing CRACK that seemed to make the very air groan at its intrusion, the tainted teleportation broke upon the barren lands above the mines, spilling forth its unwilling occupants upon the ground.

Fluttershy landed with a wet WHA~THUMPTH! as muddy water and watery grime splashed in all directions and the ground deformed beneath her with a sickening squelch. Ditzy and Pinkie landed in similar conditions, though in Pinkie’s case it was more akin to a “Wheeeee—" WHA~THUMPTH! “—ghrblegrehlereeeghler!”

The three mares picked themselves up from the mud and shook themselves off as best as they could under the circumstances, which was to say, hardly at all. While they tidied themselves up to the meager degree they could manage, they cast their collective gaze about for Trixie.

In doing so, they noticed a conspicuous lack of megalomaniacal showmares.

“Was there… a change of plans?” asked Ditzy, who put her head to one side and knocked into the other side with her own hoof in an attempt to shake loose the mud in her ear. “I thought she was coming here with us.”

Fluttershy felt the color drain from her face. “Oh my! You don’t suppose she… t-that maybe she suspects we’re…”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s fine,” Pinkie assured her. “Maybe she just took a left turn at Albuckerkey.”

There was a great and terrible rumble in the skies above, louder even than the wrath of the storm, and the three mares instinctively crouched to the ground, with Fluttershy letting out an audible “meep!”

A bolt of lighting arced down from the sky, slower than any natural lightning, doubtless to give those observing it a chance to gaze in horror at their impending doom. It lanced down towards them as though to smite them where they stood— then arced away at the last moment to demolish a nearby hillock, vaporizing the earth there into a magician’s obscuring cloud. From within the cloud echoed a dread and terrible voice.

“PITIFUL CITIZENS OF PONYVILLE, TREMBLEBEFORE YOUR NEW PRINCESS…!”

“Or she’s just making a dramatic entrance,” amended Pinkie Pie.

“WITNESS THE MIGHT OF YOUR MISTRESS OF MAYHEM, YOUR ARCHITECT OF ANNIHILATION, YOUR MAJESTERIALLY MAGNIFICENT MORTIFIER…!”

“Gotta admit, she has her showmareship down to a science.”

“THE SULTANNESS OF SAVAGERY, THE KAISERAINE OF CALUMNY, THE INDOMITABLY GREAT AND POWERFUL PRINCEEEEEEESS TRIXIE!”

On the speaking of her name, the cloud of smoke swirled upwards into a fire-wreathed illusion of Trixie herself, forty feet tall and arrayed like a dark alicorn. Trixie herself remained garbed in her typical attire rather than royal garb. Yet, considering the malice in her eyes and the pride that seemed inextricable from the twisted power which radiated off of her as she flared Rainbow Dash’s wings, Fluttershy felt that if Trixie was not yet garbed as the dark princess she envisioned herself, it was more likely a matter of being too consumed with power to notice than any semblance of true restraint.

The sheer wrongness of it all hit Fluttershy like a wave. Trixie stood her pose, expecting an adoring public, and Fluttershy was frozen.

Fortunately, Pinkie Pie was not. As Fluttershy had predicted, Pinkie did, indeed, cheer loudest.

“YAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY GeeeeerREAT AND POW-ERFUL PRINCEEeeeeeeeeEEEESS TRRRRRIXIEEEEE!!!” cheered Pinkie, throwing confetti, streamers, and possibly firecrackers in every direction as she cartwheeled across the sodden soil.

Astonishingly, Pinkie’s display was sufficient to bring Trixie to a pause. The showmare’s eyes flickered rapidly between red and purple as she stared at Pinkie’s exuberance. Mouth slightly agape, Trixie appeared more than a little stunned to hear the pink pony cheer for her so loudly. Fluttershy only hoped she wasn’t imagining the look of plain, ordinary, non-malicious gratification that passed all too briefly across Trixie’s features.

The moment, sadly, did not last. Shaking her head as though to clear it – or, in this case, to cloud it, thought Fluttershy – Trixie resumed.

“For Trixie’s first trick, oh adoring audience, Trixie shall transform this pitiful rock and stone into the likeness of a pony!”

Trixie did so, and it was Fluttershy’s turn to have her mouth agape in shock. The statue Trixie had made was of a unicorn. A female unicorn. A female unicorn who bore a striking resemblance to Twilight.

Now why in the wide realm of Celestia would Trixie make a statue of Twilight?

“Now that Trixie has sullied her horn by making a statue of her pitiful and spiteful adversary, Twilight Sparkle, Slayer of Dreams…” at Twilight’s less-than-flattering title, there was a chorus of “BOOs!” as though a great crowd was there to shout indemnities upon the purple mare, though a quick and startled look confirmed there were no other ponies present, “… the only recourse left to the Great and Absolutely Powerful Trixie is to erase the stain of this insult by BLOWING IT THE BUCK UP!”

Ditzy grabbed the other mares and flung them all flat, shielding them with her own body as best she could as the stone statue exploded into hundreds of fragments, spewing shrapnel and rubble in all directions. Fluttershy saw a jagged six-inch-long chunk of granite embed itself in the ground barely a foot from her own head.

As Trixie’s mad cackles filled the stormy air, the three friends stood, shaken, though none the worse for wear, save only Ditzy who sported a few minor abrasions.

With uncommon somberness, Pinkie set to work in earth pony fashion, shoring up dirt and rocks into a makeshift barricade and passing out hard-hats. Fluttershy couldn’t say whether the pink mare had pulled them from her mane or from the equipment stashes, because she was too busy helping Ditzy and Pinkie shore the barricade up higher.

“W-well,” stammered Pinkie with forced cheerfulness as Trixie’s mad laughter shook the ground, “let’s hope the real one shows up before the captive audience becomes part of a disappearing act.”

In the midst of the show, unknown to the three mares – and, more importantly, unknown to Trixie – three other figures arrived on the scene and made preparations. Concealed beneath the weave of zebra cloaks – woven with zebra arts so as to blend naturally with the landscape – the newcomers began to lay their traps for the demented showmare.

Layer upon layer of bottles rigged like short-fused grenades or impact smoke bombs were arranged at critical positions or stockpiled for later use. Rather than being filled with smoke – or explosives for that matter – these containers were essentially weaponized potions with a variety of attributes.

On their own, none of these potions were sufficient to do much to Trixie. Combined with misdirection, magic, and careful timing, they might prove decisive.

With their preparations complete, Twilight, Zecora, and Burnt Oak maneuvered to their starting positions and waited for the right moment to strike.

Fluttershy lost track of time as the show went on. She and the other mares huddled together for warmth under a tarp and did their best to avoid the show’s collateral damage. Save for a few scrapes - and a painfully wet, miserable, bone-deep cold - they were none the worse for wear. Physically.

Emotionally, Fluttershy was experiencing the unfamiliar desire to wring another pony’s throat as she watched Trixie flap about on Rainbow Dash’s wings, reenacting through magically-generated visual aids the defeat of the various Bearers and their allies.

Retelling their defeats in no apparent order, Trixie had first hit upon the Apples and Fritters, then Marble Slab and Dash, then Fluttershy and her present companions, and was only now working her way to telling of the defeat of Ironhide and Morning Song.

Her rendition was… painfully detailed. Fluttershy grit her teeth in helpless frustration as Trixie roared with laughter and the projections of Morning Song and Ironhide writhed in agony upon the ground under the weight of Trixie’s magical torment.

“Kwhahaha~ha~haaa…” cackled Trixie, barely able to tell the story as she was laughing too hard. “T-they… they thought they could t-talk the-here waypast the-he Great and Powerful Trixie,” she chortled.

Uncannily realistic screams ripped from the throats of the projected Ironhide and Morning Song. Fluttershy bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

“A-and they kept screaming and screaming and screaming…” continued Trixie, “and they wouldn’t stop…” tears streamed down her face as her laughter continued uncontrolled, “and then Trixie did stop…” the projected attack ceased and with it, mercifully, the screaming, “and Trixie watched them…” her voice was hollow, “and she would not tell Trixie who she was…” with a magic tug, dog tags were pulled from the projected Morning Song’s neck, “Trixie found something,” her voice had become low, almost a hiss, “she remembered… something from the past…” a soft, almost peaceful smile crossed Trixie’s tearstained face.

Her eyes were clear.

“I did that show for them…” she said to herself. “There were hundreds of them, elite soldiers all. The Black Cav. The legendary Black Cav. REF heroes of old.” A tear-soaked inhale. “They were so far from home… in hostile lands… they needed a laugh.” Her voice was very small, “I was so afraid to perform,” a fond smile crossed her lips, “but Trixie… the Great and Powerful Trixie… she fears nothing and no one… I performed for them and…” her voice shook with emotion as she swallowed her tears. “… a-and they loved me, they really loved me, and…”

Trixie’s tear-laden lavender eyes fell upon the image of Song, frozen in memory. “She is a soldier of the Black Cav… the short one and the Konish one too… they are Black Cav… how could I… how could Trixie… this is not…”

The necklace flared a bright, hateful red that shone like the beacon atop a dark sorcerer’s tower. So painful was the light to look upon that Fluttershy and the others had to look away.

An inequine shriek, banshee-like in power and hate, ripped through the air and shook the ground.

Against the harsh glare of the necklace, Fluttershy risked a look.

Trixie’s eyes burned with red fire.

“TWILIGHT SPARKLE!” shrieked the tormented mare to the heavens above and the earth below. “YOU HAVE TAKEN EVERYTHING FROM MEEEEEE!!!”

As the rocks beneath them shook and the three captive mares huddled in fear, there came suddenly amongst them a fourth mare.

“Follow me!” Zecora bade them urgently. Before any words of shock or question could move beyond brief noises, Zecora, eschewing all attempts at verse, hissed, “Twilight is here! We must not be!”

Without another word, Zecora draped heavy cloaks over them, then led them away into the dips and troughs of the gutted landscape, away from the wretched, tragic shell of a mare who had held them captive, and away from the brave, determined mage who would confront her.

As they turned the last bend before slipping away, Fluttershy cast one final, lingering glance back at Trixie. Standing in a sort of reverse silhouette, wherein all the world was dark and indistinct and the ‘silhouetted’ object shone like fire, Trixie stood in the agony of her own mind, her cries of anguish echoing those of her victims.

Perhaps Trixie’s first victim was herself.

The earlier fury melted away in kind Fluttershy’s heart, leaving only pity. Tears stinging in her eyes, she looked away, bowed her head, and followed Zecora.

Raw, animal rage burst from Trixie like a gout of fire from a dragon, lashing out and obliterating rock and crate and shed with the ease of an artillery barrage. Insensible with hate and in agony with loss, she let forth her violence upon the landscape, and the landscape bowed to her whim.

But it could not bring back the old Trixie.

Not her. Not now.

You are beyond her now! You are Alicorn! Princess! Ruler! The Great and Powerful Princess of Magic of Vengeance!

Everything is gone!

You have everything you desire!

They fear me! They all fear me!

All shall love me and despair!

I shall never be loved again and it is her fault! That miserable witch Twilight! Fiend! Foe! Nightmare of my dreams and ENEMY OF MY SOUL!

“EVERYTHING!” shrieked Trixie over and over. “YOU TOOK EVERYTHING! EVERYTHING!”

“And I can give it back!”

The voice cut through Trixie’s fury, seizing her attention as a lifeline thrown to a drowning mare. Submerged in the sea of her own guilt, dragged down by the undertow of hate, Trixie grasped at the lifeline with the desperation of one surfacing from an unmerciful sea.

She gasped for air as though awakening from a nightmare in a cold sweat and cast her wild-eyed gaze about, searching for the voice, the voice that had penetrated her nightmare.

So consumed with the thought of getting her life back that, for a moment, she reined in her wrothful magic. The destruction which had erupted from her abated, leaving only a scorched stillness as rain hissed and sputtered against the smoldering earth.

“W-who… who said that?” she demanded, her voice barely a whisper.

“I can give it back, Trixie,” repeated Twilight Sparkle, speaking from the rain and the mist. “I can give you your life back.”

Trixie opened her mouth to ask what Twilight meant, but said, “What trickery is this, she-wolf? Monster! Trickster! Betrayer!”

“That’s what you really want, isn’t it, Trixie?” continued Twilight, pushing past Trixie’s outburst. “You want respect! You want love! You deserve to be loved, Trixie! You do! You really do! But hurting other ponies won’t give you what you want! It will only cut you off from joy!”

“It is your fault that Trixie is cut off!” roared Trixie, who fired a blast of lighting at the source of her enemy’s voice. Thunder echoed across the quarry.

Then from behind Trixie, “I never wanted any of this, Trixie.” The showmare spun, rain-soaked soot splashing as she did. “I am truly sorry this all happened. Let me help you.”

“Trixie does not need your help!” Another bolt of lightning. Another echo.

Another direction from which Twilight spoke. “You beat my friends, Trixie. You beat me. You showed how great and powerful you are. This doesn’t have to go any further. End this! I have no desire see you hurt! That Amulet will destroy you, destroy Trixie, unless Trixie takes it off!”

“SILENCE!” Lightning shot in all directions and the thunder seemed to shake the heavens.

Vaporized water hung in the air in a great mist, broken only by icy raindrops, now much diminished in number, as if they were afraid to rain on Trixie. Wise rain, wiser than that witch! I shall kill her… and all shall learn to fear and love their Trixie!

“I… I am sorry, Trixie,” said Twilight, her voice close to breaking. A silhouette was framed in the mist before her, and Trixie shot a great gout of red fire. The mist parted, the silhouette vanished… as six more ringed Trixie in from all sides. Six identical voices continued, “I will do what I can to help you.”

For a moment, fear settled into Trixie’s heart and, with it, the gnawing ache of hearing the sorrow in Twilight’s words and the sorrowful echoes in Trixie’s own lost dreams and lucid moments.

But neither fear nor sorrow colored her words as a murderous chuckle bubbled up out of her throat like molten magma coming to unleash its destruction upon the surface.

“Come one or come six, little Twilight,” purred Trixie in a sing-song voice. “No matter how many, I will kill you all.”

Twilight had never given much thought to the old expression ‘to have the tiger by the tail,’ and thus had not contemplated the implied dilemma of what one ought to do after catching a deadly creature by the tail. As she flitted about from shadow to shadow, staying ahead of Trixie’s onslaught by mere seconds, she came to a deep, personal, and intimate understanding of the old expression and all it entailed.

Rippling red lightning strikes had decimated the first six silhouettes Twilight had formed to keep Trixie disoriented, and Twilight herself barely avoided the echoing strikes which erupted from each red bolt. Twilight responded with shadowstepping about, flinging the occasional bolt of energy at Trixie – more to keep her burning energy than with any hope of actually breaching her defenses – and then shadowstepping away moments before Trixie vaporized the area from which Twilight had been striking.

If that blasted necklace really has placed her on a level comparable to a real alicorn, then I’m doubly grateful that Nightmare Moon wasn’t at her full strength when I faced her. A blood-red magical spear narrowly missed giving Twilight a lethal haircut. And also grateful that Nightmare Moon was mostly toying with me and not actively trying to murder me.

As much as possible, Twilight kept Trixie’s ire focused on the mirror images. Thank heaven for the mist, she thought as Trixie salvoed a hundred magical spears at two of the decoys. They’re little more than shadows, and would not hold up to proper scrutiny. But by virtue of the weather – and Trixie’s demented rage – the showmare could not seem to discern what was real and what was not.

And it’s about to get worse for her.

Using the illusions, Twilight lured Trixie to the first trap: a trio of bottles rigged to spray their contents once sparked by magic. Trixie came charging towards one of the decoys, hurling threats and insults—

—which turned shortly to expletives as the green goo splashed over her.

Yes! thought Twilight, pumping one hoof in triumph. That mixture will slow her reaction time as it seeps into her skin and—eep!

Twilight was forced to magic a barrier between herself and the reflexive bolts of energy that Trixie shot in all directions in her anger. Most sailed harmlessly away, but the one which had nearly hit Twilight bounced.

Trixie turned her baleful gaze upon Twilight.

“Crap,” muttered Twilight as Trixie charged her horn. The lavender mare barely managed to escape into her shadowstep as a searing beam of energy cut through the space she’d just occupied.

Emerging well away from the site of her narrow escape, she had to duck as an arcing ring of ruinous power lashed out from Trixie in all directions, nearly decapitating Twilight by accident.

Well, not really by accident, thought Twilight as she threw her voice in a fake scream of agony. Trixie rounded on the direction of the scream as Twilight drew another trio of bottles from where Zecora and Burnt Oak had cached them. She is trying to kill me after all.

As Trixie filled the area of the false scream with fire, Twilight hurled the bottles. Time for some coughing and bleary eyesight, Trixie. As she escaped the anticipated return fire by shadowstepping away once again, Twilight did some mental calculations. Based on how quickly Trixie spun and hurled those boulders in my general vicinity, thought Twilight as she observed a minotaur-sized rock flatten the area she’d been standing a moment ago, I don’t think the slowed reaction time has set in yet.

As Twilight continued dancing around the wrathful Trixie, she could not help but think of the tiger she’d caught by the tail… and whether the hunter who watched from the side would be forced to kill the tiger to save the one who caught it.

Burnt Oak watched from his sniper blind. Unlike Trixie, he could see through the mist, courtesy of a potion from Zecora.

It was not a potion taken lightly, for only an earth pony’s constitution – and a hardy one at that – could manage the concoction without it turning to poison. Even now, it seemed to strike at his innards, and he had to fight the urge to vomit.

But I can see her. I can see them both. And I can see Trixie… falling apart.

He winced every time Trixie lashed out, for any one of her strikes could kill Twilight if it landed at full force. More than once his hoof tightened on the broad trigger of the crossbow… but not yet, he thought. Not until I have to.

The potions were having an effect on Trixie, that much he could tell. Her movements were becoming more erratic, sluggish, and ill-aimed. Yet the force of her attacks was not diminished in the slightest. If anything, the attacks were growing stronger.

She has to run out of energy eventually. And then… and then…

Burnt Oak had seen what happened when unicorns drew on their magic past their own magic pool’s capacity to sustain it, seen what happened when they drew on their bodies’ energy levels, burning calories for casting. Some unicorns blacked out. Others pushed through. At low levels it was sustainable. At moderate levels, it was a risk, but possibly worth it. At higher levels, it could be permanently crippling or even deadly. And, when the drain becomes automatic, as when pushed by Dark Magic… well… they call it Ghoul Syndrome for a reason.

Just like that poor sap in Canterlot.

As Trixie staggered about, her shouts and expletives giving way to silence as she shadow-boxed decoys with her own deadly magic, Burnt Oak realized that neither he nor Twilight need necessarily kill Trixie, even if lethal force became unavoidable.

The amulet might do it for them.

Pain.

Rage.

Exhaustion.

Confusion.

These emotions warred in Trixie’s heart as she chased the phantoms Twilight. Her foe was indeed a nightmare, one who stalked her from the shadows and stole her life but could not be brought to battle.

All Trixie’s power and all her deadly might, and she had no foe upon which to inflict it. Nor would she have much time to do it.

The putrid potions of Twilight Sparkle had set to work in Trixie like a poison. Her strength ebbed as her vision blurred and her ears rang. The amulet sought to cure the poison, but she felt it drawing too much on her strength.

Too much, too long.

Her belly was empty, and her limbs were weak.

But the amulet drove her ever on, whipping, striking, driving, gnawing, consuming, controlling…

She could scarcely remember how she’d come to be here, how her nightmare had found her, how she had failed to escape…

… to escape…

… to escape…

Yes… yes, Trixie would escape, before the amulet consumed her…

Before it consumed them all…

Magic built around her.

She prayed that she reappear where she needed to go.

It’s working, thought Twilight, breathless with forlorn hope as much as with exhaustion. She’s wearing out. She’ll break before I do. Come on, Trixie, break! Just pass out, okay? Just pass out and don’t let that blasted amulet keep drawing on you! Fall over, dangit! Fall over!

Trixie wobbled unsteadily on her hooves, seeming about ready to do just that.

Come on, Trixie, end this, come on!

Tendrils of electricity built around Trixie as a teleportation spell matrix climbed shakily into place.

No, blast it, NO!

Twilight opened her mouth to shout and charged her horn to grab the mare—

Too late!

In a flash of light, Trixie vanished from her sight… and a red flash flared briefly in the distance through the mist and rain. Twilight took off sprinting toward the light. She hasn’t gone far! I can still do this! I can do this! I can—

There was a thunderous CLANG that cut through the air like a knife, splitting the clouds in its wake as a keening wail resounded through the sky.

Trixie emerged from her teleport and staggered, coughing and hacking smoke and ash and hoping that wasn’t blood she saw on the ground. Blearily she gazed about, seeking some landmark that might grant her bearings, might help her see the way out of this accursed situation. Something like the pickaxes and crates and shovels and… I’m still at the old mines, she thought with tired disgust. Perhaps I can find my way out of this blasted mist and better see where Sparkle is.

A sharp whistle pierced her thoughts. At its ringing interruption, she turned to see that strange, bipedal creature from the trainyard whom the amulet had named ‘foe’ as he swung a shovel right at her—

CLANG!

The crazed Trixie crumpled at Friar Jacques’ feet like a marionette whose strings had been cut, water and mud splashing all around her as she came to rest in a heap.

The dark jewelry about her neck pulsed and flickered – desperately it seemed to Jacques – and there was a great keening wail upon the wind, like the strain of machinery or the whine of a wounded animal, and the storm seemed to peak, like an animal arching its back in pain.

Then it ceased. The water fell about Friar Jacques in a great, final torrent as the clouds shrank, imploded, and vanished without a trace. The clear brightness of the sun blazed merrily above the landscape, like a breath of fresh air after near-drowning.

Friar Jacques took in a double-lungful of fresh, clean air, the first pure breath he’d had since entering the tainted landscape.

Splashing behind him alerted him to the presence of Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, Zecora, and a pleasant grey mare he’d met only in passing named Ditzy Do. Slowly, and in stunned disbelief, his pony – and zebra – friends emerged from their hidden places, blinking in the sun and in shock. Covered in muck and grime and bearing bruises and scrapes, they looked haggard and worn and in great need of some of the pleasant warmth and friendship for which ponies were renowned.

The friar gave them a cheerful wave. “Bonjour!” he greeted them with a fond smile. “I see you have been busy, no?”

Author's Note

Detective Chief Superintendent Skymaster (Air Crimes Division) was beginning to suspect the universe was playing a cruel joke on him. This was the third time he’d been called to the site of an aerial incident involving this particular stallion, and each incident had been worse than the last.

Most ponies in his division went their entire lives without bumping into the sort of walking disaster area that this pony apparently was – what with Angry Mobs on an international manehunt, University hit squads, and, purportedly, ninjas driving him to set himself on fire to escape them – but Skymaster had crossed paths with him thrice.

It’s like dad always said: Once is a fact, twice is a coincidence, three times is a conspiracy.

Skymaster had never put much stock in that phrase. Until today.

The airship had been bound for the Cape of Forlorn Hope. Had been. Past tense.

Now it was a pile of still burning wreckage scattered across a field.

Miraculously, nopony had been killed, though there were a dozen much bruised and bludgeoned ponies in various states of disrepair lying unconscious and/or immobile and moaning. DCS Skymaster’s sergeant and constables had already identified six of them as known hit-ponies and thugs – actually one is a hit-zebra he mentally corrected – and two of them were known to have worked for a ‘Mr. W. Block.” Skymaster had a sneaking suspicion that the trend would continue for the rest of the dozen. The crew, looking dazed and confused, were in much better shape, though they’d apparently been seized and tied up for much of the excitement.

Were there any actual passengers on the blasted flight?

The reason for the assortment of bruised bruisers – and likely the reason for the present burning wreckage and the sheer number of professional hitters – was sitting somewhat near said wreckage, close enough to feel the heat but not enough to be troubled by it. He had a broken boarding hook tucked in one foreleg, a beat up (and slightly bloodied) typewriter on the grass next to him, a torn tweed jacket, bloodshot eyes, haggard features, and a look of odd contentment on his face as he busily puffed away at a pipe.

Admittedly, he had six of those the last time I saw him.

Heaving the sigh of one who knows it’s going to be a long night, DCS Skymaster approached the stallion who was the root cause of so many of his headaches and said, “Antiquarian.”

At his name, the stallion looked up calmly and half-smiled. “DCS Skymaster. Been a while.”

“Care to tell me what you’re flying to the Cape of Forlorn Hope for?”

Antiquarian smiled enigmatically. “Catching up with my niece.”

Skymaster gestured to the burning dirigible. “And this? Do you have anything you’d like to say?”

To his surprise, Antiquarian nodded. “Yes, I do have something to say.”

Skymaster’s eyes widened. Is he actually going to talk? Is he really going to cop to his part in all this? Antiquarian locked his eyes on Skymaster, his bloodshot green gaze intense and earnest. Skymaster held his breath… and Antiquarian spoke:

“I have been waiting three and a half years for Friar Jacques to hit Trixie in the face with a shovel.”

Skymaster blinked rapidly, his mouth opening and closing of its own accord as he tried – and failed – to grasp what in the wide world of Equestria the insane author meant. “I… you… what?!”

“I said I need to speak to my lawyer.”

“WHAT?!”

“Lawyer!”

***

It’s honestly probably been more than three years. I had the idea relatively early on in my conceptualization for the story that it might well be five years, though four is more likely. To be clear, I have no grudge against Trixie. I just like the scene.

I miss having less mentally taxing jobs; I wrote so much more back when I worked with my hands for my day job.

This chapter is – like so many of my other chapters – one that I’m very self-critical of. More than usual though, this one nags me with the thought that the pacing is off and the fight scene needs more.

However, I refuse to let a nebulous ‘perfect’ be the enemy of the Good. I need some momentum to avoid having another slump like the last one. That’s why I’m not going to say much else in this author’s note. I just want to get it done and keep moving forward.

The fight was originally going to happen in Ponyville proper, but then, the original concept I had was far less dark. The grimmer the chapters got as I actually wrote them, the more I decided, “Yeah, I need to get this out of town for everyone’s safety.”

Trixie breaking down sobbing was also a relatively new addition, as was the amulet basically starting to kill her. Again, originally she was going to get tricked into thinking Twilight had gotten another amulet and become more powerful, and she was going to be trying to pull back and rethink and regroup. That’s clearly not what happened, and if you asked me to explain why I’m not sure I could tell you much. This just seemed to work better for pacing and for drumming home A) why Twilight was able to beat her, and B) how seriously bad of a situation Trixie is in.

Ditzy, I want to note, was also never originally in the scene concept (not even her trying to ring the bell a few chapters ago). That scene, and all that came after for her, were the product of me wanting someone in Sugar Cube Corner for the CMC jokes, realizing she’d get involved (and remembering that Ditzy is the best), and then just reacting to how her being involved would shape the scene.

When you characterize your characters well enough that they feel like people in your head and you know those ‘people’ well enough to predict and intuit their actions, they tend to flow more organically and change the scenes to fit how they would act if it was all real. I like it when my characters surprise me.

Usually.

I’ve been reading back through the older chapters and enjoying myself remembering a lot of details that I’d forgotten.

I’ve also enjoyed remembering that I have a pretty good audience and there’s been some fun feedback to reread.

As for the running Chronicles of Antiquarian and Aura, she’s already in the Cape of Forlorn Hope on the trail of Writer’s Block. Antiquarian, discovering she’d gone off to chase his nemesis, has followed and been… waylaid. Unfortunately for the hitponies, they bothered him while he was writing, and he’s always armed.

Shoutout this chapter goes to Applejack Gets a Warthog. Because Bungie-era Halo remains some of the best sci-fi ever conceived and Applejack Gets a Warthog somehow manages to feel more fitting for Halo canon than that abomination spawned by Paramount ever will. It’s not Halo and it never will be.

Jump to top

After the Rain

Friar Jacques had come a long way in anticipating and preparing for pony displays of affection. As such, he took the precaution of bracing himself for an emphatic and potent group hug.

It proved to be a wise precaution, as the cry of “Friar Jacques!” burst forth as if from a collective throat of the mares present on the scene. Well, at least those who are conscious. It was a cry of relief and joy and the release of adrenalin, and the lingering memory of fear now given its antidote.

The near physical shockwave of the cry was only overshadowed by the actually physical shockwave of affection that hit him like an avalanche of hugs. An odd description, one I feel I would not have made prior to meeting Pinkie Pie, thought Jacques as the mare in question seemed to do her level best to hug his spine into paste, but one which feels apropos all the same.

Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, and Ditzy Doo – whom he did not know save in passing – pounced on him like benign and cuddly lionesses. He was briefly aware of Ditzy Doo pulling away with a mumbled, “Oops, sorry,” as though she were afraid she was intruding on the others’ hug, only for her to be pulled back into the group hug by Pinkie with a perfunctory “Get back here!”

Astonishingly, Friar Jacques managed to keep his footing through all of this, though it was only by the narrowest of margins. He was about to congratulate himself for this feat when he heard the telltale burst of teleportation and the gleeful “Friar Jacques!” of Twilight Sparkle.

Her vigorous – and fully armored – self-introduction to the group hug proved to be the proverbial straw that broke the back of the proverbial camel’s no doubt equally proverbial spine, and the friar succumbed to the overbalanced weight of pony affection, toppling into the mud with a wet splorsh.

Twilight, the last to join, was also the first to rise, jumping to her hooves and levitating the others off the friar one by one before lifting Jacques himself. “Oops, sorry,” she apologized with a sheepish giggle as she took off her helmet. “I guess I got a little excited.”

“Pray, think nothing of it, fair lady. It would appear you had every reason to be excited,” chuckled Friar Jacques as he did his best to brush off the muck. “My trip to Canterlot proved not so calm as I had hoped, but it seems that things have been even more… complicated here in Ponyville.”

Twilight winced, her smile deserting her. “Yes, the princess sent me a letter advising me of your own experiences shortly before,” she gestured to Trixie, “all of this started.” More quietly, she clarified, “So far, nopony else knows.”

Jacques put out a hand and briefly tousled her mane, doing his best to give fatherly assurance that he only partially felt himself. “Pay that no mind for now,” he advised her quietly. “I’m sure we’ll make do.”

Zecora, who had not joined in the group hug, approached and took Friar Jacques’ hand, pressing it warmly with a smile on her face.

You arrive at an opportune time,

Wielding shovel like a bat,

That your trip was far less than sublime,

I find a worrying fact.

Lady Zecora, you are fortunate to not know the half of it. “That matter will keep. For now,” he gestured to Trixie, “perhaps you had best explain to me the nature of this… amulet.” He practically spat the word. “Morning Song and Rainbow Dash told Rarity, Oaken, and myself what they could, but most of what they knew was speculation.” And I didn’t stay around for much of the speculation, admittedly.

Rather than getting an answer, he found himself inundated with other questions.

“Rarity’s with you?”

“Is she okay?”

“Where is she?”

“Where’s Oaken?”

“Ladies, please!” Jacques interrupted. “Rarity and Oaken are fine. When we came to the edge of the storm and could not safely travel further by train, I sent the train back to Canterlot whilst the three of us continued on foot. We went to the town first, encountered Morning Song and Rainbow Dash whilst they were out warning ponies to stay indoors, and they remained there when I sensed that the epicenter of all this Darkness was in the quarry.” Granted, they did not know I was leaving them there while I sought out the Dark epicenter, and they will probably we rather cross with me for slipping away, but I can live with their anger so long as they are alive to be angry. “Now, I’m sure you have at least as many questions as I do, but since I do not know how long Miss Lulamoon will be unconscious, please confirm for me that this Dark artifact did indeed give her this present power and malignance.”

Jacques hardly needed much confirmation – he could feel the malice radiating off the thing as it lay wrapped around Trixie’s neck like a parasite – but it was sensible to confirm his theories as much as possible before taking action.

“That’s correct,” supplied Twilight. “It’s called the Alicorn Amulet. Very old, very powerful, and very capable of corrupting the mind of the user.”

“Very well,” said Friar Jacques with a slight smile. He charged his hand to sever magic and destroy Dark Enchantments and bent to reach for the amulet. “Let us make it very broken.”

“Friar Jacques, wait—”

His hand grasped the amulet.

BOOM—CRASH!

The thunderbolt punched Friar Jacques back and through a nearby stack of empty crates before his brain had time to fully compute the thought, ‘oh no.’

A cry of dismay rose from the mares, but before it could reach its apex of timbre and volume he was on his feet, hair and beard bristling and smoking from its ends.

“Iamfine!” he assured them, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a deluge of verbosity. His feet moved of their own accord, taking him where they willed as energy coursed through his limbs and drove his arms to move about with equal vigor as he marched around the sodden ground of the quarry. “Myarmorandmagictookthepunsihment. Just-need-to-walk-it-off. WHOW-that-was-a-shock.”

Zecora, Twilight, and Ditzy Doo all heaved a collective sigh of relief, and Fluttershy practically fell over. Pinkie Pie put a hoof to her muzzle and giggled. “Wow, Jacquesie, you took that shock way better than I did.”

“That-sounds-like-you-had-a-poor-experience-Pinkie-I-hope-you’re-doing-better-now,” replied Jacques, who discovered he was having difficulty keeping his mouth from running off on its own.

“Worse’n yours from what Ah hear,” drawled a baritone voice. Jacques’ head snapped to see Burnt Oak ambling up. “Ah’d advise ya not ta try that again, Friar. Take it from me, tain’t no pretty thing when lightning do strike twice.”

Jacques noted the woodspony’s heavy armament and considered asking about it, but quickly decided there were more pressing issues. “Believe me when I say that I am in emphatic agreement with you, Monsieur Oak,” he replied, his speech slowing to a more normal pace, but still clipped and snappy. “The question remains, however, how best to remove that confounded amulet.”

“An’ how ta keep her unconscious until we do,” agreed the woodspony.

“My lab,” declared Twilight. “That’ll give us the best chance of finding a solution, or at least a stopgap. Now that the barrier’s down, I should be able to contact Princess…” she trailed off, swallowing hard, “or, at least, we can contact her if Spike is okay.”

A stab of fear pierced Jacques’ heart. “What has become of young Spike?” he demanded. Please God, if something happened to him whilst I was away…

“Hurt, but alive and stable. Redheart and Medevac are looking after him.”

Friar Jacques let out a slow breath. “Then he is in the best hands available. So to speak.” It was harder to reassure Twilight on this point than on the matter of the assassination attempts in Canterlot. He is yet a young boy, thought Jacques with an all-too-familiar pain. Far too young to face such perils. God, grant Redheart and Medevac the grace to see him through this unharmed.

But I cannot afford to dwell on that now, he thought. I must attend first to the matter of Miss Lulamoon. Bending down, he picked Trixie up and slung her over his shoulder. “Lady Twilight, I am going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer me honestly. Do you have enough energy left to teleport us directly to your laboratory from here?”

“I wish,” replied Twilight unhappily. “That fight took a lot out of me. I might be able to teleport three of us once we’re closer – you, me, and Trixie – but for now we’d better get walking.”

Jacques nodded. “We’d best be about it then.”

Before they departed, Zecora expressed that she had a potion – one applied topically, fortunately – which could be applied to Trixie’s face and, upon seeping into her skin, would hopefully keep her unconscious long enough for the party to reach the library. As she applied the foul-smelling concoction, the zebra remarked, “Yes, the smell is a crime, but it will buy you time.”

Charging them not to apply the potion more than once in a day, Zecora departed, picking her way back towards the Everfree with the intent to procure potions and books of potions which might help them treat their friends’ conditions, or at least keep Trixie under. The rest of them headed to Ponyville.

The mood of the party was sober as they picked their way back to town with as much speed as they could muster under the circumstances.

Meanwhile, Pinkie Pie and Ditzy Doo stayed close to Fluttershy, who trembled as she trotted along. Burnt Oak, Jacques noted, hung behind the friar and his unconscious cargo, hoof never far from his loaded crossbow. A wise precaution, thought Jacques, though I hope it is an unnecessary one. To have come so far as to take the poor mare alive… I pray we are able to keep her that way. He winced as his memory recalled the assassin who had taken his own life on the train, another victim of Dark Magic and revenge. God, help me save this one.

Unsurprisingly, it was Pinkie who broke the silence, though she spoke with a surprisingly somberness, “Do you think the others have been un-transmogrified?”

“Oh, I hope so,” murmured Fluttershy.

“The storm clouds are gone,” Ditzy pointed out. “That’s good, right?”

“But Trixie still has Rainbow’s wings,” Twilight pointed out gloomily. “I don’t think we can count on them being returned to normal.”

Pinkie, with the tone of one desperately trying to lighten the mood, observed, “Kind of a pity it was AJ and Mackie that got tree-mogrified, since you were the one who said you wouldn’t mind being a tree, Fluttershy.”

Jacques blinked. “Pardonne-moi, Miss Pie, but do I understand you aright in thinking that Applejack and Big MacIntosh have been turned into trees?”

“Uh-huh,” chirped Pinkie. “They got tree-mogrified, Fritters got spear-mogrified, Marble and Ironhide got statue-ogrified,” she tittered to herself, “Tee-hee! Ironhide and -ogrified. That one rhymed. Anyhoo, Song got bird-ogrified, Rainbow got… sorta earth pony-lite-mogrified – though I guess you knew those last two – and Ditzy Doo became,” her voice became a deep-voiced, gravelly growl, “another fine addition to Trixie’s collection,” Pinkie gave a hacking cough, then resumed in her normal voice, “and that’s how our day went.” She paused. “Oh, and I got magically punched through a wall.” In a low tone, very nearly a whisper, she added, “Wouldn’t have been so bad if not for poor Spike.”

“God have mercy,” said the friar feelingly.

“I take it you didn’t stick around Morning Song and Rainbow Dash long enough for the full rundown?” Twilight asked, her voice at once dryly amused and very, very tired.

“It would seem not,” replied Jacques.

“Well, Source be praised for your sense of timing then,” remarked Twilight. “Dieu est bon, right? I’d rather have you on the field with a shovel than getting the rundown on all the ways our day went down the crapper.” She blushed slightly at her crude word choice, then let out a muted half-laugh. “Sorry, Friar. It’s been a very long day.”

“Indeed it has,” agreed the friar, very conscious of the heavy weight and the Dark presence on his shoulder. A long day… and far from over.

Rainbow Dash was plodding along through the rain, Morning Songbird on her head and Rarity and Oaken at her heels – the latter ponies being a welcome reintroduction to the storm-slashed Ponyville – when two very significant things happened at once.

Firstly, the storm stopped. The rain ceased, the clouds cleared, the thunder ended, and the Darkly inclement weather vanished in seconds as though it had never been, leaving only the rain-slicked streets and homes as evidence of its existence.

Rainbow Dash was scarcely able to notice or appreciate this fact, at least initially, because of the second significant thing that happened in the same moment.

A moment prior, it had been Morning Songbird who sat atop Rainbow Dash’s head.

That moment ended, and all of the sudden – with special emphasis attached to ‘sudden’ – it was Morning Song on her head. Period. Full stop. No ‘bird’ modifier in play. Morning Song, a pony who, when returned to her proper form, had not the feathery, hollow-boned weight of a tiny bird but, in fact, the full mass of a strong and athletic earth pony warrior in full battle regalia.

The manner in which Rainbow Dash experienced this transmogrification from Songbird to Song was experienced thusly:

Hey, the rain is starting to let o—OWWOWWHUPFWUH!

Morning Song’s weight – proper for a pony of her build and vocation, and far from inconsiderable when compared to that of a bird – forced Rainbow Dash’s head down with the force of a falling hammer, smashing her face into the cobblestone pavement and jamming her muzzle between two of the cobblestones.

The abruptness of the downward journey to the pavement was so shocking to Rainbow Dash that it took a moment for her brain to catch up with the signals her nerves were sending to her.

When those signals were received, her brain put together a plan of action designed to draw immediate and needed actions from those other parties present so as to alleviate the regrettable turn of events that had placed her in such an unenviable position. The plan was both simple and direct, and was put into effect as soon as it became actionable.

Rainbow Dash screamed.

Morning Song had been engaged in a conversation with Rarity and Private Oaken when the transmogrification occurred.

Her experience was somewhat smoother than Rainbow Dash’s though no less jarring. How it transpired might be summarized thusly:

“I know you’re worried about Friar Jacques, Rarity,” said Morning Songbird. “So am I. But this is a contest for which he is far better suited than us. At this point, it’s possible we would make the situation worse if we suddenly—OWUHFF!”

Morning Song landed with a jolt, not quite having the wind knocked out of her, but being so startled that it almost achieved the same effect. She blinked in the shock of the warm sunlight for a stunned moment before a slow smile crept across her face. Is that… am I…

“Oh, Morning Song, you are back, darling, you are restored!” cried Rarity, who threw her forelegs around the pony lieutenant in a delighted hug. “Oh it is so wonderful to see that nasty magic has… I say, darling, do you hear that?”

“MRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRM!”

“OhmygoodnessIamsosorryRainbowDash!”

Rainbow Dash’s screams, severely muffled though they were, had the desired effect of enticing Morning Song to leap off of her with great alacrity. It took some not inconsiderable effort from the two earth ponies present to pry Rainbow Dash free from the cold, wet, muddy earth which had clung to her with such vigor that, when they finally pried her loose, she came free with a *pop* not unlike that of a champaign cork.

The pegasus tumbled over backward, or would have if she’d not been caught and sat upright by the attentive Private Oaken. Rainbow shook her head angrily to clean herself of the muck that insisted on clinging to her in spite of her liberation from the cobblestone trap. Oaken kindly helped her clear the mud clogging her nostrils as Morning Song apologized over and over again.

“Ser’usly, LT, ib’s fine,” Rainbow Dash assured Song, sniffing and snorting periodically to clear her nasal passages and annoyed that the mud and the impact made her sound like she had a bad cold. “I prob’ly deserved ib for da way I gabe you lip yebsterday.”

“Still… I’m so sorry,” replied the officer, wincing and seeming deeply embarrassed.

“Ib’m fine,” insisted Dash. “Ib’m just glab you’re back, which means my wings are back.”

An awkward silence followed her pronouncement.

“Lieutebnant, mby wings are back, righbt?”

Rarity took a sudden interest in the sky. Oaken pursed his lips. Song cleared her throat. “Flight Officer Dash, I want you to know that I have every confidence that we will find a way to resolve this situation…”

Ignoring Song, the pegasus twisted her head to look.

Rainbow Dash screamed.

Medevac trotted around the corner to where Redheart continued to tend Spike. A grin was plastered on his face. Redheart felt hope well in her heart, but forced herself to ask the question anyway, just in case. “Well?” she asked.

“Never thought I’d appreciate my stump aching every time the weather changes, but I do now! The pains in ole stumpy were right!” declared Medevac, stamping his prosthetic hoof against the floor. “The rain stopped! It’s all clear outside!”

Redheart felt her vision swim as she swayed in place. A strong hoof caught her.

“Whoa, steady on there, Red. You okay?”

“Okay?!” she demanded, a delighted smile taking hold of her face. “Med, I’m better than okay! The sun’s out! That means we won, doesn’t it?”

“Sure looks that way,” agreed Medevac. “I mean, we won’t know for sure until…”

He trailed off as a driving, mournful, angry sound full of frustration and fury rang muffled through the stones of the cellar. Looking confused, the medic asked the same question Redheart had on her mind.

“What is that unearthly sound?”

Applejack gasped for air like one revived from the dead and sat bolt upright. Soft loam and damp earth fell away from her as she rose from the bed of earth in which she’d slumbered. In which Ah’d been planted like a dang tree! She shuddered at the recollection. Feeling dampness on her cheeks, she reached up and realized she’d been crying. Around her lay piles of pre-peeled apples that had fallen from her like tears in the rain. Apples that feel from me when Ah… wept? Are those apples my te—

She shook her head vehemently, seeking to drive off the strange and disturbing memories. Looking around, she first found her brother, who appeared in a similar state. She caught his gaze, and for a brief instant saw in his eyes a pounding, unrelenting, righteous fury at the one who would harm—

But his eyes met hers and softened in relief. She felt her own eyes soften in return. Each reaching over, they embraced, eyes and hooves saying what words could not.

Then she sought Fritters.

In front of her she saw Marble Slab and Ironhide standing, stretching, and blinking owlishly, shaking their heads like dogs trying to dislodge whatever vermin clung to their skulls. They’re okay, but where’s Fritters? She felt her breath quicken. Oh, Celestia, if something happened to him—

“Applejack!” cried Fritters. The thin, whiplike unicorn appeared as if by magic and wrapped her in a tight embrace that shocked her with its strength. Before the hug could reach Pinkie levels of painful, he pulled back, grasped either shoulder with a forehoof, and looked her over. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? What did Trixie do to you?”

Feeling warmth rise in her cheeks, Applejack forced herself to reply slowly and calmly. “Ah’m fine, Fritters. She didn’t hurt nothin’ but mah pride.” And my heart, makin’ me sick with worry over what she threatened to do to you… over what could have happened…

“Dzięki Bogu,” exclaimed Fritters, his shoulders sagging with relief. “Thank the Source you are safe. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop her, Applejack, I almost had her, and then I… I’m sorry.”

“No, Fritters, you ain’t got nothin’ ta apologize for. Ah’m just…” she swallowed the lump in her throat. “Ah’m just happy yer alright.”

Fritters frowned. “You’re crying. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Applejack wiped her eyes hurriedly. “Ain’t nothin’, Frit. They’re happy tears now.”

Marble chuckled. “We’re fine too, Fritters,” interjected the squat pegasus stallion merrily.

“Yeah, yeah, I saw,” groused Fritters. “You’re short, Mac’s big, and Ironhide is Guard-Standard-Issue Adaquate…” he smiled at Applejack and said gently, “and Fair Lady Applejack is smiling. All is right with the world.”

Applejack felt the heat in her cheeks rise, reaching critical levels when she caught sight of Big MacIntosh smiling out of the corner of her eye. Clearing her throat, she jabbed Fritters in the chest. “Not so fast, ya Konik reprobate. How are you feeling?”

Fritters’ bloodshot eyes widened and he seemed to stare at something far distant over her shoulder as he came to a momentous realization. “Ravenous,” he rasped. “I feel like I haven’t eaten in a year and— oh, hey, a peeled apple.”

To Applejack’s horror, Fritters picked up one of the peeled apples which she and Big MacIntosh had been… growing when they were trees. This has been a very disturbing twenty-four hours. Adding another layer to the disturbance, Fritters bit into the apple with obvious relish and an audible, “Mmmm. Gooooood.”

Feeling slightly nauseous, Applejack brough one hoof to cover her mouth in disgust. “Ew, Fritters, that’s… that’s gross!”

Perplexed, the stallion tilted his head. “What? It’s just a peeled apple. Sure it was on the floor, but…” seeing the look on her face, he paused, “Okay, what am I missing.”

“Big Mac an’ Ah got…” Applejack swallowed bile, “transmogrified into trees, Frit. Trees which grew apples without peels. Get tha picture?”

Fritters stopped mid-chew, looked at the apple, looked at Applejack, looked at the apple, then opened his mouth and let the bite fall out on the floor with a wet splop. “Whah thah cah frah?” he said, leaving his tongue out as if he didn’t want to let it back inside.

Translating his question as ‘where’d they come from,’ Applejack scratched the back of her head and tried to remember what she could from being a tree. That’s now up there on the list of ‘Top 10 Weird Things I Did Not Expect to EVER Have to Do.’ It was a list which had undergone significant alteration since Twilight entered her life.

She did not especially want to remember what being a tree was like, but for the sake of Fritters being able to be able to put his tongue away without it turning into a moment of body horror, she tried to concentrate on the fuzzy memories. “Ah think… Ah think they’re mah tears,” she said hesitantly. Then, more confidently – though Ah’d rather not think why Ah’m so confident – “Yeah, them apples were tears.”

Fritters considered that new information, looked at the apple, looked at Applejack, then gingerly closed his tongue within his mouth with a shudder. “Would… uh… would it be weird, dark soldier humor, too soon for bad jokes, awkward, and just generally in poor taste if I said your tears are delicious?”

The guffaw ambushed Applejack so unexpectedly that it took her a moment to realize that she was the one laughing. Fritters’ remark hadn’t been particularly humorous, but then, it wasn’t that kind of laugh. It was the sort of laugh that comes when the situation is so absurd that laughter becomes one of the only ways to cope. That, combined with Fritters’ contriteness and earnest concern for her, actually eased her tension. She felt her shoulders relax more than they had a moment ago as she laughed. “It’s a mite weird,” she admitted, “but thanks all the same.”

“Happy to help,” replied Fritters, gingerly setting the teary apple down. “And, on the upside, I’m not really hungry anymore. At all.”

“Wonders never cease,” muttered Marble Slab.

Applejack put a hoof to her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Well, maybe we should go an’ find out what all went down ta bring us to this little… reunion.”

“Agreed,” nodded Fritters, his cavalier attitude giving way to a soldier’s focus. “We can compare notes of what all we experienced on the way. Best place to start is probably…” he trailed off as an unearthly wail echoed through the air, muffled by distance, but loud with bitter outrage, “the best place to start is probably whatever that is.”

‘Whatever that is’ proved to increase dramatically in volume upon meeting with the source of ‘that.’

‘That,’ of course, being a certain rainbow-maned pegasus.

“You’re all back to normal?!” roared Rainbow Dash. “HOW?! How are YOU all back to normal when I’M NOT?! WHY AM I THE ONLY ONE NOT BACK TO NORMAL?!?!”

“Calm down, Rainbow Dash—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down, Lieutenant Song, you’ve got all your limbs! MINE are presumably still attached to that bucking SHOWMARE like some kind of Nightmare Night COSTUME!”

“Well, at least ya weren’t turned inta no apple tree or somethin’!”

“Yeah, Applejack? Well at least you didn’t have to sit in a stockade while Trixie beat the snot out of Fluttershy and Pinkie Pie and Ditzy Doo and SPIKE while you just had to sit there and BUCKING WATCH!”

“She did WHAT to WHO NOW?! Ah’m gonna frigging KILL ’er!”

“And I’ll frigging help!”

“ENOUGH!” roared Morning Song.

The shock of her outburst immediately silenced the discord, and Rainbow Dash even came to attention on instinct. Applejack, despite having no formal training, did the same.

Morning Song stepped between the two, fixing each in turn with her piercing blue gaze. “First of all,” she began quietly, “you two had better hope that nopony in this town can make out what you’re saying, as your vengeful words set a rather poor example for how the heroines of Equestria ought to act.” Her hooded gaze fell hard on Rainbow Dash, and the later swallowed. “That goes doubly for you, Flight Officer Dash.”

“Yes, ma’am!” squawked Rainbow Dash.

“Sorry, ma’am!” managed Applejack.

Song held her gaze upon them for a moment, then, with a voice no less intense for its quietude, she continued, “Second of all, did it ever occur to you that a very likely reason for why the storms have stopped and most of the transmogrifications have ended is that Twilight – sweet Twilight, kind Twilight, merciful Twilight – was forced to take Trixie’s life in order to save the lives of others?”

The silence that followed the question was so profound that even the sound of Fritters shifting in place on his hooves echoed like the creak of a rickety door on an empty barn.

“I thought not,” said Song softly. “Now, since we do not know what has transpired, where all of our friends are, and what the current state of Trixie is, we are going to stop shouting and start thinking so we can act with sound judgment and not emotion. Marble, please do an aerial reconnaissance of the immediate area and then come back. The rest of us will compare notes and see if we can piece together a picture where everyone else might be.”

As it happened, there were fewer notes to compare than any of them would have preferred. None of the ponies who had been with Jacques when he departed for battles unknown knew which direction he’d gone other than the eminently reasonable guess of ‘towards the danger.’ Nopony knew where Fluttershy, Pinkie Pie, or Ditzy Doo had gone, as the only ponies who’d been present with them in the town hall at the time of their departure had been assorted foliage, statuary, and other objects at the time. Nopony knew where Trixie had gone for exactly the same reason. Song and Rainbow Dash knew where Medevac, Redheart, and Spike were, but it was agreed that it would be safer for them to remain where they were until Trixie’s current status was confirmed.

With no specific leads to follow, Song sent Marble aloft once more to do a wide area search. She and Fritters briefly debated over whether to split up to search or search as a group. They eventually decided that, if Trixie was still an active threat, it would best to travel as one, powerful group, thereby giving them the best chance of overwhelming her.

It was a much quieter and more subdued party of ponies that began their search of the town.

As it happened, the search began in the wrong direction, which led to them being in a wholly different part of town when Fluttershy, Friar Jacques, and the rest returned to Ponyville proper.

The familiar sights and smells of Ponyville did much to soothe Fluttershy’s shaking, but both Ditzy Doo and Pinkie Pie still kept close to her.

Twilight broke the silence, asking, “Well, how should we round ponies up once we’re at the library?”

Friar Jacques seemed to mull that question over for a moment before replying, “Monsieur Oak, you spoke earlier of knowing where the Nurses Redheart and Medevac are concealed with Young Spike, yes?”

“Sure do, Friar. They’re holed up under Berry Punch’s place.”

Jacques’ eye fell on Fluttershy, Pinkie Pie, and Ditzy Doo. Fluttershy couldn’t help but quiver under his gaze. Not because she feared him or because his gaze was hard or cold. Rather, it was because she feared she would be called upon to undertake some arduous task when all she really wanted to do was curl up on her couch with a book, a bunny, and a beverage, preferably one of the ‘steaming hot chocolate and spiked with whiskey’ variety.

Come on Fluttershy, buck up! she chastised herself. You can’t just hide in your house every time something scary or hard or catastrophic or life-threatening happens.

A sardonic part of her added, Mostly because if I took that approach in Ponyville, I’d never leave my house.

Such thoughts came to her in the brief instant between when Friar Jacques looked over at the three mares and when he asked, “You ladies know this establishment, I trust?”

“Yupperoonie!” chirped Pinkie Pie. “That’s where Ditzy Doo threw a dart and it caused a chain reaction that set me on fire, where I got set on fire by a chain reaction and also on another day convinced a minotaur sellsword to take up a career in the circus, and where Fluttershy learned that there’s a big difference between two percent alcohol, and ten percent alcohol when she accidentally ordered the wrong—”

“A simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed, Pinkie Pie,” interrupted Friar Jacques with a wince. Fluttershy, having hid behind her mane with embarrassment, was grateful for the interruption. “If you were to be ever so kind as to retrieve them and bring them all to the library, that would be most welcome.”

“You sure that’s wise, Friar?” asked Burnt Oak. “Trixie did a number on the poor drake. Ah’d hate ta put him back in horn’s reach of her.”

Judging by the expression on Twilight’s face, Fluttershy could tell she was thinking the same thing.

With a tired sigh, Jacques replied, “I’m afraid we have little choice, mon amie. Based on what you all have told me, the injury to Spike is Dark Magic in nature. Only Redheart and myself have the magic to handle it, just as I need Redheart and Medevac’s assistance in keeping Miss Lulamoon unconscious until we can attend to the amulet. All our expertise for treating friend and foe alike in this circumstance is concentrated in the same three people. Zecora’s potion should hold until we can find a more long-term way of keeping her asleep. And, if not…” he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, his expression grim, “we will ensure Spike’s safety, and our own.”

Fluttershy’s mind flashed with images of Trixie overcoming the potion, awaking, shaking off the bonds of sleep as the dreadful power returned… only for the flash of Friar Jacques’ blade to cut her life short.

Feeling ill, she started towards the cellar where the nurses and their patient hid. The longer we debate, the greater the chance Friar Jacques will have to… we can’t delay. “We’ll bring them, Friar,” she said, her voice unwavering.

Fluttershy strode with purpose, unaware that her shaking and quivering had ceased.

Friar Jacques briefly watched Fluttershy depart with Pinkie Pie and Ditzy Doo, then turned for the library. “She has grown much in these past weeks,” he remarked softly. His eyes fell on Twilight, who walked beside him. “All of you have. You are blessed, Twilight, to be a remarkable mare, surrounded by remarkable friends.”

Twilight lowered her head, not wanting to meet his gaze. “If I amount to anything, it’s because of them,” she replied. “Still… I wish my friends did not need to grow up so much. I wish this… Darkness hadn’t come into our lives. I wish…” she trailed off for a long moment, “…I wish.”

Friar Jacques was silent for a moment, seeking the words that would console her, would give her a sense of the meaning in her struggle. He was not so foolish as to think he could say the perfect phrase and make her suddenly cheerful, but he likewise knew that one could endure great hardship if only some meaning could be drawn from it. And there is no evil so dark that God cannot bring light from it. For it was from the greatest evil ever done that God brought salvation, turning even death against itself.

“Our world is a broken one, Twilight,” he said quietly. “Broken by sin and evil. In such a world, trials are inevitable. Your trials have been harder than most. Yet the good you and your friends have done has by God’s grace sanctified you. For, in facing these trials as you have, you accept the virtues you are given and participate in the salvation that was won for you. More, the good you do awakens goodness in others, and in so doing you accomplish the will of the Father who is in Heaven.” His gaze fell upon her once more, and he was pleased to see that she returned his gaze this time. “Someone must bear these burdens, and in bearing them you have spared others the burden. In so doing, you have grown. You and your friends have become truer versions of yourselves, purer versions of yourselves in all these trials, and so have become more fully alive. Without the struggles that test and refine you, your lives may be more outwardly placid, but I doubt very much that you would find fulfillment in them. You are meant for more.”

His words were chosen carefully. All people, he knew, were meant for more than mere trivial existence. They - we - are meant to grow in virtue, to grow in fellowship, to thrive, to love and be loved. In the words of Saint Irenaeus, ‘The glory of God is man fully alive.’

But there had been times in his priestly ministry where it would have been unwise in that moment to say ‘you are meant for more’ to the person he was counselling, however true it was. Not everyone who was suffering would hear such words in the way that they were intended. That time would come, but not always quickly or easily. Many needed the truth stated differently, or even in that moment simply to have a shoulder to cry on for a time before any advice could be heard and taken to heart.

Charity sometimes required patience, and many untold days of helping hurting souls to bear their grief or anger until such time as they were ready to hear a kindly word. A reassurance or lesson ill-timed or ill-spoken was seldom heartening, and often distressing.

But Jacques judged that Twilight was ready for such words. She was constantly seeking meaning, purpose, and she knew it. Her guilt over – in her mind – ‘dragging’ her friends into danger was a guilt best answered by the truth, one taught him by his own mother many decades ago. Even now he remembered her words:

My child, to each person upon the earth comes the call to love God and be loved by God, and to love one’s neighbor as oneself.

To each person upon the earth comes a particular vocation – the unique call of how to love and be loved.

It is in answering that call, my child, that we come alive.

Twilight and her friends had been called to love in an extraordinary way. Far from dragging her friends along, she was drawing them towards their true selves.

The young mare was quiet for a time, mulling over his words as they walked. Then she gave a short, tired laugh and said, “Well, things certainly are always lively around here.” More contemplatively, she added, “And you’re right. My life has never been richer. I was empty before, hungry before, and now…” the look of peace that crossed her features, though full of exhaustion and framed by dark rings beneath her eyes and mud-spattered features, was genuine, “I— no, we are more than we were.”

Friar Jacques felt happiness rise in his heart, mingled with sadness, for he knew that Twilight and her friends would only grow in the trials to come… and that the trials would be great. “Indeed you are, Lady Twilight. Indeed you are.”

It did not take long for Fluttershy and the others to find Redheart, Medevac, and the still-unconscious Spike. While not thrilled about the notion of bringing Spike into the same place as Trixie, the two nurses also recognized that there weren’t really any better options. Both Redheart and Medevac were needed to keep Trixie sedated – Redheart for her magic, and Medevac because his experience as a combat medic had taught him a lot about sedation and its interaction with magic, including cases where he’d had to deal with victims of Dark Magic.

Their respective training, as well as recent events, meant they were the current experts in Ponyville when it came to performing medicine while dealingwith Dark Magic. And both of them were the most qualified in town in non-pony medicine, save only Zecora, who was currently gathering more supplies. As Friar Jacques had said, the two nurses were the most qualified to handle Trixie and the most qualified to handle Spike.

Thus, the reluctant nurses and their unconscious patient accompanied Fluttershy and her companions down into Twilight’s laboratory.

At the sight of Spike, Friar Jacques’ eyes had softened unto tears, and Fluttershy had felt a palpable sorrow and regret radiating off the old man.

Still, his sense of duty did not slacken. After a brief but heartfelt greeting to Medevac and his Bonne Sœur Redheart, he set about helping them both in tending to Spike and – of more imminent importance – seeing to it that Trixie remained incapacitated.

In setting about these tasks, he spared but a moment to ask Fluttershy, Pinkie Pie, and Ditzy Doo to find the rest of the Bearers and soldiers and bring them to the lab.

While Fluttershy would have much preferred to stay and help tend to Spike – and, if she was being frank, to sit down and shake uncontrollably with pent-up emotions – she knew there was little for the three of them to do but find the others.

Once more walking the streets of Ponyville, Fluttershy was struck by how deserted the town was. Intellectually she knew – and was grateful – that the residents were sheltering in their ‘Tuesday Bunkers.’ Until the storm passed, it was wise that they remain there. The metaphorical storm, that is, she thought with a glance at the now thankfully placid skies.

Still, she could not help but find the utter quietude of the place unsettling. I know I’m not the most outgoing of ponies, but this place, she shivered, …it feels like a ghost town.

“Sure is quiet,” remarked Pinkie Pie. The bounce had finally returned to the pink mare’s step, but Fluttershy noticed she wasn’t bouncing as high as she typically did. “Quiet and peaceful.” She nudged Fluttershy gently. “Just like you like it, right, Fluttershy?”

Not like this, thought Fluttershy dourly. ‘Deserted’ isn’t the same thing as ‘peaceful.’ But she didn’t want to upset Pinkie, so she said, “Um… sure.”

Pinkie winced, seeming to realize she’d said something wrong. Her smile became a little more forced as she continued brightly, “You… uh… you did a really good job distracting Trixie earlier, you know. That was a really good accent you put on, and it woulda worked out great if the stupid amulet hadn’t—”

Images of Pinkie getting blasted through the wall of a building and Trixie’s murderous eyes flashed across Fluttershy’s vision. The yellow pegasus shut her eyes against the intrusive images and held up a forestalling hoof. “Pinkie I… I don’t want to talk about it, please. If… if that’s all right with you, that is.”

Opening her eyes, Fluttershy saw Pinkie looking at her contritely. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” said the pink mare. “I wasn’t thinking. I just…” she shrugged. “I just don’t like seeing you so frowny especially since… since things are gonna be all right now, right? I mean, Jacquesie is back, Trixie is unconscious, everypony’s meeting up… it’s gonna be okay now, right?”

The way Pinkie said it suggested she thought it was a done deal, but Fluttershy knew that a happy ending was by no means guaranteed, even at this stage. I think my friends are out of danger, are hopefully out of danger, but Trixie… Trixie…

It would almost be easier if I could hate her. Then I wouldn’t care what happens to her. Her memory returned to the agony she saw in Trixie’s eyes at the quarry. The fear. The grief. The loss. The loss of her career, the loss of her control.

The loss of herself.

I can’t hate her. I shouldn’t hate her. Even if she’d meant to do everything she did, it would still be wrong to hate her. And, after seeing her pain, seeing how lost she is… how can I not pity her?

Even now, she could still lose her life.

So, when Pinkie assured her that everything was going to be all right, Fluttershy wanted to feel Pinkie’s surety. But she couldn’t. And, when she looked at Pinkie, she realized the pink mare couldn’t really feel it either.

Pinkie’s confidence is just as empty as mine.

All she could manage to say, to Pinkie, to Ditzy, even to herself, was “I hope so.”

They walked in silence after that.

How long the silence lasted – or how long they walked – Fluttershy could not have guessed. But she did know how the silence ended: they turned the corner, and found the ponies they were looking for. All of them.

There was a brief moment where both parties simply stared at each other, as if stunned into disbelief that they had all survived. To Fluttershy’s own surprise, she was the first to speak. “Um… hi.”

“YOU’RE OKAY!” cried Rainbow Dash, who did not need her wings to reach Fluttershy first and take her in a hug that rivaled one of Pinkie’s. The others were hot on her heels.

A cavalcade of questions followed, with those relating to Trixie’s present state and the nature of her capture – asked most consistently and most insistently by the soldiers – being the ones that Fluttershy prioritized in her answers.

“She’s knocked out and being held in Twilight’s laboratory,” the yellow pegasus managed when she was able to get a word in edgewise. “Mister Burnt Oak found Nurse Redheart and Nurse Medevac and they are helping make sure Trixie stays unconscious until we can figure out what to do. We’re… um… we’re supposed to meet at the laboratory, if you don’t mind.”

As it happened, none of them minded.

Down in Twilight’s laboratory beneath the main floor of the Golden Oak Library, Redheart and Medevac were busy hooking Trixie up to a series of IV drips to both keep her unconscious and to supply her with nutrients whilst in that state. Redheart tried to not think too hard about sickly feeling she got from the Dark necklace around Trixie’s neck, though that proved difficult when she had to work around Rainbow Dash’s wings.

“So, Twilight…” she began, as much to distract herself from Rainbow’s stolen limbs as anything else, “why exactly do you have so much medical equipment around here. I mean,” she gestured to the setup, “vitals monitors, anesthetics, IVs... you could run an ER from your lab.”

Twilight briefly looked up from the dozen books she had floating around her in an array. “It’s, um, well…” Twilight scratched the back of her head, “Princess Celestia sort of… insisted after a certain… incident at the School for Gifted Unicorns involving… let’s just say that I was half deaf for a few months and it took even longer for my hair to grow back.”

Sensing that Twilight was closing the book on that particular topic, Redheart settled for a diplomatic, “Fair enough,” and returned to her work.

Not that there was much left to do. They’d hooked Trixie up, so all that was left for Redheart and Medevac was to monitor vitals (and Spike, who was resting on a couch on the far side of the room). The lack of any immediate task to perform left her feeling superfluous once again.

Judging by the way Friar Jacques paced, he felt the same way.

“Well, Friar, are you feeling just as—”

“Shh!” Jacques hushed her, not breaking his stride.

Redheart recoiled slightly. Did he just ‘shush’ me? He never shushes ponies. Was I bothering him that much?

“I apologize for my rudeness, Bonne Sœur, but I am in the midst of formulating a plan and cannot afford distractions,” explained the friar briskly, not breaking stride.

“Fair enough,” sighed Redheart. Okay, he’s not feeling superfluous.

She looked around for Burnt Oak and found him sitting in a corner nearby, looking at ease, but with his crossbow still trained on Trixie. Just in case.

So… as for feeling superfluous, that’s just me then. Wonderful. She frowned, feeling petty for worrying over her own desire to be useful when there were so many more critical things at stake, but still feeling like dead weight all the same. She briefly considered trying to use her magic on the amulet before dismissing it as a roundly stupid idea. Though it would be an ironic twist for Friar Jacques to be the one chiding me about being reckless for a change. The brief amusement she felt at this thought lasted only a moment before lapsing once more into feeling useless.

“Hurry up and wait,” said Medevac quietly, resignation and humor mingling in his voice. Redheart looked up at his words, and he smiled sympathetically. “That was always the hardest thing overseas, you know. Feeling like you oughta be doin’ something about all the nasty stuff going down, but knowing you can’t do a thing but hurry up and wait.”

Redheart felt a warm smile rise unbidden to her lips. “I suppose we’re in this together then.”

He flashed his teeth in a grin and winked. “Nopony I’d rather be in the thick of this with.”

Blushing, Redheart glanced down. She cleared her throat and brushed a loose lock of hair back over one ear, then let her eyes rise once more to meet his. “You saying you want me around in every crisis?” she said teasingly.

“Truthfully… I’d rather remove the ‘crisis’ part from that equation,” replied Medevac.

Feeling warmth well in her chest and a deepening blush in her cheeks, Redheart opened her mouth to answer—

—only for the door to the basement to bang open and disgorge nearly a dozen ponies into the laboratory.

“Friar Jacques!” cried Rainbow excitedly from the top of the stairs.

“Twilight!” cried Rarity from just behind her.

“My friends!” cried Twilight, rushing to meet them. “You’re all cured—”

“Hey!”

“—except for Rainbow Dash which is very strange but also kind of fascinating—”

“Hey!”

“—but mostly strange and unfortunate but the rest of you are cured!”

As the expected reunions transpired – with Pinkie briefly zipping over to the nurses, leaving a cake reading ‘We’re Happy to See You Too But None of Us Want to Bother Nurses on the Job’ on a nearby table – Redheart sighed. Well, I guess that killed the moment. Not that I’m entirely certain where I wanted the moment to go… I mean, we are friends… and co-workers, and this is a lousy time to be thinking about this, and maybe I’m reading too much into it, but if he isn’t then—

“Dinner?”

Redheart’s eyes widened and she turned her head slowly towards her fellow nurse, not certain she had heard him correctly, not even certain if he’d really spoken, and too afraid to ask.

“What I mean to say,” said Medevac slowly, his eyes seeming to want to look away and only kept on hers by iron will, “is would you like to go to dinner with me?” He paused. Redheart’s mouth felt oddly dry. “As a date, I mean, not as when we… usually go to dinner just as…” he cleared his throat and looked around, “and maybe this wasn’t the best time to ask,” he gestured to Trixie, “what with the supervillain here,” he then pointed to Spike, “and with Spike still unconscious, and with wherever this zany crisis is going and… this was reallybad timing for me to ask, I mean, really bad timing, even by Marine Corps standards, even by Ponyville medical provider standards this was still just in astonishingly poor taste to ask you out right this second, I mean, we are standing over a captive megalomaniac here, and you think I’d have the sense to wait until…”

He continued rattling off all the reasons why he’d shown a remarkably poor sense of timing, but, in truth, Redheart only half heard him. Her thoughts were a blur and butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she crossed the distance between them without feeling the movement. Maybe my sense of appropriate timing is just as shot as his. That’s Ponyville medicine for you. Lightly, she cut his words off with a touch of her hoof to his lips, then said, “Dinner with you sounds wonderful.”

Medevac blinked rapidly, a foolish grin spreading across his face. “Really?”

An answering smile made itself known on her features. “It’s a date.”

“It’s a date,” he echoed happily. Then, clearing his throat and coughing slightly, he indicated the patients and said, “We should… probably make sure everything’s okay. You know, so we can… go… um… for dinner. Later. As a date.”

Stifling a giggle, Redheart replied, “Indeed we should.”

The mood following the reunion was considerably more dour. Friar Jacques found himself standing in a circle around the unconscious showmare with the Bearers, the nurses, the soldiers, and Big MacIntosh. Ditzy Doo had left to start making the rounds and let ponies know that the situation was under control (but they should still stay in their bunkers). Burnt Oak – having handed off some of his armament and the duty of watching Trixie to the soldiers – had gone to retrieve weapons for those who had not had them when they’d been captured, as well as to bring Granny Smith up to speed.

The soldiers – along with Rainbow and the Apples – seemed primed to use their weapons at the first hint of trouble. Jacques hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but could not fault their caution.

Twilight, Jacques noted, had put away her weapons, though not her armor.

What that portended, he could not say.

Once they’d all been caught up on their respective challenges – at least as far as the Ponyville challenges were concerned; Canterlot’s were not mentioned – they’d lapsed into grim silence as they pondered the question of the amulet.

“So, in all them fancy books,” Applejack began, rubbing her eyes in what might have been frustration, tiredness, or both, “ya didn’t find one bit o’ info on this Alicorn Amulet?”

“Nothing we didn’t already know,” confirmed Twilight with an annoyed snort. “Between this and the Sha— that other matter,” she caught herself at the last moment, remembering the nurses weren’t briefed on the Shades, “I’m beginning to think this library is woefully understocked when it comes to early Equestrian history and obscure magics.”

“Then the best course of action would seem to be keeping her asleep until we can find a workaround,” declared Morning Song. “Redheart? Medevac? How long can we keep her under?”

Redheart and Medevac looked at each other, seeming to silently confer before answering. Jacques thought he noticed a change in their body language with each other – a certain shyness, combined with a seemingly paradoxical closeness that wasn’t there before. I hope I am not imagining things. They are a fine pair, and would make for a good husband and wife, as well as good parents. I wonder if it would be a conflict of Rites for me to perform their marriage ceremony? He shook off the distracting and self-indulgent thoughts and forced himself to focus on the nurses’ answer.

“Well, the good news is that Equestrian medicine has hit the point where we could theoretically do this indefinitely with a normal pony,” Redheart began.

“But,” Medevac continued, “we’re talking about a pony with an ultra-powerful tainted magical doodad. Her thaumatic field is all out of whack,” he gestured to one of the beeping monitors which displayed very erratic rhythms, “and it’s a miracle she didn’t hit a full feedback loop with her magic. It was definitely overdrawing on her magical field, worse than what the Konik Plague does,” he flicked an ear at Fritters. “Frankly, if she’d kept going, she probably would have hit Ghoul Syndrome territory.”

All the unicorns present winced, as did Friar Jacques, whose studies of Equestrian magic had painted a very grim picture of that particular condition. The Shade who attacked Comtesse Argent Sabre and Miss Raven at the palace was apparently one miscast spell away from dying to his own magics even before Princess Celestia slew him. God forgive him and preserve this lost soul from the same fate.

“Bottom line,” concluded Redheart, “we simply don’t know if the current level of medication will keep her under. Right now, she’s unconscious and that doesn’t look like it’s going to change any time soon. But, with the amulet in play, she could wake up no matter how much of this stuff we’ve already pumped into her bloodstream. Short of significantly upping the dose – which still might not be enough and would cause damage to her body – I don’t know what we can do to keep her under.”

“We could always brain her again,” remarked Rainbow Dash. She had not taken her eyes off the showmare since the circle formed, and her voice was as cold as her gaze. Fluttershy shot the blue pegasus a censorious glance, and Rainbow – still without shifting her gaze – replied in the same flat tone, “Do not give me that look. I’m not talking about vengeance. I’m not talking about killing. I’m talking containment. She took my wings, transmogrified half of us, punched you until the blood came out, and tried to kill Pinkie, Twilight, and Spike. I think I am showing remarkable restraint by not kicking the literal crap out of her, so do not start with me.”

“She wasn’t in control, Rainbow Dash,” said Twilight quietly.

“That is a fair and important point that I will care about later when I’ve cooled off.”

A sleepy male voice interrupted, asking, “Issit even possible to kick the crap outta som’pony?”

Jacques and the others turned to see Spike sitting up, rubbing blearily at his eyes.

At the sight of the young dragon rousing from his unwilling slumber, Jacques felt a great weight lift from his chest. Breathing came easier, and he stood taller than he had a moment before. Thank you, Lord, for preserving the life of your little one.

“SPIKE!” cried Twilight, who startled Jacques by seeming to step through the shadows to reach her ward’s side. It seems she made good on her promise to me to advance in the practical application of her studies whilst I was away.

As the others moved to follow Twilight, Jacques’ voice restrained them. “Hold fast, my friends! Do not overwhelm the poor lad!” Besides, he thought as he heard Twilight sobbing and cradling the dragon, apologizing over and over for what had happened to him and how it was ‘her fault’… I think the two of them deserve a moment to themselves.

In order to distract the group – and achieve some practical end in the meantime – he addressed the others, saying, “I have a notion of how we might remove the amulet whilst Trixie still slumbers. Now that young Master Spike as awoken, we may put this plan in motion.”

Redheart raised an eyebrow. “Is this the plan you were working on earlier when I interrupted you?”

“Yes, Bonne Sœur.” And you will hate it. “It begins with a letter to Princess Luna.”

Author's Note

Detective Chief Superintendent Skymaster (Air Crimes Division) had a headache.

The headache’s name was Antiquarian.

The recalcitrant writer had said very little since being taken into police custody after the dirigible on which he’d been traveling had been brought down under mysterious (and fiery) circumstances. Circumstances which, Skymaster had no doubt, were directly related to Antiquarian’s presence on the flight, as well as an entire cargo hold’s worth of hit ponies, thugs, and assassins.

A presence which is also, no doubt, directly related to Antiquarian’s presence on the flight.

A presence which Antiquarian did not comment on directly, save only in cryptic statements like, “Surely, Skymaster, you must recognize a contrived plot point when you see one.”

Skymaster was in the midst of pouring himself another cup of painfully over-caffeinated tea to counteract his mounting migraine when one of his constables entered the office. “Um… sir?”

“What is it?”

“Sir… there’s a pony named… ‘Tar’ to see you. He says he’s here about Mr. Antiquarian and is, and I quote, a ‘member of the Angry Mob.’”

Skymaster blinked rapidly, trying to process that tidbit of information. After briefly considering using the fire escape, fleeing the country, changing his name, and doing his best to put this job behind him, he decided that he might as well get all the migraine-inducing oddity out of the way so that he could properly gauge the level of caffeine needed to combat it. “Very well,” he said, rising from his desk and following the constable out to the lobby.

There he found a tar-colored stallion waiting patiently in the lobby, holding a pitchfork. Choosing not to pass comment, he simply said, “Mr. Tar, I presume?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Tar, doffing his cap cordially.

“Not here to pursue Mr. Antiquarian with pitchforks and torches, I trust?” he glanced pointedly at the pitchfork.

“No, sir. Ordinarily we would, but when he got to the police station, he shouted ‘base,’ so he’s safe for now.” The stallion shrugged. “Besides, most of the Angry Mob is still on a wild goose chase involving his research for his new book ‘Around the World in 80 Sushis.’”

Skymaster felt one of his eyes start twitching. Deciding not to untangle the sushi statement for the time being, he asked, “And you aren’t with the Mob because…?”

Tar smiled. “Sir, I’ve been with the Mob from the early days. Me and Feather’ve been chasing Mr. Antiquarian from near the first chapter. We’ve had dinner with him a few times. I got bored waiting for one of his chapters, so I read his dissertation, ‘Pony Invent Fire for Food-Cook: Why Pony Not Use Fire to Food-Cook Fish?’ It was a very moving piece. It also makes it clear he hates sushi. I talked about it with Feather,” Tar and Feather; how appropriate, “and we figured if he was pretending otherwise, it was probably because he was hunting Mr. W. Block, so maybe it would be best if most of the Mob was… diverted.” He scuffed one hoof on the ground, seeming embarrassed by not informing the rest of the Mob. “Feather and I figured… we have so much fun chasing Mr. Antiquarian… but it’s just not right to chase him while he’s dealing with Mr. W. Block.”

Skymaster’s pulse quickened. Those thugs were hired by a Mr. W. Block. Does this chap know who he is? This could be the break in the case that we—

“I just came so that Mr. Antiquarian could have an author’s note short like the audience appreciates,” declared Tar.

—need to figure out why Antiquarian was on that dirigible and wait, what did he just say? “What did you just say?” he asked aloud.

“Now that I’ve done that, I’ll be leaving,” said Tar as he turned to leave. “Goodbye, sir.”

“Wait, what? What do you mean you’re leaving?!”

“Goodbye, sir!” called Tar as he passed out of the station.

“Wait, Mr. Tar, wait!” shouted Skymaster as he pursued the pitchfork-toting stallion outside. “Who is Mr. W. Block? Who is Antiquarian after? What do you know about the hit ponies? What does—?”

Emerging into the sunlight, he found an empty street, with no trace of Tar.

Skymaster cussed for five, unbroken minutes before finally shouting at the sky, “And what the hay does sushi have to do with anything?!”

Redheart and Medevac’s scene if the CMCs were present in the basement:

Redheart felt a warm smile rise unbidden to her lips. “I suppose we’re in this together then.”

He flashed his teeth in a grin and winked. “Nopony I’d rather be in the thick of this with.”

Blushing, Redheart glanced down. She cleared her throat and brushed a loose lock of hair back over one ear, then let her eyes rise once more to meet his. “You saying you want me around in every crisis?” she said teasingly.

“Truthfully… I’d rather remove the ‘crisis’ part from that equation,” replied Medevac.

Sweetie Belle burst out of a nearby potted plant. “JUST KISS ALREADY!”

A sense of humor is a curious thing. Most people have a couple things that are nigh guaranteed to get a laugh or at least a chuckle, even if executed clumsily. When one is tired, it is an even lower bar to clear.

I have always liked cartoons wherein there is that delay between the problem and the realization, which in turn leads to consequences previously avoided. The classic example is that the laws of gravity do not apply until one becomes painfully aware of them, Wile E. Coyote style.

Another thing that almost always gets a laugh out of me is when a character is outwardly placid, but is either inwardly screaming or else placidly goes into the other room, the audience hears muffled screaming and/or unintelligible cussing, and then the character returns to view, seemingly still placid.

Part of what allows these to be funny is that the consequences are both exaggerated and insignificant. I can laugh at Wile E. Coyote’s painful relationship with gravity because, in the grand scheme of things, it’s more an inconvenience to him than anything else. Same with the muffled screaming of lighthearted shows. Something about the poorly-suppressed frustration at life’s inconveniences and ordinary setbacks is oddly cathartic to me.

All of this is to say that, when I was writing the Rainbow-Dash-muffled-screaming scene, I was very tired… and I kept breaking down giggle-laughing every few seconds every time I heard the muffled Tom & Jerry-esque Rainbow scream in my head.

This wasn’t once or twice, either. This lasted for basically the entire time it took me to initially write that part of the scene. I can almost guarantee you did not find it as funny as I did.

I need more sleep.

This chapter was originally going to be twice as long, but even that length kept growing, and it's been so long since I uploaded - and I hit a natural break point - that I figured I'd split it in two.

Plus, the latter section has been far more difficult to write, so I didn't want to make you all wait even longer. Tar and Feather may be patient, but I know not to push my luck with the Angry Mob too much.

A final note, this chapter wasn’t called ‘After the Rain’ until literally today, when I realized the original chapter name made no sense with where the chapter was cut.

Perhaps Providentially, ‘After the Rain’ happens to be the name of one of my favorite songs, one which oddly fits today’s chapter. It’s all about hope in the midst of hard times and how sometimes you need to go through hardship (rain) to reach the sunshine. It’s not a song that ends with “things are better now, yay,” it’s a song written in the midst of the storm when things even seem like they might be intensifying, but which still has hope for the sun after the storm and some wisdom about what sustains us in the storm.

I’ve had a lot of hard times. Kinda going through some now, as are apparently everyone in my immediate circle. Life’s a bear like that sometimes.

Some people want advice, help, wisdom, reassurance. Some people, in that moment, just want to vent and have a good cry long before getting to any of the rest. I get it. I’ve been both. I’ve been helped in both times. That’s why I try to pay it forward in my writing, and a lot of you appreciate it so… thanks for letting me live out some of my calling by helping people with my words.

So, unexpected shoutout and not my usual method but… shoutout to After the Rain by Nickelback. Good song.

Jump to top

Comes the Warden

“… and since the only way to remove the amulet appears to be for the wearer to desire to take it off, then it stands to reason that we must convince Trixie to remove it,” explained Friar Jacques. “As waking her up for a moral debate would be… ill advised, Princess Luna’s stewardship of the Land of Dreams would seem to be the most likely avenue of intervention.”

As he explained his thinking, he deliberately put the tearful reunion of Spike and Twilight – a reunion happening just on the other side of the room – from his mind. It was difficult in that confined space to give them much privacy, but he could at least grant them the privacy of attending to a different task.

“Reasonable,” said Morning Song. The other ponies nodded their heads in agreement. “Still, I’m concerned about whether Princess Luna will be able to maintain the dream without Trixie waking up.”

“Really?” asked Ironhide, incredulous. Then, clearing his throat, he said, “That is to say, I’m surprised to hear you say that, Lieutenant. Her Royal Highness is an alicorn princess, after all, and the Princess of Dreams, specifically.”

“Under ordinary circumstances, I’d agree with you,” replied Song, who then gestured to the amulet. “But that is the Alicorn Amulet.”

“Note the name,” interjected Fritters quietly, earning a snort of laughter from Marble Slab.

“We cannot take anything for granted with an item like this,” Song continued. “We’ve already seen that it has some… pretty powerful defensive measures on it.”

Jacques nodded. “Your concerns parallel my own. It has taken such a Dark hold of her that she will no doubt be resistant to its removal. If it grants her power over dreams even in some limited fashion – and we cannot assume it does not, without knowing more of its origins – then that could be a severe setback.”

“It did seem to be messing with Trixie’s perception of reality,” interjected Fluttershy quietly. Ignoring a snort from Rainbow, she added, “I’m certainly not an expert on dream magic, and I don’t want to pretend I am, but that could be a kind of dream or illusion magic.”

“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Jacques. “While I very much doubt that it could come anywhere close to besting PrincessLuna, it is a known fact that some practitioners of those foul arts have used a tainted form of dream and shadow magic.” He shuddered at the memory of the Terrorsite which had attacked him in his dreams while he slumbered at the Acreage. “Without talking to Princess Luna, we can’t be certain, but it may be that Her Royal Highness would be so caught up in dealing with the amulet’s defenses that she cannot convince Trixie to remove it. If that is the case…” and this is the part that Redheart will hate, he thought with a sigh, “then I shall ask Princess Luna to create a shared dream and bring me along so as to address Trixie directly.”

“WHAT?!” cried Pinkie shrilly.

Rarity emitted a series of garbled, confused, and somewhat rhythmic sputters before demanding, “Have you lost your mind, darling?”

Most of the others clamored with similar expressions of dismay, though Jacques noted Marble huffing a sigh of annoyance and slipping a few coins to Fritters. Big MacIntosh, somewhat disconcertingly, winced. Ironhide and Oaken exchanged worried looks, while Medevac just sighed, shook his head, and muttered something he couldn’t hear over the concerns of the others.

Redheart, to Friar Jacques’ surprise, did not lend her voice to the dismayed cries. Instead, she just stared quietly at the old priest, her expression bringing to mind that of Sister Sarah, the little nun from so long ago who so often had been simply going about her day, minding her own business, only to come across young Jacques and his brother Henri engaging in one madcap scheme or another. It was an expression that mingled disappointment, annoyance, tiredness, resignation, and questions to the effect of ‘why are you like this?’

Somehow, that made him feel more guilty than if she’d simply yelled at him like the others.

Morning Song whistled sharply to get their attention. “Settle down, folks. This is a unique situation, so we have to consider all the angles. Friar, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I have natural resistance to magic, including Dark Magic, even in the realm of dreams,” he replied. “The Princess herself noted that even she would have difficulty breaking through my mental defenses.” He elected not to mention that – if something did break through – it could do incredible harm to his mind. “Further, I have experienced multiple visions and the… peculiarities that sometimes accompany them. Perhaps most importantly,” his hand unconsciously brushed against the cross that hung around his neck, “I am a priest and confessor. It is my calling and my mission to find and shepherd lost souls.”

“It’s still a big risk,” said Redheart, her voice quiet.

Friar Jacques met her gaze. “I do not believe the risk to be so great. And, even if it was, I am a priest. I could not turn from this any more than you could turn from an injured foal.” He saw from the look in her eyes that the comparison struck a chord with her. “Trust me, Bonne Sœur,” he said, smiling gently, “I will be fine.”

“If it even comes to that,” Morning Song pointed out. “No guarantee it will.”

Nodding, he answered, “Indeed. We will need Princess Luna’s guidance to know for certain.” But for that, of course, we need Spike. Jacques hated to interrupt Twilight and Spike’s tender reunion after each had come dangerously close to death, but time was pressing, and they had not the luxury to wait. Turning to address the pair, he called, “Lady Twilight? Young Spike?” Both turned to face him, and he tried not to dwell on Twilight’s tear-stained features. “I regret the intrusion, but I’m afraid we need you to take a letter, Master Spike.”

“Spike, I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, Spike! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” sobbed Twilight over and over again into Spike’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Spike, I’m so, so sorry!”

“Twilight,” Spike tried to interrupt. “Twilight, I’m fine it’s okay! Twilight!”

Spike’s attempts to interject fell on deaf ears, so he focused on hugging Twilight back as hard as he could in spite of her armor, hoping that the strength of his embrace would help bring her back down to earth.

Twilight had rushed over the moment he’d regained consciousness, and had not stopped weeping or apologizing since. He was grateful that the others were doing their best to give the two of them some privacy, likely helped by Friar Jacques holding their attention. It gave him more time to focus on what Twilight was saying.

Not that what she was saying made much sense. “I should have— a-and I don’t know why I didn’t… I wasn’t strong enough to… I had her Spike, I had her dead to rights, all I had to do was… and then you wouldn’t have been hurt if I’d only— but I wasn’t strong enough and I’m sorry, Spike, I’m such a coward and if your real mothe— I’m so sorry, Spike, I just—"

Again and again she repeated such things, apologizing and sobbing all the while.

Repeatedly, he tried to interrupt the flow of her bitter self-recrimination, but to no avail. She would not be moved by words. Growing frustrated, and knowing that it was only a matter of time before circumstances forced Friar Jacques and the others to interrupt them – Spike could see who was on the table in the midst of the others; he knew time was short – he decided to take a more direct approach.

Pulling his arms away from the embrace, he seized Twilight’s head and forced her to look him in the eye.

“Twilight!” he snapped, his voice low and intense. “I’m okay, you hear me? I’m fine, because you won and I’m safe and I don’t blame you for anything, got that?”

“But I—”

“No buts! You won, Twilight! You’re being silly! Trixie’s on a table over there and I know it’s because you beat her!”

To his dismay, Twilight looked horrified. “You can see her over there?” She shifted as though to block his line of sight, or perhaps shield him from the unconscious menace. “Oh, Spike, I’m sorry! I didn’t want you to be in the same room as her, but we needed Redheart and Medevac to be here with Friar Jacques to take care of you but also to take care of her and it’s all such a mess and I—”

“Twilight!” he practically snarled, pulling her gaze back to his. “It’s okay, don’t you get that? I’m not in danger!” He smiled broadly, comfortingly. “I’m not afraid, Twilight. I know I’m safe with you watching over me!”

Spike expected Twilight to look relieved, to look reassured.

Instead, fresh tears welled in her eyes, and she looked away in shame, and he could not force her to look at him again. It was as though when he said he was safe with her to watch over him, something inside her broke.

Why doesn’t she understand? How can I make her see how great she is?

Before he could consider how to help her, a voice interrupted.

“Lady Twilight? Young Spike?” Friar Jacques spoke softly, and it was plain in his voice that he hated to interject, but had to. Both turned to face him, and the only thing that made it better was that Twilight’s tear-stained features were, for the moment, turned away, a fact which briefly eased Spike’s sorrow. “I regret the intrusion,” said the friar quietly, “but I’m afraid we need you to take a letter, Master Spike.”

Twilight wrote the letter while Spike stared at Trixie. He had a strange look on his face that Jacques didn’t know how to interpret, but he seemed oddly sanguine about the presence of the mare who’d nearly killed him.

“I kinda…” he rubbed a lump on the back of his head, a souvenir – thankfully temporary – of his brush with an early grave. “I kinda expected her to be more scratched up, you know? I guess I didn’t do nearly as much of a number on her as I thought.”

Jacques thought he sounded embarrassed by the fact. A glance from Morning Song suggested she’d come to the same conclusion. “The amulet probably healed those injuries,” the alabaster earth pony observed. “Besides which, it’s thanks to you that Twilight escaped, which is far more important than ‘doing a number’ on Trixie.”

“Indeed,” agreed Jacques. “And it was Twilight that defeated her.”

More than one pony looked at him curiously. Including Twilight.

Pinkie tilted her head and briefly looked at the ceiling, tongue stuck out as though she was doing difficult mental calculations, “I mean… she sent her packing for sure, so in that sense she beat her, yeah, but the final blow—”

“Yeah, Friar,” Twilight cut in, looking away shamefacedly, “I… I wasn’t the one who… I couldn’t—"

“Twilight is the reason Trixie was defeated,” said Friar Jacques firmly. He did not address her directly – Jacques felt she might be more likely to internalize what he said if he didn’t put her on the spot – but he addressed his statement to the whole of them. “Twilight drove Trixie from the field of combat in disarray, leaving her vulnerable to be picked off by harriers or ambushers. We do not say that the harassers who harried the fleeing army won the battle. Rather, it was the soldiers who made the enemy flee who take the credit. By every conventional metric, Twilight defeated Trixie.”

“I knew she would take care of Trixie,” said Spike with a confident smile. Twilight, once again, looked away, distraught. Spike – thankfully, perhaps – did not seem to notice. “But… who ‘harried’ Trixie then?”

“A shovel,” remarked Marble Slab dryly.

Before the confused Spike could ask what the REF Guardspony meant by that, Twilight passed him a scroll. “All done,” she said, her voice clipped and controlled. “Send it to Princess Luna, please.”

“One alicorn intervention, coming right up,” smiled Spike. He glanced at Twilight as he said this, and his smile faded as his attempt at cheering Twilight up fell on deaf ears. His sigh of disappointment became a burst of fire that consumed the letter and sent it spiraling out and away towards Canterlot.

Every time I see that, I find it remarkable.

Silence fell upon the assembly after the letter’s departure. Jacques, always quite at home in silence, did not find it awkward. It was plain from the body language of those around him that many of them did.

Medevac cleared his throat. “So… as the grunt support staff, I typically don’t see this side of the adventure. Feels kinda weird to ask this but… how long does it usually take for your dragon magic pen pal letters to reach the immortal sovereign rulers of our great nation?”

There was another silence, this one broken by first a snort, then a snicker, then a release of tired, pent-up emotion in the form of laughter from most of the assembly. Even Twilight managed a weak smile.

“Ah, the clarity of the newcomer,” remarked Rarity.

“It’s difficult to give a scientifically conclusive answer,” said Twilight, taking refuge in numbers and ratios, “as I have seldom written to Princess Luna in this fashion. However, we may be able to use her sister as a baseline. The average response time for Princess Celestia, taking into account the current season, the ongoing complexity of the political climate, the time of day, the effect the strikes in Manehatten have had on tea imports from Chineigh, and the Coriolis Effect suggests a median range of one point two three hours and—”

The magical shockwave washed over Friar Jacques like the mighty breakers of a tropical storm, bearing down on him from above and nearly knocking him off his feet even as the rumbling FWOOM of the spell echoed in his ears.

Before he had even recovered his footing, the door of the basement was slammed open to reveal the Warden of Dreams and Diarch of the Night, Princess Luna the Vindicator.

Mercifully, she refrained from using her Royal Canterlot Voice in that confined space, yet her voice reverberated through the room all the same.

“Where is that blasted amulet?!”

Royal Palace, Canterlot, minutes earlier…

Luna found Mason Grey in the wine cellars. That was not terribly surprising. What was somewhat surprising was the fact that he sat in a high-backed chair at a small round table laid with a white tablecloth and a lit candelabra for ambiance, none of which had any business being in this part of the wine cellar.

Also out of place was the pretty unicorn maid who stood in attendance to Mason, serving him a platter of assorted and no doubt supremely expensive cheeses to go with his wine, and giggling like a school filly at whatever story the magnate was currently telling.

His gregarious voice boomed through the room as he presumably reached his punchline. “… and so I said to the griffon, ‘Basted? He’s been marinated!’”

Judging by the maid’s laughter, Luna guessed the full joke was hilarious.

Luna herself was somewhat less amused. She stood partially in the shadows some meters away, out of sight to the mare – who had her back to Luna – but within Mason’s field of view. Luna knew him to have sharp eyes, and guessed he would realize soon enough she was there. My mane might be subtler than Tia’s, yet it is still conspicuous when I do not bother to cloak my power.

Indeed, it was not long before Mason’s gaze rose to meet hers, an impish gleam in his eyes. “Lulu! Come to join us?”

The maid’s head snapped around to look, and her confusion quickly turned to horror at the sight of the princess. Instantly she prostrated herself, squeaking out, “Your Highness!”

Luna had not her sister’s close familiarity with the staff, lacking as she did the advantage of years Celestia possessed. Further, most of the staff prided themselves on being nondescript and unobtrusive. Many of them even had similar cutie marks. It would have been easy for them to blur together. This mare – cream coated with a brown mane and the mark resembling a gleaming domed cover for a serving tray – did not particularly stand out amongst the staff.

Yet Luna had an excellent memory, a necessity as Dream Warden. Thus, while the unicorn maid looked much like many of the palace staff and Luna had precious few interactions with her, the name came quickly to mind. “Rise, Silver Cloche,” she commanded. Shakily, the unicorn obeyed, keeping her gaze low and avoiding Luna’s eyes. The princess arched an eyebrow. “Your duties typically place you in the East Wing, do they not?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” replied the maid meekly.

Where Mason is staying, thought Luna with a mental huff of exasperation. “And you were… diverted from your duties by Mister Grey here?”

Mason scoffed. “Liberated from her duties more like it,” he corrected.

Luna fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Extenuating circumstances may arise in any profession, Silver Cloche,” she said, her voice gentling slightly. Cloche’s ears perked up. “While I’m certain Mister Grey appreciates your attention… perhaps you had best return to your other duties now.”

Cloche curtsied, relief evident as she replied, “Y-yes, Your Highness. Thank you, Your Highness.” Turning briefly back to Mason, she curtsied to him, saying, “It was a pleasure to speak with you again, Mister Grey.”

“Ta ta, Clo,” Mason said with a cheerful wave. “You’re my favorite staff member!”

Blushing, Silver Cloche smiled, opened her mouth to reply, caught sight of Luna, blushed harder, and then departed.

Luna waited until the sounds of Cloche’s retreating hoof steps faded. In the meantime, Mason continued helping himself to wine and cheese, periodically dabbing his lips with the kerchief he had tucked into the collar of his shirt. Luna also waited to see if Mason would be the one to break the silence.

He seemed quite content to sit and eat in front of her without uttering a word.

Rolling her eyes, Luna opened with saying, “This table and chair do not belong here, Mason.”

“Don’t they?” he asked innocently, taking a sip of wine.

“No,” she declared. “In fact,” she pointed down the hall with one wing, “they belong in a quiet little corner some way deeper into the cellar…” her words became as pointed as her gaze, “where my sister uses them when she needs a little quiet time to herself.”

Looking rather bemused, Mason wiggled slightly in his seat as though testing it. “Is that so? Well, that would explain the appropriately regal feeling.”

Luna sighed and massaged the side of her head with one hoof. “I had thought you would be unnecessarily risking your life with a flight to Manehatten by now, Mason. Not… distracting the castle staff and absconding with my sister’s table.”

“Eager to get rid of me?” he teased.

“I’m eager for you to take the threat to your life seriously, Mason.”

The grey stallion snorted. “What fun would that be?” Noting Luna’s emerging snarl, he held up a placating hoof and said, “Luna, this is hardly the first time somepony’s tried to kill me.” He tapped on the stolen table and chuckled, “Heck, after this, sun-britches might even try. Though I like to think I’m conniving enough to escape her wrath.”

Luna sighed and closed her eyes, “Mason…”

“Okay, okay, I promise to be careful. Happy?” She opened her eyes to find him taking another sip of wine. “Besides,” he said, chasing the wine with another wedge of cheese, “you’ve met my head of security, right?”

“I have,” she admitted.

He spread his forelegs and adopted an exaggerated, open mouth smile. “Aaaaaand?” he demanded, his voice dripping with drama.

Luna couldn’t help but give a dry smile. “He is… rather impressive. Even among the elite of the Guard, I have seen few who could match him. First Sergeant Brick perhaps, and a few others.”

Mason grinned and winked. “I bet my guy could take ’em.”

“For your sake, Mason, I certainly hope so,” replied Luna. “Have you had any fresh insight into who might have sent those assassins to your—”

A green gout of dragonfire appeared, startling the princess from her line of inquiry.

Mason took another languid sip of wine as Luna caught the scroll from midair, then remarked, “Ah, the Ponyville Problem Parchment. What is it this time, Lulu? Parasprites? Ponynappers? Plague?”

In truth, Luna only half heard him, as the words ‘Alicorn Amulet’ leapt out at her, overriding all other considerations and filling her with great and terrible resolve.

That amulet… that wretched and thrice accursed amulet, long storied in infamy and long lost to time. And now, the parchment smoldered in her magical grasp, now it threatens those mares who saved me from the tyranny of my own sins.

“We must take Our leave of you, Mason,” Luna declared, immolating the letter almost casually. “Our Royal Person is required elsewhere. Be safe upon your journey.” She began to charge a teleport that would take her to Ponyville.

Mason, his face taking on a serious countenance – for once – stood from the table. “Not so fast, Luna. What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

“We have not the time to discuss it with you, Mason,” she replied, not stopping the charge. To pass through the wards of the palace and travel the distance to Ponyville is, regrettably, a rather energy-intensive process. “Rest assured that all will be well.”

“Don’t give me that, your princessliness,” shot back Mason. “I know that was a Ponyville letter, and you just slipped into the Royal We.” He stood before her and looked her in the eye. “Come on, Lulu,” he said more gently. “I can see you’re worried. What’s going on? What can I do?”

Luna met his gaze, seeing the concern there, and hesitated. She did not wish to involve Mason in her affairs, or to put him in any more danger than he was already in. At the same time, he had advised her on sensitive matters in the past, and he was trusted enough to sit in on Cabinet meetings, where he had been an invaluable voice. And it is not as though I need tell him everything…

“An old artifact has returned,” she finally admitted, halting the charge of the spell and holding off from the final burst of power needed to activate it. “Old and Dark.”

Mason frowned. “Care to elaborate on that? I’ve read enough to know that doesn’t exactly narrow it down.”

“The Alicorn Amulet,” Luna supplied. There was no recognition on Mason’s face, but she didn’t expect there to be. Its last known sighting was the better part of a millennia ancient, and the circumstances of its last use in Equestria were of a grim era most wanted to forget. "Apparently, some foolish soul put it on and attacked the Bearers.”

“Eesh, Ponyville can’t catch a break,” muttered Mason. “Are they all right?”

“For now, thank the Source,” Luna admitted. “That this artifact re-emerged at all is worrying in the extreme. It has been lost for some time. How it came to be found is a mystery that must be solved.”

Mason nodded understandingly, then said, “Well, I’ll add that to my to-do list when I get to Manehatten.” Luna’s eyebrows raised in shock. “That’s why you told me, right?” Mason asked. “You remembered I have contacts in the archeological field? My highly-paid team of high-risk treasure hunters? The enviably talented source of the innumerable treasures that decorate my various mansions? Lulu, why else would you tell me?”

“Mason, We— I do not wish you to put yourself in more danger looking into this.”

The earth pony grinned. “Oh, I’m far too much of a curious cat to let this one go.” He turned and began his walk to the exit. “Anything for you, Princess. Now go handle business before that amulet smokes one of the Bearers.”

Luna’s initial anger, sparked by the amulet’s return, had dissipated somewhat at Mason’s inquiries, but his off-hoof remark as he departed reawakened it. That the Alicorn Amulet should reemerge now of all times to threaten those she loved was too much for Luna to bear quietly. Her passions were enflamed as she resumed charging the teleportation spell.

It threatened Our beloved sister when we were imprisoned, she thought, her outrage mounting once more as the power built in her horn. Now it threatens those who freed me. And though this ‘Trixie’ seems but a dupe, it seems beyond belief that the Shades should have no hoof in this affair.

The charge of the grand teleportation spell built to a crescendo as power swirled around her like a vortex.

No more! No more shall I fail my ponies! I shall protect Equestria from this Dark menace!

With a thunderous KRAKOOM! she vanished from the cellar.

Whatever it takes.

Luna’s furious energy was tempered as she heard the full story, as well as Friar Jacques’ proposal. “It is clear you have been attending well to your studies,” she said at length. “Not many would consider the Dream Stride as a viable means of intervention in such a matter as this.”

Friar Jacques shrugged humbly. “I imagine most have not experienced a war within one’s own dreams, Your Royal Highness.”

“Mercifully not,” she said with a brief smile, though her face soon turned grave. “You are correct in thinking that the Amulet will resist Our Royal Person. Indeed, the fact that I shall be called upon to battle the Amulet directly will make it difficult for me to persuade her to remove it, like as not. Your presence in a shared dream would be of great value, I think.”

Rarity cleared her throat primly and bowed to the diarch. “With deepest respect, Princess Luna… will that not be dangerous for the good friar?”

“Fah!” scoffed Princess Luna. “In the old days the adjurists would often aid me – and I them – in the Dream Stride. Ancient history to you, but recent memory to me.” Her gaze was that of a battlefield commander as it fell on Jacques. “His heart is that of a warrior adjurist of those bloody days, and he is well-suited to the task.” Her gaze fell once again on Rarity. “So fret not, dear Rarity, Lady of Generosity.” She bared her teeth in a fashion more suited to a wolf than a pony. “Methinks it is the Amulet which ought fear Friar Jacques, and not the other way around.”

While the others digested that statement, Jacques asked what he felt was a pertinent question. “Can the Amulet fear? What is its nature?”

“It is not alive, nor is it possessed by any spirit. It is no being, but merely a rogue construct. That at least, is in our favor. Once it was simply a powerful item. Yet its design was… corrupted. It follows a plan given it by those who turned it to foul purpose. A script if you will, albeit a clever one which adapts to the mind it uses. So it may feel ‘fear’ in that the script recognizes the presence of one who might amend the narrative, and thus it may shy away as darkness flees the light. But it is no more alive than yon chair.”

Jacques nodded, relieved that the Amulet was at least not possessed by some demonic spirit. Though no doubt my Office as a healer of the soul will be required in the course of this, and certainly in the aftermath.

Redheart interrupted his thoughts, clearing her throat awkwardly. “Um… begging your pardon, Highness,” she said quietly, clearly still somewhat awed by the presence of the royal, “but an alternative just occurred to me.”

“Speak, my little pony,” Luna bade her.

Scuffing one hoof against the floor as if screwing up the courage to speak, she asked, “Forgive me if this has already occurred to you all and been discounted as not workable for some reason, but… why not use the Elements of Harmony?”

There was a painfully long silence following the question. A silence broken by Twilight teleporting a pillow to herself, pressing it to her face to muffle the sound, and shrieking, “GAAAAAAH! HOW DID I MISS THAT?!”

Before the other ponies could make similar exclamations, Luna spread her wings upward in a forestalling gesture and said, “Despair not, little ponies. The Elements would not have the effect you think.”

“Why not, Princess?” asked Friar Jacques, who was also rather annoyed with himself at not having considered the possibility. “Such powerful Curatrix magic would most assuredly be of greater strength than this… corrupted artifact.”

“More powerful than the Amulet indeed, Friar, but not more powerful than that precious gift of the Source, the gift of free will.” Luna cast her gaze over the assembled. “Hath none of you wondered why when Celestia used the Elements upon me, they cast me into the moon, but when the six of you Bearers used them, they purged me of the malice of the Nightmare?”

Pinkie Pie tapped her chin thoughtfully, then suggested, “Dramatic tension?”

Luna stared at the pink mare for a moment, her face inscrutable, then gave her own answer as though Pinkie had not spoken. “It was a matter of free will. Nightmare Moon was a sort of construct, not entirely unlike the Amulet’s corrupted script, one of my own making which I invited into my mind deliberately. Because I would not relinquish my hold upon it – or renounce its hold upon me – the Elements banished me to the moon, there to contemplate what I had done for a thousand years. By the time of my return, I had come to regret the evils I had committed but, as I had invited the Nightmare in, I could not be free of it by my own power. I needed the Elements to be free, but I also needed to desire to be set free.”

The princess indicated Trixie with a tilt of her head. “Young Lulamoon does not yet desire to be freed of the Amulet. Of that I am certain. I cannot predict what the Elements would do to her. Likely some form of imprisonment, as was inflicted upon myself and Discord, though I can only guess. The Elements are older even than I, and they are not fully understood even by the Wise. They are Holy artifacts, but still simply artifacts. We must exercise our own judgment in choosing when and how they ought be used. As things stand, they would not break this mare’s chains. To set Trixie free, she must be convinced to accept freedom.”

Silence returned to the room after the princess finished speaking. Most of the ponies looked disappointed, though Twilight looked frustrated. She gave strong indication of her frustration’s source when she muttered, “Still can’t believe I didn’t even consider it.”

“You would hardly be alone in forgetting important details in times of crisis, young Twilight,” Luna reassured her, gently draping one wing over the smaller mare’s back. “Be at peace. None have come to harm by it. Indeed, strange though it may seem, I think it a good sign that it did not occur to you, as it shows your bond to the Elements deepening.” Twilight appeared stunned by this, and Luna quickly elaborated. “The longer one is bonded to the Elements, the more one is granted a sense of them. Almost certainly it is because of your own attunement to the Elements that you knew they would not work as you desire. Thus, you did not even consider it. My sister and I experienced such when we were the Bearers. The longer we bore them, the more we understood intuitively how and when they were to be used. That the Elements did not occur to you should not concern you. Rather, you should rejoice that your closeness to them has grown such that you sensed this without being told.”

Twilight seemed slightly buoyed by this, but her brief consolation lasted but a moment before she returned to her morose state. Accustomed to seeing the young mare gleeful and eager at even the slightest prospect of some new insight into magic, Friar Jacques found Twilight’s present state rather saddening.

To Redheart, Luna said, “It was a wise insight of yours, young healer, even though impossible at this time. Studying as you are the ancient practices of Curatrix magic, it speaks well to your preparedness for the role that you considered it.”

“Th- thank you, Princess Luna,” stammered Redheart as she bowed, blushing.

Luna nodded once, then declared, “It is my judgment that Friar Jacques’ plan provides the best hope for our success in freeing this poor creature and ridding ourselves of this Amulet.” To the friar, Luna further promised, “More details of its nature I shall pass to you in the Dream Stride, Friar, that you may know the enemy you face. I shall teach you there, as days may pass in seconds in a dream. The rest of you shall learn when we awake, but for now there is not much time. There is no telling how long you can keep the mare Lulamoon in this slumbering state, and it would not do for her to wake before we have won the day.”

“Tempus fugit,” remarked Jacques quietly. “What would you have me do?”

“Rest comfortably on yonder bench, then open your mind to me,” the princess instructed. “I shall send you to sleep as I instruct the others in what they must do. Then, Friar…” she declared, her voice alight with the anticipation of battle, “we shall meet our foe.”

Redheart listened to Princess Luna’s instructions, trying not to pay attention to the now slumbering Friar Jacques, nor consider why the friar was slumbering. Despite all his and Princess Luna’s confidence, it still took effort for Redheart to stay calm.

Medevac’s presence helped.

Luna’s deeper instructions did not.

“The Dream Stride may take a considerable time to accomplish,” she was saying. “It is imperative that this wayward mare not awaken.”

Redheart swallowed. “Princess Luna, we are certainly at your disposal, but if I may, Princess… I am not certain what more we can do to keep her sedated without risking permanent harm to her.”

“A regrettable state of affairs,” Luna acknowledged. “Still, the imperative remains. She must not waken, lest even greater harm be done to her by leaving this wicked thing its hold upon her,” she glanced around the room, “to say nothing of harm which may come to all of you.” Affixing Redheart with her gaze once more, she ordered, “For her own sake, and yours, you must keep her sedated.”

The nurse felt sick at the thought of pumping yet more sedatives into poor Trixie’s body, a body they were already pushing to its limits. She was aware of Medevac pressing against her, barrel to barrel, and drew strength from his presence, but it did not change the grim reality of the situation. “Yes, Princess Luna,” she said, bowing her head, her voice quiet.

She was surprised when a gentle hoof nudged her head upward. Luna’s aquiline features, so severe and imperious, were softened with sorrowful compassion. “You have a healer’s heart, young Redheart,” Luna said, her voice warm and sad. “I know how it grieves you to take such measures. Yet much must be risked in war, and there is no war more vital than this. We fight to save this poor mare’s life, yes. But more importantly, we fight to save her eternal life.” Pain was evident in the princess’s features as she concluded, “There is no prison more terrible than the prison of one’s own sins. If she cannot be freed, then only death awaits her, of both body and of soul. I would save her from both, but it is the second that is of everlasting import.”

The intensity of the declaration overtook Redheart like a wild storm upon the open plains. The desire to bring Light to the Darkness, to set aright what had been made wrong – as had wakened in her at Trixie’s first attack – now stirred in her heart once again, a rallying cry against all things Broken and Corrupted in the world.

Even Medevac’s presence beside her seemed transformed, the comfort of a friend made like the presence of a fellow warrior on the battlefield.

New determination rang in Redheart’s voice as she declared, “We won’t let you down, Princess.” Nodding her head towards Trixie, she added, “And we won’t let her down.”

Luna smiled, and Redheart saw in that moment most clearly her resemblance with Celestia. “I know you won’t, my little pony.”

With that said, the princess turned, walked to an open part of the room whereby she could comfortably face both the slumbering friar and the unconscious Trixie, closed her eyes, and lit her horn. White tendrils of light reached out to both Trixie and Friar Jacques, and Redheart felt the radiant power in her hooves and in her chest.

Though she could not see what the princess and friar no doubt saw, she knew in her heart that the battle had begun.

Jacques stood upon a green hill beneath the stars. Nightingales sang in some distant forest grove, and the moon shone brightly.

Though he did not hear her hoof-falls, he sensed Luna’s presence and turned to face her.

“A more pleasant meeting place than the last time we met in the Realm of Dreams,” the princess said, a gentle smile on her lips.

The friar bowed slightly. “You have the advantage of me, Princess, as I do not remember our meeting on that occasion. Only the nightmare that drew you to me. But there will be time enough for such reminiscings later.”

“Indeed. Now we must attend to Miss Lulamoon. A task which, I fear, will fall heavily upon your shoulders.”

Jacques raised an eyebrow. “Shall I take that to mean that our worries have been vindicated, and you cannot engage with her in dreams whilst holding off the Amulet?”

“Regrettably true,” replied Luna, scowling. “That this construct has been so tainted is… an unsettling development. It is no match for me, but my focus must be on restraining its full power, lest it infest her – and her dreams – further. I would be sore-pressed to convince Trixie to remove the Amulet whilst doing so. You, then, must bear this burden. But be on guard. While I shall keep the greater part of its power at bay, it will still have strength in her dreams. As you strive to win her over, it will strive to keep hold, and I do not know what tricks by which it means to seduce her. My direct help to you will be… limited. I may assist you in providing a sense of direction and drawing you closer to where she lies, trapped beneath the weight of her nightmares, but you likely will not perceive my influence, except perhaps subtly. I will help guide you to her, but it is you who must find her and save her. You must convince her to take the wretched thing off.”

“Then there is no way to remove the Amulet by other means?”

Luna shook her head. “She chose to put it on, and so she must choose to take it off. Had its malice not been awakened so quickly, and its hold not grown so cancerously, she might have been tricked into removing it. The blasted thing is but a construct, after all. As it stands, she must accept liberation deliberately. But, as she has not the strength to do it on her own, she shall require your aid, not merely in convincing her, but in the removal of the Amulet itself once she gives you leave to do so.”

Jacques nodded. Just as God opens salvation to all, but not all choose to accept it, so too must one desire to be saved from the entrapments of sin.

“You said the Amulet was… corrupted. Was it not always evil? If so, could it be restored?”

“Not in its present state,” answered Luna. “Not while attached to any victim, and perhaps not at all. Still, no matter how powerful it is, it cannot remain if you are given permission to remove it.”

“Then with God’s help, I shall have to be persuasive.”

Luna smirked. “Quite.” More gravely, she added, “One final thing you should know before I send you into her mind, Friar. The Amulet hates and fears you. The corrupted script has taught it to despise you, as a dog is taught to attack certain prey. It knows you are a threat, yet it also knows that you cannot strike it down without Trixie’s assent. It will account for this. Be cautious.”

Jacques dipped his head. “I shall.”

“Then go with the Light of the Source, adjurist,” she bade him. “I do not know where you shall emerge, but wherever it is will be enemy territory.” With that final admonition, she lit her horn, and Jacques vanished in a beam of light.

Jacques awoke in a wasteland.

Bitter wind assailed him, buffeting him with ash-choked air. The sky was darkened with the roiling, sickly-colored clouds of a desert storm, shot with heat lightning and seeming lit with unnatural inner fires.

The earth beneath his feet was drought-cracked and dark, like the color had been leached out along with the water. Blown upon the fierce wind, pebbles and scree scoured the grim land, ravaging the remains of long-dead scrub, brush, and trees, and assailing the friar with their countless stinging impacts.

He warded his eyes with his magic against the pebbles and ash, but otherwise did not shield himself. The sharp little impacts were unpleasant, but not injurious, and he do not wish to expend his power for something as insignificant as personal comfort.

Better to offer the little suffering as a prayer to God for Trixie’s soul… and keep his power marshalled to face her should it come to that.

Not seeing any landmarks beyond the distant range of mountains, he examined them more closely. The centermost mountain drew his eye. In part, it was because the centermost mountain was the largest and most well defined.

Mostly, it was because of the great, shining light that flared at the top of it.

It gleamed like a beacon, summoning folk to come and bask in its warmth. Its light seemed to promise satisfaction, satiation, the fulfillment of ambitions.

And something about it felt very wrong.

All people are restless, seeking the satiation of their hearts’ infinite desire, thought Jacques, but there is only One who can satisfy our restless hearts… and many false gods who claim they can.

Sensing that he would find Trixie along the way to that beacon, Jacques set off in the direction of the unsettling mountain.

For time beyond reckoning, he walked.

For every step he took, the mountain grew no closer.

The crunch of his sandaled feet upon the coarse earth was the only sound apart from the storm.

The bones of the dead were his only companion.

He had not seen them at first. Grit and ash had concealed them from his sight. But the bones of ponies lay scattered upon the ground, a series of skeletal remains stretched out in an uneven line, as if one by one they had perished on a journey.

A journey, it seemed, towards the mountain.

Little remained of the unfortunates besides their bones. The farthest back were the most ravaged by the brutal elements, and were scarcely discernable from their surroundings. But as he advanced towards the mountain, more details emerged.

The skeletons were all of similar size, likely mares based on the build and the shape of the skull.

As he came across bones which were more intact, he saw that they were all unicorns.

By the time he saw one with scraps of blue cloth still clinging to the ragged bones, he had a strong sense of what he was seeing.

Bright flashes of heat lightning – red and full of hate – arced across the sky as thunder resounded, much closer now than the distant flashes he had seen before. The harsh dirge of the wind became a keening, unearthly wail that strove to reach to the very roots of his spine.

Through the wicked wail came a Dark voice.

“You are not welcome here, Slave of Harmony!”

Jacques put his hand to his sword. “And you are not the Darkest foe I have faced with the help of God, foul construct. You are but a corrupted enchantment, a blighted nightmare. In God’s Name I adjure you to show me what you have done with Trixie Lulamoon.”

A vicious hiss echoed all around him, and the air became tinted with red.

As the bones began to rattle, Jacques drew his sword.

Redheart cast an uneasy glance at Trixie’s heartrate monitor as the beeping intensified.

Probably not a good sign.

“How are her brainwaves?” she asked Medevac.

“Within acceptable ranges,” he answered. “But starting to edge more towards wakefulness by point-zero-one to point-zero-two. Holding steady at that point.”

For now, she thought, hearing the part he’d left unsaid.

“Should we up the dosage?” he asked.

Redheart thought a moment, then shook her head. “Not until we’re closer to that line. I’d rather start with more of Zecora’s potions first. Small dosage of the vermilion orchid mixture. Five milligrams, topically applied.”

Medevac complied, remarking as he did so, “This stuff isn’t that strong.”

“I know,” replied Redheart. “But it doesn’t have to be.”

Softly, Trixie moaned.

I hope.

Moans emanated from the rising skeletons as wind whistled through the holes in their skulls. Jacques quickly found himself ringed in by the walking dead.

“This is what I have done to Trixie, Slave of Harmony!” mocked the voice. “I have stripped away that which held her back! I have opened her to my power!”

“Stripped away her life,” corrected Jacques. “Stripped away the dreams that God has placed upon her heart. Or else, you have sought to, for you have not succeeded yet.” He pointed to the distant mountain. “You offer her the summit of all her aspirations, but can deliver no more than the grave! False savior! You are void of promise!”

“Only in me can she achieve the power she craves. I am her very life!”

With scornful wroth, the priest denied the claim. “You are not alive, Amulet, and even if you were, life and fulfillment is found through the grace of God alone! Your words are emptier than this wasteland, and your lies are laid barer than these bones. For Trixie still lives, as you never will, and the God who can raise up even dry bones to be His Sons and Daughters can surely restore life to a Daughter who is not yet dead! In God’s Name you shall release your hold on her and get thee gone! Your power shall not avail you here!”

The voice of the Amulet chuckled, a gurgle in its throaty laugh as though chortling through blood. “You cannot bid me leave if she does not wish me to leave, Slave of Harmony. And she does not hear you.”

Jacques’ eyes narrowed. “Only because you have stopped up her ears with lies.” His gaze fell upon the skeletons. “And if your lies must be burnt away that she may hear the truth, then so be it. I burn ye with eagerness and a light heart.” He raised his sword, and it blazed with pure white fire.

The Amulet seemed to sense what was coming, and the skeletons leapt forward, their horns charging to strike as keening wails ripped from their coldly grinning jaws.

But it was too late.

The friar swung his blade and cleansing fire swept out from him, engulfing the skeletons, piercing the skeletons, wrapping them within and without with purifying Light that immolated every trace of Darkness lurking within them.

An awful, roaring screech pierced the air like a lance, permeating every rock and tree and stone, but it did not, could not strike the priest.

The scream died, the Light withdrew its intensity, and Friar Jacques found himself alone on a low hill overlooking a dusty, winding cobblestone road which cut through a grassy countryside.

Of the skeletons and the wasteland, there was nothing to be seen.

But the storm, though quieter, remained.

In the relative silence, Jacques heard the clatter of cart wheels upon the cobblestone. Sheathing his sword, he turned in the direction of the sound and began to walk, a psalm on his lips and the Light in his heart.

Author's Note

Detective Chief Superintendent Skymaster (Air Crimes Division) felt his eye twitch madly as he tried to sit on his temper and focus on interviewing the witness to Antiquarian’s latest escapade.

It was the first lead he’d had in what felt like many months, but calling it a ‘lead’ might be generous.

“So… let me get this straight,” he began, surprising himself with how calm he sounded. “You heard a commotion outside the post office.”

“That is correct,” answered the postal pony, his expression oddly sanguine despite the icepack he held to his head to keep the rather impressive welt he’d gotten from swelling further.

“You heard names being shouted, among them ‘Life Circumstances,’ ‘Employment Blues,’ ‘Paying the Bills,’ and various others, and it sounded as though they were trying to cooperate to catch somepony.”

“Also correct,” agreed the postal pony.

“You stood up from your desk to investigate, at which point a scruffy brown unicorn stallion who looked like an unmade bed strung out on coffee and bitterness crashed through the front window.”

The postal pony blinked. “I… I wouldn’t describe him quite like that, but—”

“This disheveled mess of a pony who looked to be three eggs short of an omelet,” continued Skymaster, undeterred, “was then pursued into the post office by a group of thugs who were attempting to apprehend him, even as he held them off by wielding a typewriter only marginally less ill-kept than himself as a bludgeon.”

“Again, I wouldn’t have described him in quite that fashion—”

“At which point he took out a suitcase, threw it at your head, shouted ‘New chapter to mail out!’ crashed back out a different window, and refused to elaborate.”

“That… is a fairly accurate summary of what happened, Detective,” admitted the postal pony.

Skymaster held his gaze for a moment, then looked around the trashed post office, then turned without a word to walk into the side office that the postal service was letting him use while he investigated the matter. He managed to close the door just before he broke into a seven-minute-long stream of expletives aimed squarely at a particular mess of an author called Antiquarian.

***

Yes, I am alive.

Yes, my life has been… interesting. Which has delayed writing to an infuriating degree.

Yes, I am still working on this story.

Why the long delay?

Well, there’s a very interesting set of reasons behind that.

…

*Leaves*

*Refuses to elaborate.

***

In all seriousness, I am sorry, and I hope things will be calming down enough to write more. We’ll find out together.

One reason I can give you is the hecking Elements of Harmony, which made this chapter – and other future chapters I was tinkering with – a bear and a half to write.

You know why I prefer not to have super powerful artifacts in my story that kind of fix… everything when they get used without clearly established reasons why they can’t be used regularly?

Because even a five-year-old will ask “Why not use the Elements of Harmony, Uncle Antiq?”

That’s a good hecking question, little Timmy. WHY DON’T THEY?

In fairness, most of the things they deal with in the show don’t seem like Element material, and they actually do pull them out more often than one might remember. They tried with the Changelings and simply couldn’t get to them. Discord stole them the first time, and the second time they were prepped to use them, so that doesn’t count, and the show was smart enough to sideline them to fix the Tree of Harmony.

So, in the show it’s not so bad.

In writing fanfiction, however… one has to get creative.

D48 prompted me to look again at the explanation I already had in mind, which was along the lines of what this ultimately became, but I did end up refining it more, and the finished product is stronger than what I had before, so, thanks D48. I'll refrain from my Inner Sphere prescribed 'dirty Clanner' joke for the time being.

Honestly, I’m fairly pleased with this explanation. I think it’s a good reason for why they aren’t used at the drop of a hat (both in and out of canon) and a good explanation for why it hit Luna different the two times she tasted the rainbow.

But perhaps you folks disagree. Perhaps you’re not happy with my explanation.

To that, I can only say… you’re not my mom. I do what I want.

***

Shoutout today is Destiny Chaser. He helped me nail down the Elements explanation and is just an all-around solid human being. I recently re-read his Brighter Horizons, which remains a favorite of mine.

Did I already shout him and this story out earlier?

Maybe. I dunno. Life’s a blur.

But, hey, if I did… you’re not my dad either. I still do what I want.

If you like the explanation for the Elements, thank him. If you don’t, blame me. Or him. Or just let it go. Probably let it go, but I’m not your manager.

…

This was more unhinged than usual.

…

Bye!

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Prologue

The moon gleamed bright over Canterlot. All over the city lights were going out as ponies bedded down for the night. Even Canterlot Castle, the heart of the capital, was entering its slumber. Servants and staff finished their tasks and made their way to their quarters, accompanied by the weary Solar Guard. Soon, none would be up and about save for the Lunar Guard, who plied their lonely trade as the city slept.

Well, almost none. A pony sat alone in the Great Hall, contemplating the stained glass windows that portrayed the different legendary saviors of Equestria over the ages. There were many to see, but the mare seemed in no rush.

She was a unicorn, magenta-coated with a silver mane and tail and piercing ruby-red eyes. Ponies might have called her ‘petite,’ if not for the obvious physical strength and conditioning of her body. ‘Lean’ or ‘fit’ would have been better modifiers. She was blessed with fine-boned, symmetrical features which likely earned her many an admiring glance from passing stallions.

Still, only a fool would have taken liberties with her. She was clad in a harness of steel grey armor, polished to the point of appearing silver and trimmed with barding of red and gold. A heavy sabre hung at her side, its hilt an elaborate weaving of silver and gold carved to a myriad of patterns; a red double tassel hung from the pommel. She wore the bars of a Captain of the EUP Guard, and the six campaign ribbons and dozen commendations that decorated her armor spoke volumes to her qualifications. It was fitting that she be so accomplished. After all, few ponies had earned the right to wear the armor of a Captain of the EUP Guard. Fewer still bore the barding of a member of the Royal Expeditionary Force.

A cup of herbal tea sat on the tiles at her feet as she gazed up at the window of Shining Armor and Cadence, an artistic representation of the moment when the Captain of the Royal Guard and his wife had performed their shield spell, purging the capital of the Changeling menace. It’s a rather beautiful scene, she mused, lifting her tea in a silvery magical grip to take a sip. A pity I was too busy digging through the rubble to see the real thing. She raised a hoof up to touch a dent on her armor that she’d ordered the smith not to beat out; a reminder of how close she’d come to taking the brunt of the collapsing ceiling during the invasion. If Spearhead hadn’t pushed me out of the way…

“Rather late to be viewing the gallery isn’t it, Captain Sabre?” asked a female voice from the far end of hall, the speaker having entered from the passage behind the throne.

The soldier smiled, her eyes flicking to see the newcomer: a cream-coated unicorn mare with brown mane, black glasses, and a pen and inkwell for a Cutie Mark. “Captain Sabre?” she echoed in a clear alto. “Raven, we’ve known each other since Uni. Whatever happened to ‘Argent?’”

Raven Inkwell, personal secretary to Celestia, crossed the distance between them, holding a teacup of her own. “She disappears whenever we’re both on duty.” The mare yawned. “And even if we’re off duty, we’re still in the palace, and I’m in the habit of erring on the side of formality.”

Argent chuckled. “The joys of serving at Their Royal Majesties’ pleasure, eh? Are your courtly manners so well and truly stuck in, then, that they cannot let you relax even for an evening? Hardly breaking the upper-crust Canterlot stereotype.”

“You’re one to talk about stereotypes,” snorted Raven as she sat next to her college friend. “You’ve lived on the border the last ten years; yet your accent’s still thicker than mine.”

“It is not!” protested Argent.

Raven cocked an eyebrow. “Have you met Rarity Belle?”

“The Element of Generosity? After the siege, yes. Briefly.” Argent’s brow furrowed. “Why? What has she got to do with anything?”

The secretary shrugged. “I simply wanted a point of comparison. You see, your accent is so thick you make her sound like a bloody Appleoosan.”

Argent’s jaw flapped open in mock outrage, but she couldn’t suppress a chortle of amusement. “Well, I never! Such words from a dear friend!” Raven smirked as Argent’s outburst proved her point for her. The captain gave dry smile. “Hmph. I suppose you’ve got me there, Raven.” She took a sip of her tea. “Though that’s hardly a fair comparison. Rarity’s not even from here.”

“She could have fooled me,” replied the secretary, sipping her own drink. The two sat in silence for a moment before Raven spoke up again. “May I inquire about your sudden interest in art?”

“Am I not allowed to appreciate beauty?” countered Argent.

“Of course you are. I just wonder at the hour.”

The soldier pursed her lips. “Well, it’s rather simple, really.” She gestured with a hoof to the Hall of Heroes. To the empty hall. “How often can one get this level of privacy in such a place?”

“Ah,” blinked Raven. The secretary rose and collected her cup. “I apologize for intruding. I’ll leave you to your viewing—

“Oh, do sit down, dear,” Argent admonished her. “I didn’t intend that as a passive request for you to leave. I simply meant that during the day there are crowds.” Raven appeared unconvinced, so the guard rapped her hoof against the tiles next to her. “Sit. I insist. I enjoy having somepony cultured to talk to after the season I’ve had.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Raven sat back down. “Trouble with the troops?”

Argent rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t even get me started! Three months hiking through jungles to hunt down insurrectionists for the Zebrican King, followed by a month in the sweltering heat protecting trade caravans in Saddle Arabia, and now a trip to Canterlot to test potential recruits for the REF…all with the roughest bunch of wise-cracking, boisterous, rowdy, unwashed, and generally uncivilized stallions the Force has to offer! I swear, it’s as though the Brigadier conspired to fill my company with every ruffian in the army just to annoy me.”

Raven giggled, holding a hoof over her mouth. “You don’t approve of their manners then?”

“Manners? What manners?” demanded Argent. “Manners are a foreign concept to these reprobates!” In a more muted tone she added, “I mean, they’re bloody good fighters and I’ll gut the first fool that tries to take my company away from me,” her volume returned with her exaggerated ire, “but would it kill them to wash up before eating without a direct order once in a blue moon?!” Raven snorted into her teacup, and Argent was hard-pressed to maintain a properly cross face as she criticized her soldiers’ antics. “Barely twenty of them here with me they still manage to give me a headache with all their barracking and carousing! They seem bound and determined to drink the combined Solar and Lunar Guards under the table!”

The secretary did her best to look concerned and sympathetic. Her snickering didn’t help. “What about your First Sergeant? Doesn’t he keep them in line?”

Argent snorted. “Brick’s the worst of the lot! He’d probably try to drink them under the table even if it were just him.” With a mutter she added, “And it’d serve the Shiny Boys right for challenging him.” The secretary’s amusement veered towards an unladylike guffaw, but Argent continued undeterred. “And, as if that weren’t enough, I fear they’re conspiring to make it worse on me!”

“How so?” managed Raven through her levity.

“Well, they seem bound and determined to recruit more of their disreputable ilk from amongst the Solar and Lunar Guards,” replied Argent glumly. “Each of the soldiers to stand out so far has been just as rough and tumble as the rest of my rabble. At this rate I’ll be going back with forty miscreants instead of twenty.” She shook her head with a sigh. “I just needed some peace, quiet, and culture away from it all. One can only watch sweaty stallions crashing through an obstacle course for so long before it becomes tiresome.”

Raven gave her a sly smile. “Is that so?”

Argent shot the secretary a reproving look, but couldn’t keep a small smile off her face. “Bite your tongue, Miss Inkwell. That’s highly inappropriate behavior you’re suggesting. A lady does not ogle.”

Her friend looked wounded by the suggestion. “Ogle, Argent? Certainly not! But,” she winked, “admire, perhaps?” The soldier narrowed her eyes. Raven harrumphed. “Oh, come now, Argent. I’m not suggesting anything untoward! I’m simply asking if you’ve ever noticed an attractive stallion under your command.”

Rolling her eyes, Argent responded with a dry laugh. “Well of course I’ve noticed, Raven. I’m professional, not dead.” More soberly she added, “But a mare ought to master her passions, and an officer doubly so.”

Raven held up her forehooves in mock surrender. “No need to get so defensive, dear. I know you’d never do anything like that. I’m just teasing you, for Celestia’s sake.”

“Oh, don’t worry, dear. I know you are,” Argent assured her. Then she smirked. “Though it’d hardly matter if you weren’t. I’m entirely out of their league.”

Raven laughed.

Taking another sip of her tea, Argent willed the stress of the last four months to leave her body as she sat before the artistic majesty of the windows, chatting with her friend. “I truly am glad to be here, though,” she admitted with a sigh. “I hate to leave the field, but…” she swirled the tea in her magical grasp, willing her thoughts not to drift back to the wars, “I think I needed this time away. Time to let myself recharge. Time away from the battlefield,” she sighed and let her shoulders fall slack. “Time to just relax in peace with no catastrophes looming overhead. Time to sit quietly with a friend looking at a window without any crises knocking at the door.”

The secretary nodded in understanding, and both mares took long draughts of their tea, enjoying the stillness of the Great Hall.

They likely would have enjoyed it for much longer had the wall behind them not exploded in a cacophony of shattered glass and masonry. Raven screamed in terror as the shrapnel flew in all directions, missing the both of them only because of the reflexive shield that the veteran soldier threw up. Raven’s terrified eyes darted to her friend, but Argent’s face betrayed no fear. Only annoyance.

“Bloody Tartarus. I should have known better than to tempt Fate,” she muttered as she rose and turned, her magical grip yanking her saber free. “Alright, you ruffian, I do hope you have a jolly good reason for ruining a perfectly good—,” her breath caught in her throat as she saw their assailant. “Oh,” she exclaimed under her breath. “Oh my.”

Standing there panting in the recently gaping hole in the wall was a stallion. A unicorn, to be precise. His coat was tan with a smoky grey tinge, and his mane was an inky black, but something told Argent these weren’t the stallion’s natural colors. It might be the fact that his eyes are green, red, reptilian, and leaking purple smoke, she mused. Or perhaps it’s the tendrils of oozing blackness that swirl around him like the limbs of a kraken. The stallion locked its unnatural eyes at her and hissed, his forked tongue flicking like that of a serpent between his…fangs. Well, that can’t be a good sign. “Hello there,” she said as cordially as she could muster. The stallion hissed again as the doors banged open and two Lunar Guards sprinted in, weapons readied. With a flick of her saber, Argent bade them wait, and hoped that their obedience overrode their instincts. “And who might you be?”

The stallion’s tongue flicked in and out a few times before he gave a serpentine response. “Greeetinngssssss Celesssssstiann,” he hissed.

Argent was no fool. She recognized the stallion’s appearance from the images she’d seen of the most recent villain to be toppled by the Elements of Harmony and their compatriots: King Sombra. But Sombra is dead. So who is this pretender? “Not quite what I asked, old chap. I asked who you were, you see.”

His chuckled seemed to bubble from beneath a lake of noxious ooze. “I do nooot stoop to teeelllll yoouu, Celessssstiannn.”

“Not terribly neighborly of you,” replied Argent with a huff.

Raven trembled beside her. “A-Argent, w-what are you—"

“Now, now, dear, don’t be alarmed,” Argent reassured her. “This fellow here is just lost. He seems to be rather interested in Celestia, though.” The captain shot her a pointed glance. “Why don’t you go fetch her?”

The secretary stood shakily for a moment, then darted off to the passage behind the throne. The intruder’s eyes followed her, unblinking, but Argent stepped forward to reclaim his attention, waving the Lunar Guards into formation around her as she did, silently praying that they weren’t green recruits. As she advanced, she focused on her blade, envisioning its structure in her mind before drawing the essence of that structure out from the blade. Responding to her command, four shimmering white mana sabers split off from her sword and hovered around her, trailing tendrils of silvery magic that danced in the air.

It was enough to grab the intruder’s attention. The dark mage turned his malevolent gaze back to her, and she fought the urge to shudder. “Sssshhhe goesss to fetch Celesssssstia, yeeesssssss?”

Argent kept her voice dismissive. “She goes to inform the Princess of an unwanted guest, yes. It’s up to Her Royal Highness whether or not to receive you, of course. You understand, I trust?” Though I certainly don’t. What is he? I don’t recall the reports saying that Sombra sounded like a snake.

Leering at her, he replied, “Yesssss, I do, Celessssstiann. And I sssshhalll make her sssssssee your corpsssess and weep before I ssssslay herrr.”

One of the soldiers, the spear-toting earth pony to her right, snorted. “Bold talk for a Sombran pretender, eh, Ironhide?”

The other stallion, a unicorn, nodded. “Bold talk indeed, Oaken. And we don’t take kindly to such talk here.” He brandished a longsword and shield, and seemed so keen to use them that for a moment Argent thought that he would charge then and there. But her fear was baseless. He was waiting for her command, as was Oaken. Not amateurs, then. Jolly good.

The intruder gave a cackling laugh. “A Ssssommbrann you call meee? Perhapsssss, boy, but perhapssss not. Sssssombraa wassss one of mmany….and not the firsssst.”

Argent’s blades lowered for the attack and she tensed. “And just what do you mean by that, pray tell?”

Baring his fangs, he hissed, “Wwhhy tell, when I can sssshhow?” His horn glowed red and the black tentacles shot forward, accompanied by an inequine shriek.

Celestia set a slow pace as she wandered the halls of the castle. It was much later than she preferred to be up and about, but sleep had eluded her. More than that, her exhaustion had as well. Generally, by this point in the evening, she was so wearied by the day’s events that it was all she could do not to rush to the seclusion of her chambers for a good night’s rest. But tonight she was moved by a strange energy; one she could not explain. She felt as though she had to be awake. That something demanded her notice. But, for the life of me, I can’t imagine what, mused the solar diarch as she walked.

Beside her trotted four veteran Lunar Guards, two to each side. Ordinarily, she would not have desired an escort, nor needed one, but the same quiet urging that had driven her from her chambers had bade her gesture for the quartet of soldiers to accompany her when she’d spotted them on patrol. After engaging in a little polite small talk, asking after their families and such, the party had lapsed into silence. If the guards thought the events of the evening odd, they did not say. But for her part, Celestia found her mind occupied with little else. For she recognized the gentle prodding that had sent her forth from her room that night, subtle though it was. It was the same nudge that had led her to linger nearby during Twilight’s entrance examination. The same nudge that had suggested that she look more closely at Sunset Shimmer’s … unofficial research. The same nudge that had prompted her to offer the Apple family a plot of land so close to Canterlot. Throughout the years, this nudge, this push, had guided her to find wisdom, clarity, and direction in many a troubling time. And she trusted it.

But that did not keep her from wondering.

Just what does Providence have in store for me today, I wonder?

As it happened, she did not need to wait much longer for an answer, for at that moment Raven burst forth from a side passage, terror stamped on her features as she ran pell-mell down the hall. “Intruders!” she cried, her voice somewhere between a shriek and an exhausted gasp. “Intruders!”

Instantly, the guards took a defensive stance around the princess, shields and spears facing outwards. As the princess hastened to meet her aide, their protective sphere expanded enough to surround both mares. Raven collapsed sobbing into her ruler’s side. “Raven, what has happened?” demanded Celestia, horrified to see her assistant in such a state. “Who is attacking, my little pony?”

“S- S- So- Soh-,” stammered the frightened mare.

Celestia stroked Raven’s mane, tilting the mare’s head up so that their eyes met. “Deep breaths, Raven,” she said gently. “Just tell me what happened.”

“S- Som- Sombra!”

The alicorn’s blood ran cold. “Sombra?” she repeated, her voice dipping.

Raven sobbed into her chest and nodded mutely.

Celestia rose, pulling the mare up with her as her mind raced. Sombra was dead. Of that she was certain. His form had been utterly obliterated by the Crystal Heart. But the Shadow King, for all his malevolence, had been simply a powerful unicorn who had dabbled in magics that he should have known better than to touch. In the end, he was no more than a mighty fool, for the Darkness had not originated with him. Which means…

“Corporal Thrash, Corporal Cutter, please conduct Miss Inkwell to the infirmary and set her under heavy guard. Sergeant Stein, Lance Corporal Tine, put the castle on high alert and bring a Pacification Squad to the Great Hall immediately.”

Corporals Thrash and Cutter immediately obeyed, taking hold of Raven and speeding her off to safety. Stein and Tine, however, hesitated a brief moment. “Of course, Your Highness, only,” Celestia’s eye fell upon the sergeant and he swallowed. “If I may ask, Your Highness, what will you be doing?”

Flexing her wings and powering her horn, Celestia spared but a moment to answer. “Containing the situation.” Before they could ask what she meant, she vanished in a burst of light.

“Ironhide, down!” shouted Argent. The night trooper left off hacking at one of the tentacles and ducked. It was not a moment too soon, as another dark tendril shaped itself into a spear and thrust with unnatural speed through the space his head had just occupied, shaving a few strands from his plume.

“Too slow, ugly! Yipe!” Ironhide’s taunt swiftly turned to a yelp of dismay as he jumped back to avoid the limb he’d been fighting earlier, which had morphed into a maul and attempted to crush him.

“Iron, you idiot!” bellowed Oaken, who was holding his spear like a quarterstaff as he fended off three tentacles on his own. “Save the taunts for when we’re winning!”

The Sombran’s chuckles echoed through the hall as he pushed the two stallions back. His mirth was short-lived, however, as Argent took advantage of his distraction to hack down two of his infernal limbs with her steel saber and fling her mana blades at his skull. He barely managed to raise a shield to protect himself, and her silvery constructs pinned themselves like darts against his inky black barrier. She dismissed the constructs before he could break them and inflict her with magical backlash.

“Clossssse, Celesssstiann,” he taunted, his severed tentacles reforming themselves. “But not closssse enough!”

“A pity, to be sure,” she replied, fresh mana sabers snapping into existence and menacing the tentacles. “I was quite ready to be done with your prattling. Still, if at first you don’t succeed…” her blades sped forward and hacked at the writing mass, Argent charging in close behind. “On me!” she ordered sharply.

The two Lunars shifted inwards and charged behind the captain as she cut a path through to the shadowy stallion. It was a risky move to charge like this, Argent knew, but her options were limited. Oaken and Ironhide were capable fighters, but the unicorn’s single blade could only cut through the tentacles so fast, and Oaken’s spear was even less effective against them. Their best chance was to engage the caster directly, but to get close they needed her.

Sweat broke out on her brow as she flung her blades into a frenzy, slicing through tentacles like a lawnmower as she galloped straight for the Sombran. The Lunar Guards tucked in close behind her, dealing with anything her sabers missed.

The sudden attack caught the intruder off-guard. He frowned and took a step back, concentrating his tentacles on striking towards the center. Argent gave a mirthless grin and responded by bringing her four mana blades together in a spinning propeller of carnage, holding her steel saber in close to ward off anything that slipped past. The tactic was brutally effective, reducing the oncoming strikes to shreds before they could get close. But, unfortunately, they made it difficult to see what the enemy stallion was doing. “Watch the flanks!” she ordered, anticipating a counterattack.

What she did not anticipate was where it came from.

Oaken felt it before she did, perhaps because he was an earth pony, and was already lunging at Argent by the time she noticed the shaking beneath her hooves. “Below!” he shouted as he shoulder-checked her out of the way.

The tentacle burst through the floor in the shape of a clawed talon, shattering Oaken’s armor and spearing into him as it bore him high into the air to smash against the ceiling. The stallion gave an anguished cry as he hit. “Oaken!” shouted Ironhide, momentarily losing his concentration. He failed to notice the four tentacles that had slipped around Argent’s blades to the left.

“Left flank cover!” she ordered, breaking off two of her swords to intercept the attack. She succeeded in cutting two of the tentacles, but the others hit their target. Ironhide reacted to her warming and managed to block one with his shield, but the remaining attack sliced at his head, cutting a considerable gouge into his cheek.

“Buck!” he snarled, hacking at the offending appendages with his longsword.

Argent tried to help him, but she had her hooves full keeping back the frontal attacks, and as she adjusted to the change in tactics the intruder made his move. The tentacle that had pinned Oaken to the ceiling retracted with lightning speed along a twisting course that managed to elude Argent’s sabers, and she watched helplessly as the earth pony was dragged to the dark magician’s side.

As soon as Oaken was beyond the reach of his comrades, the tentacles retracted, hovering defensively around their master as he pulled his captive close. Snarling, Argent and Ironhide advanced, but the stallion leered back at them and drew an ornate serrated dagger, pointing it at Oaken’s throat. “Ah, ah, aaaah,” the Sombran chided them.“Mussstn’t do anything hassssty…”

Oaken writhed in his captor’s grip, but even with all his strength he couldn’t break free. The Sombran’s attack had so thoroughly shattered his armor that the glamor enchantment had been broken, revealing a brown-coated stallion with a darker brown mane and blue eyes. He showed no fear, instead glaring daggers at the dark caster. “Get bucked, Sombran!” he spat.

His captor responded by pressing the blade tighter against his throat. “Sssssssssssh, little Celesssstiannn. Mussstn’t be hasssty.”

“Coward!” shouted Ironhide, grinding his teeth in helpless rage. “Let him go and face us like a stallion instead of a—

Argent cut him off, placing a hoof against his chest and shooting him a warning look before returning her attention to the Sombran. “What do you want, cultist?”

With a fanged grin he answered, “Why, to sssssend a messsssage tooo Celesssstiaa, of coursssse.”

“Captain,” gritted Oaken, “I don’t care if you have to kill me, but put this Sombra-loving dreg’s head on a bucking spike—

He was cut off by the press of the blade, which broke the skin enough to draw blood. “Sssssssssh,” repeated the cultist. “Your elderssss and betterssss aarre talking.”

“If you wanted to send a message,” observed Argent with a bitter glance around the shattered room, “there were certainly better ways of doing it.”

“Neeeed her attenssssshun.”

Whatever Argent was about to say was cut off by a new voice. “And you have it,” announced Celestia. Their collective gaze was drawn to the hole in the wall, where the diarch’s arrival was heralded by a day-like glow that grew in intensity until Celestia rose like a star in the night sky, framed by the broken masonry.

Behind her, several squads of guards were forming up around the princess. Most were Lunar Guards, but there were a handful of Solars and even two of Argent’s soldiers, who had apparently seen the commotion and moved to investigate. Some trained bows and crossbows on the interloper while others hefted spears for an aerial charge, but none moved without Celestia’s word. And, at the moment, she was busy conversing with the captor.

“You wanted to send me a message, stranger, and I am here,” declared the diarch calmly. “Release my soldier and I’ll allow you to deliver it.”

The Sombran cackled. “You ttthhink you caaan dictate termssss to meeee, Celessssstia?”

Celestia cocked an eyebrow. “I think that you overestimate your position, my friend. I know what power you wield. It is not the first time I have tasted its foulness. You are dangerous, I’ll grant you that.” Her eyes narrowed. “But Sombra was many times more powerful than you, and I defeated him.”

“You diiid nooot kill himmm,” taunted the stallion.

To Argent’s shock, Celestia actually laughed. “No, but I did annihilate his corporeal form and force him to become the very Shadows he had embraced just to save his life. And, in the end, what did his power earn him but a miserable death?” Her gaze became pitying. “Don’t do this, my little pony. Whatever you have been promised, it’s not worth the price. There is a better way. It’s not too late for you.”

“Pleading with mmmee, Celessstia?” he hissed. “How pattthetic!”

“I’m not pleading for me, young stallion,” she corrected. “I’m pleading for you. I’m trying to save your life.” Her voice wavered for an instant. “I’m trying to save your soul.”

Argent blinked. Princess, what are you—

“My ssssoul, Celesssstia? Ha! That’sssss rich!” sneered the mystery stallion. “I am a Ssssshade, Celesssstia! We dictate our own fffate!” Celestia recoiled, and the cultist laughed. “Doessss the name ssssurprissse you, Sssssun Queen? Did you tthink ussss desssstroyed all thossssse yearsssss ago? We rissse now, Celesssstia! We sssshall not be sssssstopped!” His hoof tensed on the knife. “Thisssss sssslave of yoursss sssshall be the firsssst of many!” He pointed the knife at Celestia. “He sssha—

Argent yelped in shock as there was a brilliant flash of light, a cry choked short, and the overpowering smell of ash and brimstone. The soldier blinked away the temporary blindness, rubbing instinctively at her eyes. When her vision returned, she saw Celestia entering through the hole in the wall, making her way over to Oaken, who was slumped on the floor staring in shock at the charred ground where the cultist used to be. Argent blinked again, though her vision had returned.

“Sweet Stars above, she immolated him!” exclaimed Ironhide in a stunned whisper.

“Indeed she did,” replied Argent. She shook off her stupor and hastened forward to greet the princess and check on her subordinate, Ironhide close behind.

The Great Hall was filled with guards by now, both the pegasi from outside and what looked to be a Pacification Squad that must have entered during the final confrontation. By the time Argent and Ironhide reached Oaken and Princess Celestia, the diarch had already helped ease Oaken into a more comfortable position while the medics dashed over. “I apologize if you were scorched by the proximity, Private Oaken” Celestia was saying as she used her magic to ease the stallion’s pain. “I could not risk failing to kill him in the first strike.”

You call that a mere strike? marveled Argent.

“D-don’t mention it, Your Highness,” stammered Oaken. “Thank you. I, well, I didn’t think I was going to make it.”

“Oh, I’m sure that Captain Argent and Private Ironhide here would have found a solution,” the Princess assured him as the medics began treating Oaken’s wounds. Celestia turned her attention to Ironhide, frowning as she saw the rather nasty gash on his cheek. “You should have that seen to, soldier.”

Ironhide saluted. “Just a scratch, Princess. They don’t call me ‘Ironhide’ for nothing.”

She gave a dry smile. “All the same, have it seen to. That’s an order.” Turning to Argent she said, “I commend your quick actions, Captain, though I would expect nothing less. Please tell me what transpired; Raven was rather too terrified to tell me much.”

Argent had plenty of her own questions, but she did as she was ordered and related the full story of the attack. Occasionally Celestia would ask for clarification, often on what seemed a rather innocuous statement, but for the most part she remained silent. When Argent finished, she expected Celestia to speak, but instead the diarch simply sat in silence, staring into the distance as though she were waiting for something. Argent was not one to pry, but tonight’s events had taxed her usual patience. “Er, Princess,” she began gingerly. “If I may ask…”

“What is it, Argent?” asked Celestia, not unkindly.

“Who…or rather what was that stallion? If you don’t mind me saying, Your Highness, it seemed as though you knew.”

Celestia gave a pensive nod. “I suppose I do, Argent. Or, at least, I suspect. The Shades were an old enemy of mine and Luna’s. A cult of Dark Magic users. One of the last foes we buried together.” She sighed and shut her eyes. “I had hoped that they’d stay buried.” For a long moment she was silent, and Argent was about to ask for further clarification when Celestia spoke again. “My sister is due to return from her business in Manehatten within the hour, is that correct?”

“Yes, Princess,” supplied one of the Lunar Guards.

“When she arrives, inform her that I wish to see her in the Shrine of the Source.” Rising to her hooves, she began to walk away. She paused a moment, half turning to look back at Argent. “I am aware that you have questions, Captain. But there are matters I must consider before I tell you what I know. See to it that the city is secured, but do so quietly. We do not wish to start a panic when the true nature and extent of our threat has yet to reveal itself.”

Argent saluted. “It will be done, Your Highness.”

“Good,” nodded Celestia. “And, Argent?” The princess fixed Argent with a one-eyed stare. “See to it that nopony knows of what has transpired tonight. Everypony here is sworn to secrecy until I or my sister explicitly order otherwise.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Without another word, Celestia left. Argent stared after her for a time, trying, and failing to understand what was happening. It irked her. Unknowns and mysteries were inevitable in warfare, but this felt…different somehow. We’ve faced plenty of cultist types before. What has the Princess so riled about this one? And why isn’t she saying?

Beside her, Private Ironhide cleared his throat. “Permission to speak freely, ma’am.”

I suppose you’ve earned that much tonight, soldier. “Granted.”

“That was…odd, right?”

Argent couldn’t help but give a little chuckle at that. “‘Odd’ you say, Private? Well, I suppose that’s technically true, but a bit of an understatement, don’t you think?” Her gaze drifted to the fire-blacked floor. “I think that ‘disturbing’ might be more appropriate.”

The Shrine of the Source, Canterlot Castle

While capable of housing several thousand, the Shrine was empty that night, leaving Celestia alone with her own thoughts as she pondered the night’s events. Moonlight drifted through the stained glass windows, casting images of the Creation upon the tiled floor where the alabaster alicorn sat. She stared up into the high arched ceiling of the Shrine as though she could see through the stonework into the heavens beyond. “Are they truly to return after so many years?” she asked, her voice scarcely a whisper. “I so dearly hope that it shall only be one or two fools at a time who dabble in such power, as it has been for centuries. But if it is not…if the Shades truly are to return…” her muzzle dipped to the floor, “how can we fight such widespread evil again?”

“The same as we have always fought them, sister,” observed Luna from behind her. The lunar diarch walked forward to sit beside her sister amidst the patterned light of the Creation. “Together. Our little ponies have faced such monsters before.”

Celestia shook her head. “It was different then, Luna. Wars were common. Dark practitioners were well-known, as were the dangers they posed. But today…” she sighed. “Our little ponies have become accustomed to peace. They are unused to being on guard against attacks. And vigilance is a difficult habit to maintain throughout the centuries when enemies are few and distant.” She shut her eyes. “I’m just worried for them, that’s all.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “For the pain this will cause them.”

Luna wrapped a hoof and wing around her sister’s shoulder. “Celestia, when I was…lost…did not the Creator provide a means of saving me?”

With a reluctant half-laugh, Celestia nodded, wiping at her tears. “Yes.”

“And will not the Source of Harmony provide whatever is needed to face this threat, whatever form it may take.”

Celestia nodded. “Of course.”

“Then have faith, Tia,” Luna urged. “Providence guides us; Harmony shall prevail; as it always has…”

“…and as it always shall,” finished Celestia. She took a deep breath. “You’re right, Lu. We shall endure. We shall protect our ponies.” The white alicorn chuckled. “I just wonder what strange form our Providential help will take this time.”

The cobalt alicorn shrugged. “Who can say? But there is one thing I don’t doubt.”

“What’s that?” asked her sister.

Luna regarded her gravely. “Whatever it is, it will be memorable.”

Author's Note

Welcome to perhaps the most random writing idea that I've ever had. I hope it will be an enjoyable ride for us all. The first three chapters I'm releasing in one go to set the stage properly, but future updates won't be this rapid. You've been warned.

A little housekeeping: in case it wasn't clear, this story picks up in Season 3 before the finale, so we'll have unicorn Twilight. For the record, I actually really like alicorn Twilight, but for this story to work I needed the earlier version.

Argent is a returning character from my Tip of the Spear story. Reading it is not required to get this story, and while Tip of the Spear is considered canon for this story, the same does not necessarily apply in reverse. I very deliberately spelled her name 'Sabre,' even though I use 'saber' for her weapons. This is because the former is the English spelling, and the latter the American-English spelling.

This story is an experiment for me in many ways, and I anticipate changes and corrections. Feedback and critiques are always welcomed. I only ask that they be constructive.

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A Chance Meeting of Crusaders

Drifting…

The torrents had passed…

Drifting…

Gone was the hurricane that had ripped him away…

Drifting…

In its place, the haze of a dream as he floated through the air…

Drifting…

Drifting…

Floating…

Drifting…

Adrift…

Am I dead…?

.

.

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.

.

It would be such a shame to die without even seeing this new…

…where was I going?

Drifting…

…I was going…somewhere…

Spectral figures roamed through the mist, their eyes piercing the fog like the rays of the sun.

Drifting…

First he saw men and women, commoners and lords, children and parents and elders.

Drifting…

Then came the soldiers, knights and men-at-arms, Templars and Sergeants. With them strode Karim.

Drifting...

There were dark pulses in the mist, and where they pulsed they swallowed the lights, and only Karim escaped. For a time, nothing came.

Drifting…

Then came the Hospitallers, first knights, then monastic brothers, and last of all Methuselah. While the others floated past, his eyes snapped to Jacques, shining more brilliantly than the others. It should have blinded the friar, but instead he saw a vibrant world full of color, and through it roamed the colorful herd of Methuselah’s vision. In a flash he saw laid out before him the tableaux that the old man had described, and he felt that if he could have but a minute with the vision then all would be made clear—

The light became blinding, and he saw no more of the vision. He drifted once more in the fog.

Drifting…

Around him the mists had changed, taking on the vibrant colors of the world he had briefly glimpsed. Jacques could have sworn that he saw shapes moving in the fog, but it was too vague, too indistinct to clearly see.

Drifting…

A sensation overcame him, that of motion. Jacques did not know how long he had drifted, but he could not remember when he had last felt motion. He knew it had been when he had left Methuselah, but that had been…

Drifting…

Weeks? Months? Years? He did not know.

Moving…

But now he was going somewhere. He was not sure if that meant he was dead or not, but he didn’t think he was. He still had a mission, so he could not be dead.

Moving…

Wind rushed in his hair as he accelerated towards his goal. He wanted to feel excitement, anticipation, something about his destination, but it was all so strange, so alien. He did not feel any particular passion. He felt that things were progressing towards a purpose, and simply accepted that. Accepted it as he would accept the pull of the earth below…

.

.

.

…below…

.

.

.

Falling…

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Friar Jacques gasped, sucking in a greedy double lungful of air as he sat bolt upright. He was lying on his back in a grassy field overrun with wildflowers. The sun shone warm upon his face, and a gentle breeze rippled through the meadow, setting the plants to dance. Birds trilled merrily in the spring air, their songs lending melody to the pastoral scene. It was beautiful.

It also made absolutely no sense. “By what madness have I come here?” grunted Jacques, heaving himself to his feet and dusting off his habit. The last thing he remembered with any clarity was bidding farewell to Methuselah at the gate. Then he had stepped forward, felt the pull as of the sea in a storm and then…

Nothing. Nothing distinct, at any rate. He had vague recollections of drifting through an ethereal plane, but the more he tried to concentrate on what he’d seen, the less distinct everything became. He gave up when the beginning of a headache made itself known.

Maybe I fell down a hill, he reasoned. Maybe I was knocked unconscious, and Methuselah did not know because he could not see me. Mayhap—

Whatever theory the Frenchman held was quickly dispelled with a look at his surroundings. His grassy field did not lie at the bottom of a hill near the St. Gilles Priory, or of any other in Provencal. Most of the flowers were foreign to any that he was familiar with; the mountains in the distance did not look like any that Jacques could recognize; and he could not recall the Priory being anywhere near a dark, foreboding forest that seemed utterly at odds with the otherwise vibrant landscape. It was as though he’d stepped out the door to the Priory and into another world.

“Into another world,” he breathed aloud. The words had sprung unbidden to his mouth, but now that he had uttered them, their weight was enough to drag him down. He fell to his knees, shaking. “Another world,” he hissed. “But…but that cannot be! I must be dreaming! Surely I must be dreaming! This is madness! This is…” his eyes drifted to follow a pair of sparrows flitter by, “surely madness.” He realized he was trying to convince himself.

Jacques had always trusted his instincts. He had been blessed with a heart that sought the truth and would not accept any deception. It has served him well as both a soldier and as a priest. It had been his instincts that had led him to trust Methuselah and to step through the door when his reasoning could not fathom why. And now those same instincts were telling him that this was no dream. His mind rebelled at the thought, but the instincts insisted. And so Jacques’ befuddled mind responded the only way it could:

He laughed uncontrollably.

It started as a simple chortle, climbed to a chuckle, and crescendoed into outright roars of mirth. He sat on his heels and laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks. “Oh, Methuselah, Methuselah!” he howled. “When you said I’d be sent to a far off land, I’d no idea you meant so immediately!”

The priest laughed for a long while before his mirth finally abated enough for him to rise. Once more he dusted himself off, feeling rather embarrassed by the near-manic nature of his outburst. It was plain that what had happened to him was miraculous, and had he known for certain where his path might take him next he might have stayed to contemplate that wondrous fact. But, as he did not know, he reasoned that there was nothing to be gained by waiting in a field; things would unfold in their due time, and right now it seemed time to get moving.

And so Jacques made a quick prayer of thanksgiving for his safe arrival, and followed with a prayer for direction. His initial examination of the field had yielded no signs of civilization, so, having said his petition, he took a more thorough look at his surroundings.

He saw little that he had not noticed before, but as his gaze drifted by the mountains he caught sight of a spire that did not appear natural. Looking closer, it appeared to be a gold and ivory tower which peeked around the side of a mountain to what was (guessing from the position of the sun) the northwest. The construction reminded him of the onion domes of Byzantine churches or the minarets of a mosque. It appeared to be a good many miles off, and his shoulders slumped at the thought of such a long journey. But, as there are no other signs of civilization in view, it would appear that I have little choice. And so he set off for the distant tower, softly singing a hymn as he went.

The path took him along the side of the foreboding forest, but did not yet demand that he enter it. Jacques was glad of this. He was no stranger to making his way through dense woods, and in truth had always enjoyed the thickness of a forest canopy shading him as he walked. But something about this particular forest set him on edge. It was too quiet for his liking, as though it concealed some menace. At first he put it down to concern over brigands, but no mere brigand had ever set him so on edge as this forest did. There was just something… wrong about it. Not the woods themselves, he realized, but something in them. He felt as though he were being watched. Unbidden, stories of the demons and monsters that were wont to lurk in the wicked parts of the world sprang to mind; goblins, trolls, wyverns, and the like.

Jacques began to sing the hymn a little more loudly.

Once or twice he was certain he saw something lurking at the edge of his vision, but it made no move to leave the undergrowth, and whenever he turned to see it, it would vanish. Nonetheless, his hand was never far from his sword. Jacques was loathe to ever again draw the blood of a man, but something told him that if whatever was watching him chose to attack, it would not be a man that he faced.

It was only after he’d been walking for some time that Jacques realized that he wasn’t tired. He glanced up at the sun and discovered, to his shock, that he’d been walking for several hours. Where once it was mid-morning, it had now just passed noon. He’d been expecting to need to rest, and perhaps forage for food, at least once by now. And yet he felt…fine. His muscles felt some strain, of course, but he was by no means weary. I know that I have kept myself hale of body, but I’m not that fit. He bounced on his heels experimentally. I haven’t had this much spring in my step since I was thirty.

The oddity gave him pause, but eventually he forced his confusion down with a shrug. “‘They shall walk and never faint,’ it would seem,” he remarked, recalling his Scripture. After apparently crossing untold miles through a miraculous portal, it was not difficult to attribute his tirelessness to another miraculous event.

Up ahead the path seemed to curve around the edge of the forest to the north. Wondering if perhaps the shift in the terrain heralded a new view to take in, he hastened around the bend.

He was not disappointed. “Praise God,” he mumbled. There below him, lying in the midst of miles of rolling hills and orchards and nestled beside a burbling creek, was a town. Jacques had to blink in some amazement at the sight. The whole land around him seemed vibrant, more colorful even than the most fertile fields of France, such that hours of walking had only partially succeeded in making him accustomed to the rainbow of hues. Yet even so the town was something of a shock to his senses. The buildings looked, for the most part, to be rather similar in construction to the peasant cottages of France and Germany. But these were of far better construction, their frames solid and their thatching fresh. And they were so…pretty to look at. Everything in the town seemed merry, as though it had been painted for a festival or a Holy Day and simply frozen in that state. What grand celebrations and revelry these townsfolk must have if these are their everyday surroundings! he marveled. Amongst the cottages were a few more exotic buildings, some of which resembled lordly pavilions, and others great manor houses. One building in particular caught his eye: a home which seemed to have been carved, and he had to rub his eyes and look a second time to verify what he was seeing, from a living tree! He remembered the tales of elves and dwarves from his youth. Is it to such a land that I am sent? wondered the priest. If so, I must take care to beware the Faerie Folk!

Amidst the buildings he saw movement, and was about to see if he could make anything out about the town’s inhabitants when a blood-curdling howl tore through the air, followed by the terrified shrieks of children. “Help!” cried a chorus of young voices from the woods to his right. “Timber wolves! Timber wolves! Heeelp!”

At the cry, all other thoughts were banished from his mind. Jacques tore off into the woods as fast as his legs could carry him. Brambles and branches tore at his cassock like the claws of beasts, but he trampled them under, moving towards the shrieks with all possible speed.

“Applebloom, hurry! They’re gaining!”

“Keep runnin,’ gals! Ah’m right behind ya!”

They’re speaking English, but this is not the England Andrew described. The accent is different. A lost tribe? Never heard of ‘timber’ wolves before! How large are they?

“This way! This way! Back towards town!”

“No, they’re that way too! We gotta go deeper!”

Jacques adjusted his course. At least I can understand what they say. If I can intercept them—

There was a sharp shriek at the upper edge of his hearing. “I’m stuck! I’m stuck!”

A fallen log blocked Jacques’ path.

“Consarn these vines!”

“Hang on, Sweetie! We’re coming!”

He cleared it in a single bound.

“No! Run! They’re right behind you!”

Please, God—

“We’re not leaving you!”

Please, God, let me be in time!

Through the trees he saw giant forms prowling back and forth in a shaded clearing. Putting on a final turn of speed, he burst into the clearing, his sword ringing from its scabbard as he faced—

Hellhounds!

The sight of the nightmarish beasts was enough to freeze him in his tracks momentarily. The abominations did, in truth, resemble wolves of timber, but the unholy green gleam in their eyes could only have belonged to the craft of the pagan druids. But he could spend no time contemplating what this revelation might mean. Across the clearing were the children, hidden by a tangle of vines and shadow, but clearly in jeopardy. And, blocking his path to them, were five of the so-called ‘timber wolves.’

Jacques brandished his sword, crying out his challenge in English so that the children might know that a protector had arrived. “Begone, foul beasts! In God’s Name, you’ll not harm these little ones!” The wolves did not run, but they did turn their attention to the warrior instead of their intended victims. Jacques fell into the Nebenhut stance, his sword held in both hands with its tip pointed to the ground behind him. “Flee, children, if ye are able! I shall hold the beasts here!”

Whatever response they might have given was cut off by the first wolf, who charged with a snarl. Never one to let the other set the pace of the fight, Jacques answered with a roar and bull-rushed the monstrosity. The wolf leapt into the air to tackle him, and he swung his sword in an upward strike that clove its right leg from its body. Sidestepping the wounded hell-beast, he pivoted with his sword in the Vom Tag position. The wolf landed badly, its remaining front leg splintering from the impact. It struggled to swing its head around, but he didn’t give it the chance. With a bellow and a downward swipe, he shattered its head.

As he did, the friar felt something change. The first time he’d struck the monster, he felt the wooden limb come apart much as he would have felt it if he’d broken a table or a chair. But the instant he shattered the wolf’s head, extinguishing the gleam in its eyes, it felt different; as though he’d ripped through tendon and sinew rather than kindling. He had severed something. In that moment, Jacques knew that the monstrosity was dead. He did not merely think it. He felt it in his bones.

The sensation was so unfamiliar that it disoriented him briefly, and in that moment the other wolves struck. Jacques’ only warning before the pain ripped into his right side was the growling of the beast the instant before its claws tore through his cassock and the flesh beneath. Reacting on instinct he spun and sideswiped the beast as it passed. Before he could finish it off, another wolf struck from his other side, and he barely managed to deflect its charge with his sword. By now all four wolves were circling him, forcing him to watch all angles. He held his blade in a close guard and did his best to keep the weapon between himself and whatever wolf was lunging.

It wasn’t enough.

Jacques received a quartet of slashes across his back and his left leg, and was unable to strike back for fear of leaving himself open to another wolf. Realizing that he could not remain where he was, he dipped his sword into the position known as Pflug. ‘The Plow.’ Point forward, he rushed the smallest of the four wolves with a bellow. Caught off-guard by the sudden counterattack, the wolf was unable to dodge the lancing blade and was impaled through the skull. There was the same severing sensation as before as the timbers lost whatever magical bindings had held them. Jacques sensed rather than heard the other three beasts closing behind him, and so while his sword was still partially entangled with the dead monster he spun and swung, whipping the fragments of their dead comrade into the other beasts’ faces.

The move briefly blinded the other three, just as he’d hoped, and he took a quick step forward to slash the right wolf across the face before pulling back into a low guard. The wolves growled, but did not attempt to charge. Rather, they spread out and forced him back towards the edge of the clearing.

Jacques was panting now. Though he had not had the chance to examine his wounds, he knew the cuts were deep. Already he was feeling unsteady from the blood loss. He could only hope that the children had made the most of their head start and—

“Yeah! You git ‘em, mister!” shouted the most thickly accented of the children.

“Show those toothpicks who’s boss!” encouraged the raspy-voiced girl.

“Are you mad?” roared the old knight. “Why do you linger! Go!”

There was a grunt and the sound of thrashing vines. “Sweetie Belle’s still stuck! These dang vines just won’t let go!”

“And they won’t leave me!” piped in the highest pitched of the voices.

The friar growled in frustration. It was hardly the children’s fault that they lacked the strength to free their friend, but it did make his task rather more difficult. He held no illusions about his chances of survival, but that mattered little. He was a soldier. This was his mission. “Very well,” he rumbled. “I shall do what I can. But when you manage to free her, you must run immediately, and not look back.”

“But what about you?” demanded the raspy voice.

Jacques did not answer her. “Come to me, ye spawn of Hell!” challenged the priest. “Or do you fear to fight an old man?”

The right- and left-most wolves accepted his challenge and darted in, attempting to flank him. The friar swung his blade in a wide arc that missed both targets, but kept them at bay. The centermost hell-beast dashed forward, light on its claws to dodge his counterattack. His backswing clipped its nose, but did no serious damage. While his blade was yet extended, the two flanking beasts lunged. Waiting to move until the last moment, he backpedaled to avoid their attacks and sliced at the flank of the left wolf. The beast snarled, but did not go down. Not wanted to be caught in a melee so close, he stepped sideways, skirting the edge of the clearing as he traded blows with the three wolves.

His attackers appeared to have learned from their dead comrades and avoided attacking him piecemeal. Instead, two would keep his focus split while the third attempted to strike when his sword was otherwise occupied. For his part, he knew not to over-extend his reach, and managed to keep his blade in close while whittling away at them with quick slices. But, as he bled his way through the clearing, he knew that it was only a matter of time before one side or the other made a mistake.

As it happened, the wolves did first. Behind them came the abrupt sound of vines snapping, accompanied by the jubilant exclamation of “I’m free! I’m free!” from the high-voiced young girl. At the disturbance, the three wolves turned their heads.

“Flee, young ones!” ordered Jacques, seizing the monsters’ distraction to thin their ranks. Lunging forward he punished the rightmost wolf with a flurry of blows, hacking off chunks of its shoulders, snout, and, eventually, its head. He felt the satisfying tear as the unholy enchantment was ripped apart.

The victory was short-lived. As he finished off his target, one of the other menaces leapt into the air, snarling as it tried to bear him to the ground. Jacques managed to bring his guard up and brace his left hand on the blade like a short-staff, using it to absorb the impact and twist him with the force rather than letting it knock him down. But, though he remained standing, he was sent staggering by the force of the blow, and was unable to block the gouges that the other wolf made in his back. Shouting in pain he swung a backhanded strike blindly and was rewarded by a yelp of pain from his assailant. Before he could turn to press the advantage, however, the wolf that had tackled him rose to its feet and menaced him.

Caught between two monsters, the old priest found himself panting as he felt blood dripping down his legs and back. He attempted to step back to avoid being encircled, but the wolves anticipated his move and shifted to counter it. Jacques cursed, and the sword wavered in his grasp. I’ve lost too much blood, he realized with the fatalism of a veteran. I won’t be leaving this battlefield. He listened for sounds of the children, but, hearing nothing, assumed that they’d run as he’d told them. The Hospitaller allowed himself a faint smile. Perhaps this was why I was sent here. To save them. And now that I have… his gaze flicked between the two wolves, perhaps I shall finally rejoin my brothers when I end this battle. “Well, monsters,” he chuckled, “what are you waiting for? This old man is ready to die.”

The wolves tensed, snarling as they took their places, one on his right, the other on his left. Jacques felt his heartbeat slow as the world around him seemed to become, for a moment, still. For the first time since entering the fight, the woods were quiet to him. Jacques had been in this state before, when his mind melded so closely to the rigors of combat that the world seemed to move at a leisurely pace and his enemies became predictable. To his right, the wolf held its head to the ground, its legs tensed to fling itself forward. To the left, the wolf coiled itself like a spring, ready to leap. Without conscious thought Jacques knew how they would attack. And how he would answer.

The friar lowered his sword into the Pflug guard, and waited.

With almost painful slowness, the left wolf leapt high into the air, aiming for his head as the right wolf dove for his legs. Their attacks were precise… synchronized… and anticipated. Jacques fell into a crouch, swinging his sword to the right in an arc, using his hips as a fulcrum to leverage his entire weight into the strike. Already committed to the charge, the wolf was unable to avoid its doom. The blade entered the side of its head along the jawline, cracking the skull inwards with the force of a woodsman’s axe as he clove the wolf’s palette open and sprayed fragments of branches and twigs across the clearing. The remnants of the monster exploded impotently at his feet. In a single stroke, the battered old warrior had eliminated one of his foes. But he did not escape unscathed. For as the other wolf passed overhead, his rear legs kicked off the priest’s shoulders, slicing deep into his flesh and throwing him to the ground amidst a spray of blood.

Jacques gasped in pain as his spine smacked heavily into the earth. So sudden was the impact that he lost his grip on his sword. Holy God! he prayed. Coughing as air struggled to return to his lungs, he managed to sit upright, searching for his attacker. He spied the wolf a few feet away, twisting to leer at him before lunging forward. “Theotokos, mercy!” he exclaimed as he fumbled for his sword, barely managing to grip it in his bloody hands and brace the pommel against the ground, point up like a pike held against cavalry.

He just managed to set his trap before the wolf sprung, and it obligingly impaling itself upon his makeshift polearm. The snarling monster slid down the full length of the sword and crashed into him with its weight, earning another hiss of pain from the bloodied crusader as he felt something in his chest give. That was a rib! Or perhaps three! The creature’s snarling maw howled as it fell towards his head, and he shut his eyes against the inevitable gnashing of its fangs.

But the flesh-rending attack never came. Instead he was rewarded with the experience of being pelted in the face with a box of kindling, accompanied by the same severing sensation as the other four times. The body crumbled atop him.

For a moment, Jacques lay completely still, panting beneath the heap of bark and tinder. Then he heaved a sigh of relief and let his sword fall to the ground. Shifting up onto his elbows with a groan, he managed to dig the tip of his sword into the earth and lever himself up to his knees, where he used the hilt of his weapon as a makeshift cross. “God be praised,” he prayed, his voice barely audible through the panting.

Operating more on instinct than with any particular goal in mind, he heaved himself to his feet, only to very nearly fall back over. The knight had to resort to using his sword as a cane just to stay upright. For some reason, he giggled at the fact. “Sorry about the blade, Karim. This can’t be good for it,” he mumbled as he tried to hobble forward. His knees shook and he had to keep blinking away spots in his vision. The priest had a vague sense of where the girls had run off to, and was trying to move in that direction, but his world seemed to spin. A miracle that I’m still standing, he mused as he tried to hobble forward. His foot caught on the remnants of a destroyed wolf and he narrowly avoided collapsing. Somehow, I don’t think that will be the case much longer, he realized ruefully, as I am certainly dying. The prospect of death might have bothered him had he been a younger man, but Jacques had passed beyond the fear of such things long ago. I wonder what heaven will be like—

“This way, Twi! Hurry!”

Jacques stopped, not sure if his mind was playing tricks on him.

“I’m *pant* coming, Applejack!”

The priest blinked, almost halting his stumble towards the treeline. Either I’ve gone mad, or the children managed to find help.

“Just ‘round this bend, gals! Arr Dee! Down here!” The voice sounded like an older version of the accented child. Jacques could now hear the sound of hooves as horses crashed through the undergrowth in his direction. Riders, then. Small wonder they arrived so fast, the man mused as he stumbled towards the trees on his left. I wonder what manner of people these newcomers will—

Two brightly colored ponies burst into the clearing. The first was orange, with straw mane and tail, a strange brand on its flank and, even more strangely, a wide-brimmed hat on its head. But the second pony was so bizarre that the first almost failed to register. For starters, its lavender, purple, and crimson colors were beyond unusual. And then there was the small matter of the horn protruding from its forehead.

Jacques collapsed against the nearest tree, barely managing to stay upright as he stared, mouth agape. “” he breathed, reverting to his native French.

The two ponies had been surveying the carnage of the timber wolves when they first entered the clearing, but at the sound of his voice both looked up at him. The orange pony blinked, and then spoke in English, tipping a hoof to its hat. “Good golly, yer a big one, ain’t ya!”

Jacques’ grip on the tree dug into the bark as his jaw flapped open and closed.

Shooting a glare at the hat-wearing pony, the unicorn hissed, “Applejack! Be polite!”

Jacques’ mind became unhinged as it tried, and failed, to process what he was seeing. Unicorn! Talking unicorn! Talking pony! How?! Why?!

The two ponies exchanged a glance, and the unicorn stepped forward. “Hello, I’m Twilight Sparkle, and—

“Wha- what? What?” cried Jacques, his voice rising to near panic as he slipped between English and French. “ How are? Talking? What sorcery is this?”

Before either of the ponies could respond, there were the sounds of yet more hooves, accompanied by wingbeats this time, heralding the arrival of several other ponies of a horrifying variety of colors, two of whom resembled the pegasi of myth. I’m in the land of Faeries! he realized, to his horror. And while some tales say the unicorn is a creature of God, I know of few tales where other animals talk without some devilry being involved!

One of the pegasi, a yellow-colored one with a pink mane, looked grief-stricken by the sight of him. “Oh, you poor thing!” she cooed, beginning to flap forward with the others in tow. “Here, let me—

“Stay back!” ordered Jacques, managing to bring up his sword as he held the tree like a lifeline. “I’ll not…” he trailed off as his vision blurred and his blade wavered. “I’ll not be taken for your witchcraft!”

Another unicorn, a white-coated one this time, huffed in annoyance. “Witchcraft?!” she exclaimed with a snort “The very nerve!”

“Now, Rarity, he’s just scared and has lost a lot of blood,” rebuked the yellow pegasus.

Jacques blinked in disbelief. Did she just defend me?

The first unicorn stepped forward. “Please, sir, we mean you no harm. We just want to help you!”

“Yeah, mister!” piped in the accented child from before, her voice coming from the midst of the ponies. “It’s alright! We got our sisters an’ their friends ta come an’ help you!” Before any of the ponies could restrain them, a trio of tiny figures emerged from the midst of the herd and walked forward…

…on four legs.

Three ponies in particular seemed distraught by this, calling for the little ones to come back, but Jacques scarcely noticed. He was too busy blinking over and over to banish the nonsensical image he was seeing as three fillies beamed up at him with big, adoring eyes. “Come on, mister,” urged the one with the bow in its hair. “Let ‘em help you!”

Jacques stared open-mouthed as the reality of the situation washed fully over him, along with his exhaustion, broken bones, and blood loss. His vision became a pastel blur as his grip on the tree loosened. “” he asked as his gaze drifted to black and the ground rushed to meet him.

Author's Note

What's funny about this chapter is that I had actually planned on Fr. Jacques meeting the Crusaders before it clicked that a Crusader was meeting the Crusaders. I need more sleep.

It should be noted that 'Crusader' is a term that was applied many generations after the Crusades had concluded. No Crusader would have referred to themselves as such. However, for the sake of ease in storytelling, I shall earn the ire my fellow historians by applying this anachronism. Shame on me.

In another shameful display, I admit to being aware that the English of the 1300s (and probably the French too) is wildly different from the modern equivalent. I did not feel like dealing with that particular headache, so I'm asking you all to join me in a little Alternate-Universe suspension of disbelief for the sake of not having to read the dialogue of a man speaking in medieval dialects.

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First Lessons (Part 2)

“Friar Jacques? Are you all right?”

Twilight and Jacques sat in rocking chairs on the back porch of the Apple Family homestead. The morning’s sparring had come and gone, and, much as she would have liked to interrogate Fritters about his impressive abilities, Twilight simply couldn’t put off Jacques’ lessons in magic any longer. So they had repaired to the house, leaving Applejack and Grannie to attend to their chores, Song to run an errand in town, and Fritters and Marble to “take in the scenery.”

Translation: check out the Acres in their entirety so as to familiarize themselves with the terrain in the event of an attack. You don’t grow up with your brother in the Guard without picking up a thing or two. Not that she intended to tell Applejack what they intended just yet; the farmer hid her anxiety well, but Twilight suspected that fear of what dangers might be on the horizon had taken unpleasant residence in Applejack’s mind. I might have to re-up my offer of hosting the friar at my house; maybe put her mind a little more at ease. It would just be a matter of phrasing it in such a way that the stubborn mare didn’t take offense.

But that’s a problem for another time, she thought, mentally adding it to her checklist. Now, she had a different problem. Namely, that Friar Jacques looked rather pensive and in no way eager to begin the lesson. He sat rocking in his chair, staring out at the Acres with no sign of having heard her. Well, I’ve had unwilling pupils before. “Friar Jacques?” she repeated a touch more loudly.

“Hm?” mumbled the friar as he was startled from his reverie. “What’s that?”

Twilight gave him a teasing smile. “Friar, usually my pupils at least wait until I begin the lesson before they zone out.”

Jacques blinked, displaying the slight furrowing in his brow that often manifested when he was befuddled by one of their colloquialisms. Fortunately, it seemed the aged man was quite adept at parsing out unfamiliar speech, and he rallied quickly with a rueful smile. “Forgive me, Twilight. I must confess that my mind was elsewhere.”

“I see. Were you… were you thinking of home?” He winced. “I’m so sorry! I don’t mean to pry, I only—”

“Pray, do not fret, jeune dame,” Jacques assured her. “You should not feel that you are being gauche in mentioning my home. Though I am at times melancholic that I shall not see it again, in truth I am accustomed to travelling to new lands with little notice, and I have endured far worse conditions. You needn’t, how did Rarity put it, stomp on eggshells.”

The mare giggled. “That’s walk on eggshells, Friar, and thank you for telling me that.” They rocked in silence for a moment. “Were you then?”

“Was I what?”

“Thinking of home?”

The friar gave an enigmatic smile that reminded Twilight of Celestia. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Provencal, France, right?”

“Well remembered, jeune dame, but no; I was not thinking of Provencal. The home I was thinking of is a dusty old battlefield in the Holy Land, many miles from my place of birth.”

“Oh,” blinked Twilight, not quite sure what to make of that. “Any particular reason?”

He shrugged. “I suppose it was watching the sparring this morning. So… invigorating to see. Familiar too, in its own way. Magic may mask the face of warfare, but it cannot change it. I suppose…” he chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose I miss it. I may be a priest now, Twilight Sparkle, but mine was a rather late vocation, and I’ve been a warrior for far, far longer. In my heart I shall always be a soldier, you see, whatever new vocations are added into my life.” Once more, his gaze turned outwards to watch the Acres. “I couldn’t change that even if I wanted to.”

There was something familiar about the way that he watched the treeline, and when Twilight realized what it was, she felt foolish for not recognizing it sooner. Shining Armor does the same thing. Without even realizing it, he’s watching for threats. The old warrior sat there, at ease in his chair, rocking without a care in the world. And yet he is forever on watch.

“I must confess that there is one thing about this new magic of mine that excites me,” stated Jacques abruptly, tapping one gnarled finger on the arm of his chair. “To be strong again.”

Twilight gave him an appraising look. “You seem plenty strong to me.”

“I am, for a man my age,” he replied. “I got myself back into fighting shape as soon as I was fit enough after I was…” he trailed off and swallowed, “…after I joined the Hospitallers,” he finished in a more subdued voice. “All the same, when I came to your world I felt as strong as I did in my prime. Stronger, even.” The old man glanced over, a twinkle in his eye. “I’d be lying if I said the prospect of being able to lift twice my own weight again didn’t excite me.”

If your magic develops how I think it will, that might be the low end of your capability, but perhaps now isn’t the time to mention that. “You said that there’s one thing about your new magic that excites you,” she probed. “Does that mean the rest of it doesn’t?” Jacques muttered something non-committal and unintelligible and failed to meet her gaze. Gotcha. “Well, that’s perfectly understandable. Believe me. When I first realized my magical potential, I was so overwhelmed that I accidentally hatched a dragon egg, levitated the teachers, formed an instinctive shield that took the princess to dispel it, and…” she stopped before she added ‘transmogrified my parents,’ to the list. Jacques’ eyes had grown wide enough as it was. “Well, anyway, I felt overwhelmed. And you’re already doing better than I was at that stage, so, bonus, right?”

“Bonus,” he echoed, sounding skeptical.

“Why don’t we start with something that you’re more comfortable with,” she suggested. Her horn glowed, and the roll of notes she’d taken in the hospital appeared in a flash, along with other notes and documentation that she’d taken since then. “Now, when you first described your magic to me, you talked about how it activated when you prayed. So it sounds like the prayer may act as a trigger—”

“Now hold it right there, Miss Sparkle,” interrupted Jacques, his hand raised with authority and his booming voice brooking no argument. Instinctively, her ears went flat. “My prayers are an act of piety, drawing myself and others closer to God by petition, adoration, contrition, or thanksgiving.” He smacked his chest with his hand. “It is a matter of making me the best version of myself; of purifying me of every evil which corrupts the harmonious designs of Creation. They are not some incantation or spell which I cast.”

“Don’t worry! I’m not suggesting they are!” she replied hurriedly. He relaxed somewhat, but his eyes held a mute demand for clarification. “Think of it this way: does your world require magic for you or anyone like you to pray or work miracles? For you to perform adjurations, er, wait, exorcisms, as you call them?”

The friar scoffed. “Of course not! My office as a priest is not some matter of magic, nor is being a Christian.”

“Well, don’t worry, because nothing’s changed!” she assured him. “Trust me, I’ve seen lots of things which defy conventional explanation in my life, and heard of more besides.” I didn’t always believe it at the time, but this lifestyle has a way of bucking my perception of reality. “Sure, plenty of those things were magic, but even then that doesn’t mean that it wasn’t miraculous. Take the Elements of Harmony, for instance. They don’t operate according to the Laws of Common Magic; heck, they’d probably still work if there was no Common Magic.”

He folded his arms. “So, Harmony Magic is miraculous then?”

“All Harmony Magic is miraculous, though not all miracles are necessarily Harmony Magic.” For example: I’m semi-convinced that the Creator gave Pinkie the casual ability to break the laws of physics in the name of spreading cheer. But, again, not the best time to mention that.

Jacques seemed mollified by this. “Very well. Please, continue.”

“Thank you. Now, as I was saying, the prayer could have acted as a trigger. Not in the sense of it being an incantation but, well, you said it yourself, Friar – the purpose of prayer is to make you more like what you were created to be, right? More harmonious in nature?”

“In part, yes,” he admitted.

“Well, these new powers are a part of you now. So perhaps, when you prayed, you became more open to them working as they were intended to. And maybe your brain was primed with certain concepts, like when you blocked outside magical influences when you were worried about Dark Magic, or when you experienced enhanced resilience after praying for strength to defeat the Timberwolves.” She shrugged. “It didn’t have to be an incantation to get your body to react instinctively.”

Jacques stroked his beard. “Perhaps,” he said slowly. “I must admit, I am rather out of my depth here. I find it difficult to understand how I could just do magic when I don’t even know how it works.”

“Well, lots of the races do magic more or less instinctively,” Twilight replied. Pointing to the orchard, she asked, “See how prolific the apples are here?”

“I had noticed, yes,” said the friar dryly.

“Well, without magical assistance, they wouldn’t be blooming this time of year.” Jacques raised an eyebrow at that. “Earth pony farmers like the Apple family have specific magical techniques that they use to nurture the crop to bloom out of season, to produce bumper crops even in bad weather, to make the crop flourish even in poor soil, etcetera. Theoretically, most any earth pony could learn how to use his or her magic to do this at some basic level, but the Apples are an old and powerful family, and the magic runs deep in their blood. Add to that the fact that they’ve had generations to perfect the technique and, well,” she shrugged, “there’s a reason the four of them can harvest this entire orchard and produce enough food for the entire town and beyond.”

“Magnifique,” murmured Jacques.

“Yes, it is,” nodded the mare. “Now, earth ponies don’t tend to think of their magic quite the same way that unicorns do. To them, it’s generally regarded more as an extension of their physical strength and family tradition than a spell formula like what I use when casting a magic missile or transmogrifying an apple into an orange. When I asked Applejack to explain the formula behind her applebucking technique, she didn’t write down a spell like I was expecting. She just started demonstrating her kicks and saying that,” she adopted Applejack’s accent, “‘This here applebuckin’ technique’s been in the family since the foundin’ of Equestria!’” Twilight’s face soured. “Hours of trying to get her to explain it to me was like trying to get a tatzelwurm to tap dance. Her active magic and mine just aren’t taught the same way. And your magic is probably closer to earth pony magic in a lot of ways than unicorn magic. Fortunately,” she added with a smug look, “I happen to have studied earth pony magic extensively, as well as virtually every other known form of magic, so we still have a lot to go on.”

“Well, I would expect nothing less from the Bearer of Magic,” he said deferentially. “Still, it is… a lot to take in.”

“If it helps, you can try to think of it like any of your other attributes,” she suggested. “Like strength; dexterity; constitution; wisdom; intelligence; charisma.” Why do I have the sudden urge to roll dice and create a backstory for a fictional character? “Or, if that doesn’t work, just think of it as another weapon in your inventory.”

Jacques tilted his head. “In my inventory?”

“Arsenal,” she corrected. “I meant to say ‘arsenal.’”

He rested his jaw on a clenched fist. “That does make things a little clearer.” He smirked. “Especially since I apparently have magic which is meant to counter the Dark Arts.”

“Indeed you do,” she agreed. “Now, it’s not exactly typical for somepony, er, someone to just be able to use Curatrix Magic on instinct, but, well, you’re full of surprises!”

“Mother said that quite often,” he smiled, “usually after Henri and I did something foolish.”

Twilight giggled. “Well, she’d be proud of you in this regard, I’m sure. Curatrix Magic is a form of Harmonic Magic. Historically, it is generally learned by Adjurists so as to better be able to counter Dark Magic and protect other creatures from its effects. It’s used to ward against the Dark Arts, to heal wounds inflicted by them, to destroy them outright, to conceal oneself from them, to fool them…” she paused on that last point, thinking back to her own mistakes in the Crystal Empire. “…though that one can be… particularly dangerous if is done incorrectly.” She pursed her lips, then moved on, “In short, Curatrix magic is the magic of Order – it puts things that were damaged or distorted through unnatural and evil means back into their proper alignment. In some cases, it can heal mortal wounds and, purportedly…” she looked around as though someone might overhear her and leaned in close to say with reverence, “it has even been said to raise the dead.”

She didn’t say anything for a time after that. Jacques cleared his throat when the silence became awkward. “Very well. I am with you so far.”

Twilight leaned back. “That- that doesn’t surprise you?” She raised her two forehooves into the air, holding them barely an inch apart. “Not even a little?”

Jacques raised an eyebrow. “Lady Sparkle, recall that miracles and devilry exist in my world the same as yours. My religion has many in it who are raised from the dead, preeminently Jesus Christ, God made Man. Of all the fantastical things you have told me since entering this world, this is the least surprising.”

“I… um… ahem. That’s fair, I suppose.” She shook her head and muttered, “It’s like everything you find shocking or not shocking is backwards.” The friar smirked. “Returning to the matter at hoof, it seems that Curatrix Magic has just been flatly gifted unto you, to the point that it seems to affect every other aspect of your magic. Which is significant because, as Redheart told you, your standard magic is already pretty generous. Having a healing and resistance factor comparable to pegasi and earth ponies is nothing to sneeze at, especially with your added strength against magic and the Dark Arts. You’re already apparently faster, stronger, and far more durable than you were in your own world, and that will likely continue to increase for a time as your body adjusts to this world. On multiple occasions you’ve simply been able to negate magical effects upon yourself without consciously meaning to. Not only that, but when you fought the timber wolves you straight up annihilated the Dark Magic that spawned them. And, to top it all off, when you thought that Spike was a Fell beast,” he blushed at the memory, but in her lecturing mode she barely noticed, “I saw spell matrices snap into place around you that resembled ward spells; specifically, you looked like you became fully armored. It was like your natural resiliency was given a physical form and super-charged. And, who knows, there might even be some other traits that have yet to reveal themselves. And the only way to find those will be through trial and error, meaning that we’ll have to consider all schools of magic.”

Jacques shifted in his seat. “That’s… that’s quite a lot to take in.”

“I know! Isn’t it exciting?” she exclaimed. “I mean, lots of creatures cast active magic more or less through intuition, but the fact that you were doing such complex and powerful spells without even knowing you were doing them is almost unheard of! It’s going to be an entirely untapped field of magic! I’m going to be able to write a paper on this! Maybe even a book! Just think of it! An entirely new contribution to the magical lore of Equestria and—”

At that moment, Twilight chanced to look over, and saw that Jacques had once more taken to staring at the Acres, his face pale and his eyes anxious. Blushing fiercely, she cleared her throat and put on a brave face. “Um… I mean… I’m sure this is all very overwhelming for you, but don’t worry! We’ll figure it out!”

Turning, he held her gaze for a moment, then gave a wan smile. “Well, I am truly blessed to have such an astute mare for my tutor. I don’t think I could manage without you.”

“Oh, you’re a smart man. You’d figure something out. But, since I am here, perhaps we should start with an overview of how spellcraft functions.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” he agreed.

“Great! Now, it is important to remember that, no matter what kind it is, magic in this world is formulaic in nature, akin to mathematics in many respects. As you have experienced, the user doesn’t necessarily need to understand the formula for it to work, in the same way that I don’t need a degree in orthopedics to move my knee, but a firmer understanding of the formula does make casting easier. Now, unicorn magic tends towards having the most readily understood formulas due to its direct nature, but in general…”

Morning Song resisted the urge to massage the bruises that Marble and Fritters had given her, instead focusing on enjoying the clean country breeze. All things considered, she was glad that Argent had picked her for the Ponyville assignment. She appreciated Canterlot’s elegant beauty and didn’t mind visiting, but being stuck there for weeks had left her yearning for a small town setting. Things are quieter in the country, she reflected. The days are slower, the air is fresher…

“Are you sure you don’t want some ice for that?” asked Redheart.

… and the ponies tend to be more openly neighborly. Song turned to give the nurse a polite smile. “I appreciate the offer, Redheart, but I’m quite all right. I’ve suffered far worse than a few bruises in sparring.”

“If you say so,” responded the nurse, not sounding convinced.

“I promise, my coloration makes it look worse than it really is,” Song assured her. I suppose I could have put my armor back on after showering, but that would draw more attention than I’d like right now. They were at the train station, waiting on the platform for the two Lunar Guards from Canterlot who were being transferred to Ponyville General. Technically, it wasn’t a secret that they’d be in town. And, once Private Oaken had recovered, they’d likely be seen out and about in armor. Still, no point in advertising it more than we have to, thought Song.

There was a loud crunch behind her as somepony munched on something, and she instinctively opened her mouth to tease Fritters before she remembered that he was still back at the farm. This time, the brown-coated stallion in question was Medevac, who ambled up to stand beside the two mares as he ate his way through a bag of chips. Redheart apparently took issue with his dietary habits, because she scoffed when she saw what he was eating. “How you can work at a hospital and still eat that garbage is beyond me.”

The retired Marine shrugged. “I’ve eaten worse and lived.”

“So far,” she countered.

Medevac raised an eloquent eyebrow. “This coming from the mare who drinks Everfree Energy constantly.”

Her furious blush indicated that he’d scored a hit. “I do not drink it constantly. I drink it to get through the crises lasting more than seventeen hours and that’s it!”

“Everfree Energy?” asked Song, her brow furrowing. “Isn’t that the drink where it’s a misdemeanor to sell it to Pinkie Pie?”

“Felony,” corrected Medevac as he munched along. “And I’ve seen her on the stuff; it oughta be considered an act of terrorism.”

“She wasn’t that bad,” said Redheart.

“You weren’t part of the detox unit,” growled Medevac, shooting Redheart a glare. “I was.” He shuddered at the recollection. “Sometimes, when I lie awake at night, I think I hear her laughter.”

Song contemplated that statement for a moment. “Do you want to talk about it?” she offered.

Medevac paused mid-chew to consider. “Maybe,” he admitted before returning to his chips.

Further conversation was interrupted by the whistle of a train. The Canterlot Express pulled into the station a few minutes later, disgorging its cargo of ponies onto the platform. Song and the others waited while the rest of the passengers disembarked, knowing that the ponies they waited for would be getting off last. Ordinarily, serviceponies would disembark first as a courtesy, especially if they were invalid. But, since the purpose was to not draw attention, it had been decided that they’d wait. After a while, the last of the other ponies trickled out, leaving only Ironhide and Oaken.

Even though she’d been sent their files that morning, it was still a little odd for Song to see Private Ironhide in the flesh. The fact that his grey coat, gold eyes, and silver mane and tail so perfectly matched the Lunar Guard glamour enchantment was atypical, and it made him stand out even without his armor. And the military physique doesn’t exactly make him any less eye-catching either. As for Oaken, the brown earth pony was burly even by the standards of his race and profession. Not quite as brawny as Big Macintosh, but still a big guy. Neither did the wheelchair he occupied do anything to help him blend in. If Song didn’t have confidence in the capacity of ponies to tune out things they regarded as mundane, she might have despaired of the value of subtlety. After all, I did once sneak into General Eyeling’s office just by having a clipboard, a dress uniform, and the walk of a pony who was supposed to be there. Song smiled at the recollection. She enjoyed hardening security.

As none of them were in uniform, none of them saluted, but Song made introductions. “Gentlecolts, I am First Lieutenant Morning Song, though when we’re not in uniform you may refer to me by my name. This is Nurse Redheart—”

“A pleasure,” said the mare.

“—and Nurse Medevac.”

Medevac crinkled up the chip bag and tossed it in the trash without looking. “Howdy,” he greeted them, waving one wing and grinning cheekily. “And allow me to be the first to warn you gentlecolts that our food won’t be up to your pampered Canterlot standards. Also, your tin nightgowns are against hospital regulation; wouldn’t want you scaring any children, after all.”

The Lunar Guards’ eyes narrowed. And so it begins thought Song.

Redheart gaped at her colleague. “Med, what the hay do you think you’re—”

Song put a hoof to the other mare’s mouth. “Shh. Just let it happen.”

Ironhide set his jaw and took a step forward. “Say, Oak, are you detecting stupidity in this general vicinity?”

“Yup.”

“Wow, you guys can detect stupidity?” asked Medevac credulously. “That’s pretty cool. See, in the Marines they just taught us useful stuff like how to fight, but if you guys want to use ‘detect stupidity’ to play hide-and-seek with each other, that’s cool too.”

Redheart’s jaw hit the floor. Song merely smiled. A skillful opening, Marine. How will you respond, Night Watch?

Ironhide feigned a sudden realization. “Ah, a jarhead. That makes sense.” He glanced at Redheart. “I gotta say, it’s really kind of your hospital to hire on the mentally handicapped.”

The mare sputtered angrily. “W-what?! He’s not—”

“Oh, they didn’t tell you?” asked Oaken, concern on his face. “It’s right in the name. Marine: Muscles Are Required, Intelligence Not Essential.”

An excellent rejoinder, thought Song with a nod. And how will you retort, Medevac?

Medevac just gave a long-suffering sigh and shook his head sadly. “This is worse than I thought, Redheart,” he said with a grimace. “We’ve got a couple Nighties that think they’re funny.” He walked over to grab the handles to Oaken’s wheelchair. “We’d better get ‘em back to the hospital before they start getting big ideas like learning how to count past ten.” He flicked the bandage on Ironhide’s face with his tail as he started to push Oaken towards the hospital. “We’ve got some aloe to put on that scrape there, Daisy. If you’re good I’ll give you a lollipop.”

Keeping the pressure on with a multi-faceted insult. He has talent.

Not to be outdone, Oaken pointed back at Medevac’s prosthetic leg. “Say, Ironhide, don’t you think that it’s a little ironic that the cripple is pushing the wheelchair?”

“Careful, nightgown, or I’ll break my other one off in your—” he glanced at Redheart and blushed, “—face,” he finished.

“Bold talk coming from a stallion with as many legs as brain cells.”

They continued down the path to the hospital, their slurs branching out beyond their respective branches of service into hygiene, heritage, and race. All the while, their pleasant demeanors remained. Song and Redheart followed behind at an easy pace, the former taking note that Oaken and Ironhide seemed to be matching wits well with the impressive Medevac, and the later simply gaping. Redheart’s horror amused the REF officer. Ah, to be young and naïve again, smiled Song, remembering her own first lesson in the religiously irreverent barrack-room humor. Though Medevac must have been on awfully good behavior since retiring for Redheart to be this shocked.

Eventually, Redheart gave her head a vigorous shake and turned to question the other mare. “Okay, I’ve got to ask. Is this a soldier-thing or a guy-thing?”

Song didn’t even have to ponder the answer. “Yes,” she said blithely.

“Yah!” With a solid buck, Applejack struck the tree trunk, sending apples cascading into the barrels below. Mechanically she emptied them into the nearby cart before moving on to the next tree. Applebucking didn’t take all that much concentration when you’d been doing it for a couple decades. At this point it was almost meditative in nature. She felt at peace in the moment, worrying neither about the past nor the future, but simply present to the matter at hoof.

Which was why, when her ear twitched, alerting her to movement back and to the left, she took notice. Something had made that noise, and she got the distinct impression that it wasn’t just the wind. Might be a critter, but then… the princess’s talk of the Shades flooded back into her mind. It might not be.

She twisted her head to get a clear view of the orchard, her eyes narrowing. The noise had come from the back left, but, somehow, she knew that was just what she was supposed to think. Her gut told her that whatever, or whoever, had made that noise was more to the right. And an Apple listens to her gut.

“Ah know yer back there!” she called out, her body lowering into a ready stance. “Come on out, now, ya hear?” And then Ah’ll do what? Fight? Against a killer? She gritted her teeth. Ah faced the changelings, Ah can face this. “Ah mean it!” she challenged more loudly, more for herself than anything. “Ya’ll come out now!”

For another moment, nothing happened. Then Fritters stepped out from behind a tree just a little to the right of where she’d been looking. “Not bad, Applejack,” he commended her. “You actually saw through the distraction.”

Applejack snarled, “Fritters! Yer askin’ for a thumpin’ sneakin’ up like that again!” Her threat was instinctive. Emotional. But, the moment she heard the words aloud, they sounded hollow. Aw, who are you kidding, girl? You saw him this mornin’. If’n he don’t wanna be hit, he won’t be.

She expected him to say as much, but instead he just approached with that same hangdog look as always. “Well, I did say you could beat me up later, didn’t I? And, besides, I have a good reason this time.”

The farm mare gave him a look that communicated in no uncertain terms that he had better have a good reason.

“Remember how I said that I wasn’t sure that I could teach you how to use something like my ‘True Sight’ because mine comes from an unusual source?”

“Ah reckon,” she admitted.

“Well, that got me to thinking,” he continued, coming to a halt in front of her. “A big part of how my sister and I learned how to hone our abilities as youngsters came from trial and error. You strike me as the kind of mare who does things on instinct, so perhaps we could hone your abilities the same way.”

Applejack pushed her hat back. “Maybe I’m a mite slow right now, but yer gonna have ta spell this one out for me.”

“In short, if we’re trying to get you to be better at seeing through deceptions, illusions, and generalized falsities,” he gave a sly grin, “then the best way to do that is to just present you with the challenges and let you rise to the occasion.”

She tilted her head as what he meant clicked for her. “What, ya’ll mean lyin’ ta me an’ doin’ slight-of-hoof?”

“Something like that,” he agreed. “I mean, it did work just now when you saw through my little deception. Granted, it wasn’t that complex of a deception, but I’ve used it to sneak past enemy sentries before.”

“Yeah, what exactly did you do? Some sorta crazy Konik magic?”

Fritters smirked, picked up a stick, and threw it into a bush, creating a similar noise to the one she’d heard before. Then he waved his forehooves around like a stage magician. “Maaaaagic!” he exclaimed dramatically.

Applejack chuckled and pulled her hat down to cover her blush. “Quiet, you!”

The stallion laughed for a bit, then, more seriously, added, “It’s up to you. I won’t pressure you one way or another. I just thought you might be interested.”

Biting her lip, Applejack considered his offer. On one hoof, she liked the idea of being able to see threats coming so that she could protect her family. On the other hoof, she wasn’t wild about giving Fritters carte blanche to sneak up on her whenever he saw fit. It didn’t help that she’d seen just how lethal he was that morning. It wasn’t that she thought that he was dangerous to her, but knowing that someone that deadly could get the drop on her wasn’t calculated to help her sleep well at night. But, if’n somepony that dangerous is here to protect me… the idea that such a dangerous stallion was here specifically to protect not only Jacques, but also her family and her as well was… sobering.

“Ah reckon Ah’d have ta think about it,” she said at length.

“Of course,” he responded. “Take your time. No rush.” The two stood silently for a moment. She rubbed one foreleg with the other, not really knowing what else to say. Eventually he cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll just be on my way then. Lots of Acreage to cover, after all.” He turned to leave.

“Fritters, wait,” she said. He turned, and suddenly she realized that she didn’t actually know what she was going to say next. “Ah… uh…” Get a hold of yerself, girl! You act like this is the first time you’ve talked to a soldier! “Ah know these orchards like the back o’ mah hoof. If ya like, Ah could show you around if’n ya gave me a hoof with the apples first.”

He gave a crooked grin. “Well, I do like plans that involve me being near food. Sure. Sounds like a plan.”

She put him to work moving the buckets to and from the trees and cart with his magic as she bucked. They engaged in a little smalltalk, but for the most part they were silent. In the silence, Applejack’s mind drifted back to the sparring she’d seen that morning, and how, if Celestia sent ponies like that here, it meant that they might be needed. And how he might not always be around to protect her family. And how—

“Fritters?” she asked.

“Hm?” he grunted, not looking up from his task.

“D’ya think… Ah mean, Ah do know how ta fight.” He stopped working and looked up, but she didn’t look at him. “Mah family’s always had scrappers in it, an’ every Apple knows how ta handle herself in bar fight or rough up some bandits. Ah’ve thrown down with all sorts over the years. Heck, in this world-savin’ business it’s been do or die more’n once, an’ the Changelings weren’t even the most banged up Ah ever been, but…” Come on, girl. Pony up and ask for help! We ain’t gonna have no Apple stubbornness gettin’ in the way of protectin’ Apples! “D’ya reckon…” Her eyes drifted up, “…ya’ll could teach me how ta fight like ya’ll can?”

A slow grin spread over Fritters’ features and a gleam sparked in his eyes. “I reckon so.”

Author's Note

Antiquarian hobbled over to the window. He was still in his house recovering from surgery. The stallion opened the blinds to find expectant mob waiting. "I posted the chapter, so calm yourselves."

The mob stared back silently.

"What, you want a vignette? What do you think the chapter in 14th Century Supplement was?"

The mob still stared.

"GET THE BUCK OFF MY LAWN!"

The worst part about this is that I still wrote your bloody vignette.

Anyway, I am back. Still not sure what my publishing time frame will be, but I'll try to keep the pressure on. November's delay was partially due to the 100th Anniversary of the end of World War One; also known as the original Veteran's Day/Armistice Day/Remembrance Day. As such, writing Memoirs of My War was a matter of obligation. It wasn't my usual writing style, but it was how I felt the story needed to be told.

This chapter was a little heavy on the exposition, but sometimes that can't be helped. Not every chapter can feature epic throwdowns. Don't worry - more zaniness and fight sequences are on the horizon.

Shoutout goes to Forensic Punology by Rambling Writer because it made me laugh. It is truly a masterful example of wordsmithing.

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Secrets, Subtlety, and Secondhand Friars

Argent led them through the winding streets up to Canterlot Castle. Rarity, who had taken a moment to freshen up in the restroom of a quiet café, was now tucked in close behind the captain. Oaken, toting his spear, followed Rarity. Jacques brought up the rear, with the carry-ons of all three travelers slung over his broad shoulders. The rest of their luggage would be brought up later, but for now Argent’s priority was to conduct them to their destination without further incident.

The REF captain walked slowly so as not to outpace the distraught Rarity and did her best to keep to less-traveled thoroughfares. Argent was rather of the opinion that a mass of energetic ponies who were blissfully unaware of a death in their midst would be counterproductive to helping Rarity process the implications of said death.

Unfortunately, there was only so much Argent could do. Canterlot was a massive city, and quite bustling this time of day. All around milled the usual pomp and propriety of the capital, ponies trotting to and fro on errands they no doubt considered important and, in some cases, probably actually were.

When Argent was a little filly, she’d visited Canterlot many times with her father. On that first visit, she had fallen in love with the great city, with the fountains and gardens and ivory colonnades, the soaring architecture, the class and sophistication. She had loved Canterlot’s citizens – her lords and ladies, her merchants and scholars, her workers and craftsponies. She loved them because they, too, loved Canterlot. Whatever their class, whatever their heritage, they shared pride in their great city. To them she was the grand old jewel of Equestria, the beating heart of the realm. This shared love for Canterlot was part of what drew the young Argent to the place.

Her father, too, had loved Canterlot. But his love had been tinged with a deep sadness. The young filly had not known why Argent Falchion was sad, at least not then. But as the years passed she came to understand her father’s sorrow.

His pain was that of a noble soldier who had devoted his life to his country, and who now saw the heart of his beloved realm decaying. He saw the arrogance and vainglory of the elite, the rifts that formed between them and the commoners, and the petty machinations of those same commoners as they strove to emulate the worst qualities of the wealthy. Day by day, Argent Falchion had watched the beauty of Canterlot be swallowed by vanity. In time, his pain had come to his daughter as well.

There was still much to love in the capital. Most ponies still strove to live wholesome lives and care for their neighbors. There was still pride in the city and the country which drove ponies both high and low to acts of decency and consideration.

But even amongst well-meaning and considerate ponies, materialism was an easy vice, and Canterlot had more than its fair share of that particular failing.

It grated on Argent. She had endured multifarious forms of deprivation in grim haunts and hollows that would make the average Canterlot pony faint from horror. Thus, it was with great offense that she greeted the petty one-upmanship indulged in by ponies of all ranks and standings. Their conceited obsessions were an affront to her sensibilities, an obscenity sworn against the hardships she’d endured. Every year she spent in uniform served to amplify her disgust and dissolve her rapidly diminishing patience.

The captain knew her irritation was disproportionate. In fact, when she considered Canterlot dispassionately, she could admit to a personal bias that inflated the city’s problems to seem greater than they actually were.

‘Familiarity breeds contempt,’ as the old saying goes, she mused as they wound their way into the upper districts on the way to the palace. Or perhaps that is the excuse, and I am simply cynical. Twilight and Shining grew up here, after all, and most of the ponies who live here are a good sort. Morning Song would no doubt chide me for allowing a few bad actors and a couple rotten trends to spoil the city.

Argent Sabre still loved Canterlot. But then, love is an act of the will, and does not require present fondness.

As though to prove her point, they rounded a corner down what should have been a quiet street of professionals and specialty shops to see one of the last ponies Argent wanted to bump into.

The unicorn was a young stallion probably in his early twenties. He was tall and well-built, with symmetrical blue features, a flowing golden mane, and pearly white teeth. His coat was immaculately groomed, and his lordly garb was exquisite without being gaudy. The three stallions with whom he was conversing were all scions of noble families, yet they regarded him as their natural superior. As he conversed with his cohorts, his voice rang clear and crisp, with a refined tone and a ready laugh. He was exactly the sort of handsome gentlecolt to set a young mare’s heart a-patter without much provocation.

Unfortunately, he’s also an opinionated Primarchist prat who parrots his father’s elitist ‘right of the nobility’ drivel with detestable readiness. And his friends look to be cut from the same cloth.

Argent refused to risk Rarity’s fragile state against the attentions of four handsome stallions who probably couldn’t scrape together an ounce of respect for the ‘peasantry’ between them. At the moment it appeared the four stallions hadn’t noticed them, providing a narrow window to maneuver. The captain made a sharp right towards a nearby alley, hoping against hope that they’d slip out of sight before the stallions took notice. They’d almost reached the alley when—

“Ah, Comtesse L’Argent,” called the stallion cheerfully.

Blackfire and thunderation! she swore mentally. Argent screwed her eyes shut for a moment and prayed for patience, then forced an expression that was courteous without being inviting. “Baron Rampart,” the captain said as she turned, somehow managing to keep the acid out of her voice. “This is an unexpected encounter.”

“Not an unpleasant one, I hope,” he quipped as he and his retinue trotted up.

Argent smiled thinly. “What brings you out today, Rampart?”

“Oh, just seeing how the laborers live,” he replied airily. “Even one such as myself feels the odd urge to walk amongst the peasantry.”

Argent’s eye twitched. Behind the arrogant stallion she could see passersby shooting hooded glares at Rampart for his ‘peasantry’ remark. The professionals on this street by and large owned their businesses free and clear and made a good living offering their services; many of them were better off than a good portion of the nobility. It floored Argent that he could be so oblivious, but it hardly surprised her. His father is even worse.

“Have you met my companions?” Rampart asked, gesturing to the other three. “These are Lords Meadowcreek, Summervale, and Silk Stocking,” he introduced them, indicating a green and blue unicorn, a golden-brown earth pony, and an off-red pegasus in turn. Each paid the appropriate respects to Countess Argent – as the sons of earls and counts they were mere barons, after all – but paid absolutely no mind to Argent’s companions.

And why should they? she thought bitterly. They’re just the ‘help’ after all. “Yes, I believe I’m met you all in passing at least once before,” the mare said aloud. Likely between trading verbal barbs with your fathers and mothers on one of those ill-fated days I made the mistake of interacting with the rest of the Peerage. “Though I can’t say I recall any of the conversations lasting long. It seems we hadn’t much to discuss.”

Rampart raised an eyebrow, the sharp look in his eyes suggesting he hadn’t missed the subtext of her pointed remark. Still, propriety demanded that he smile politely and answer, “Quite.” He glanced at Rarity and the others, as if noticing them for the first time. “I see you continue to collect… eclectic servants.” He indicated Jacques with a flick of his head. “Especially that savage-looking creature there.”

Rarity bit her lip and looked away, for a moment looking as timid as Fluttershy. Oaken was too well-trained to let his emotions show, but he stepped up protectively next to the ivory mare all the same. Jacques, for his part, seemed rather bemused by the term ‘savage,’ and regarded Rampart with what might have been amusement or pity.

Argent shared neither the friar’s forbearance nor his amusement. Her nostrils flared and she bit back the rather indecorous reply that was her first instinct. “Oh, you are quite mistaken, Rampart,” she said instead, her voice dangerously sweet. “These three are my guests, and I their escort.” Stretching the truth a little in Oaken’s case, but this prig doesn’t need to know that. Then, without being asked, she introduced her companions as equals. “These are Rarity Belle, Private Oaken, and Friar Sir Jacques de Charette. My friends and allies.”

Rampart and his compatriots regarded the Ponyville trio with the curiosity one might show an exotic insect. “At least the ponies appear well-kept,” Stocking observed quietly, though not so quietly that it concealed what he said. “What is that strange bipedal creature?”

“And how poor must his realm be if a ratty vagabond like him is a knight?” quipped Summervale.

To the shock of all present, Jacques responded by throwing back his head and laughing uproariously. “Oh, my little pony friends,” he chuckled, speaking to them like a grandparent indulging a small child, “if you only knew of what you spoke, you would not be so flippant.” His eyes twinkled as he continued, “I serve the mightiest Kingdom of them all, and its riches are beyond what you could comprehend. What need have I of finery when I have all I’ve ever needed?”

Rampart and his companions exchanged uneasy glances, not sure how to respond to the unsettling creature’s strange words. Argent herself was distracted from such pondering, having noticed belatedly that a small crowd of passersby had started to form around them as curious ponies watched the bizarre giant laugh in the faces of four Primarchist barons. She could hear them whispering to each other as they watched the scene unfold.

Under other circumstances, Argent might have encouraged the repartee, but at the moment she was more concerned with Rarity, who hadn’t said a word the entire time. She made to excuse them, but Rampart spoke first.

“I must say, Argent,” the stallion began, “you continue to impress me with your adherence to your principles, however misguided they may be.”

Argent’s eyes narrowed. “And what principles might those be, pray tell?”

“Why, your attempts to raise up the lesser ponies, of course,” he answered. “Even my father admits that you have never wavered in treating them as equals. It’s rather charming, really. Naïve, but charming.”

The whispers of the crowd fell silent. Argent felt her pulse pounding in her head as she counted down from ten. “Lesser ponies?” she said quietly. “Lesser ponies?” she repeated with a hiss. “You puffed up, arrogant—” She jabbed a hoof in Rarity’s direction. “Do you have any bloody idea who this is? Do you? Plainly not, else you’d be kissing her hooves! Is Rarity Belle such a common name that you cannot be bothered to wonder if this is that Rarity Belle? Or did you simply neglect to order one of your servants to read you that particular morning paper? I suppose you missed that little footnote in the back about the titans this mare has faced down on your behalf!” The crowd had now doubled in size, but Argent didn’t care. “Does it not matter to you that she has risked her life and livelihood to protect your worthless, selfish, ignorant hide?!”

Silence fell on the street as the echoes of Argent’s words resonated off the masonry. Rampart and Argent glared at each other, all feigned courtesy now absent. After a moment, he deigned to turn his muzzle to Rarity and say, “Thank you, I suppose, for whatever it is the countess is referring to.” He turned back to Argent. “She is probably right in pointing out that commoners need pats on the head now and then.”

The street echoed with the sound of an enthusiastic slap. Rampart staggered back, reeling from the shock as much as from the impact. A detached part of Argent’s mind noted that the blow would probably leave a mark later. For the moment, however, she had more pressing matters occupying her thoughts.

Like staring mouth-agape at the placid-looking friar who’d just slapped the son of Count High Castle.

It took some time for anypony to recover enough to speak, during which time Jacques waited patiently, his peaceful expression never wavering. Eventually, it was Rampart himself who demanded an explanation. “What… do you think… you’ve done?” he grated.

“I have struck you, as is meet,” replied Jacques calmly, “for you have spoken discourteously to the Lady Rarity, and it is my duty as a knight to properly admonish you.”

“Sh-she is no Lady!” sputtered Rampart. “She is but a common farm pony!”

Jacques folded his arms, his calm voice taking on an iron quality. “It matters not if she is the lowliest beggar in the meanest of slums. You are a stallion, and a stallion of noble blood at that. To treat any member of the fair sex with such impropriety is to abase yourself like a common thug.”

Once again, awed silence descended as the friar waited patiently for the retort.

“How… how dare you!” snarled Rampart. “Do you have any idea who I am? Who my father is? Who are you to insult me so!?”

“I imagine you are Baron Guarded Rampart, son of Count High Castle,” answered Jacques casually, “the former Crown Loyalist now turned Primarchist by his laughable misunderstanding of the meaning of nobility – a misunderstanding which you obviously share.” There was a smile on Jacques’ lips as he spoke, but his eyes were cold. “As to who I am, it should not matter; truth is truth regardless of who speaks it. But, since you have been raised with a blindness towards those you consider your inferior, I will indulge you, boy.”

Jacques leaned down, bringing his face within inches of Rampart’s and causing the stallion to shrink back. “I am Sir Jacques de Charette, warrior of the Knights Templar, Priest of the Knights Hospitaller. For decades before you were even a gleam in your mother’s eye, I commanded the flower of the greatest realms in Christendom in battle against the vast armies of the Saracen. I defied lords who wielded power beyond your wildest dreams, and endured the wrath of the most powerful men in the known world.”

He rose to his full height and loomed over the Primarchist barons. “What can any of you teach me of war? Of discipline? Of leadership? Nothing! You claim the right by blood to rule, but what have you done with that right but malign the people to inflate your own egos? A true lord knows that his power is not an entitlement but an obligation – a role entrusted to him with the expectation that he serve and protect his people, even at the cost of his own life. Can you claim to have sacrificed more than a pittance for the common ponies? Any of you?” He scoffed. “Of course not! And it is no surprise. I’ve seen your kind before – your parents spoiled you, swaddling you in indolence and shielding you from any challenges or morals that might have accidently made you stallions. Pathetic! You claim such high esteem on account of your bloodline, yet you act in a manner unbefitting of respect. Shame on you!”

So ferocious was the verbal assault that even many of the onlookers appeared horrified by proximity. Argent felt like cheering.

“You— you filthy beggar!” shouted Rampart. “You can’t talk to me this way!”

“And why not?” brazened Jacques. “Understand this, boy – mighty sultans and princes failed to kill me. My own king could not break me by torture. You expect me to be impressed by your title? Your ire means less than nothing to me.” He pointed to Rarity. “But while I tolerate your amusing disregard for me, I will not tolerate your abuse of this maiden in my presence. Apologize to the Lady Rarity, and, for that matter, to Comtesse L’Argent and Private Oaken as well.”

Rarity was now blushing quite ferociously, and even Oaken’s Lunar Guard stoicism was overpowered by astonishment. Argent grinned ear to ear. An ultimatum, she thought. Most interesting! How will you respond, Rampart?

“Apologize?!” he spat. “I most certainly will not.”

Ooh, you picked a poor time to show backbone, colt.

Jacques nodded mildly. “Very well.” Then he slapped Rampart again, knocking him back into Silk Stocking and Summervale.

“You crazy freak!” shouted Meadowcreek. “You just hit the son of Count High Castle twice!”

“Yes, I did. Given his poor judgment, I may yet have to do it a third time.” Jacques brought back his arm for another strike.

“Stop!” cried Rampart, holding up a hoof. “I’ll have you arrested!”

“Ah, so that is how the great and powerful son of Count High Castle acts when he is called to court for his misbehavior!” exclaimed Jacques, triumphant. “He demands the State redress his imagined wrongs because he is too weak to confront them himself! What a fine young stallion you are!”

Rampart gritted his teeth and charged his horn. The crowd stumbled back, chattering in worry as the situation escalated sharply. Oaken placed himself between the horrified Rarity and the Primarchists. Argent merely raised an eyebrow and studied the friar. He seems to have a plan. I won’t intervene. Yet.

“Do you seek a duel, foreign dog?!” snarled Rampart as he regained his footing.

Jacques clapped his hands together. “Magnifique! You are not wholly gormless. Yes, I am challenging you to a duel.”

Oh, that’s delicious.

“Not to the death, of course,” clarified Jacques. “My faith forbids it, and in any case, I read enough of the Equestrian Code Duello to know that such duels are quite illegal in your lands. All the same, it shall satisfy honor to teach you a lesson in manners. If fist and magic be the only instructional method you leave me, then so be it. You may face me alone or with any of your friends who possess the stomach to fight; it makes no difference to me. I’m sure Comtesse L’Argent has no objections to acting as, how you say, the referee?”

The comtesse made no effort to conceal her smile. “Oh, not at all, good sir knight.”

“Friar Jacques, stop!” cried Rarity, springing forward to stand between the friar and the offenders. “You’ve made your point, Friar! You can’t go through with this!”

“I’m afraid the challenge has been made, fair Rarity. If he accepts—”

“I accept!” snapped Rampart coldly. Each of his friends echoed the same.

Jacques gestured. “There, see? It’s out of my hands.”

Rarity rounded on the much-amused Argent and entreated, “Captain, please, you cannot allow this! He is still wounded!”

Argent noted that Rampart and his friends frowned uncomfortably at the prospect of fighting a wounded man. So, they are not utterly without conscience. Nice to know they have some measure of decency. She glanced at the friar’s confident visage. I imagine his injury will not matter, but just in case… “Rarity has a point, Friar,” Argent admitted dutifully. “You were stabbed mere hours ago whilst administering justice on the Crown’s behalf.” She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as the stallions all recoiled in shock.

Jacques waved his hand dismissively. “Bah! They are but four little ones!”

“Perhaps out of regard for Nurse Redheart you ought to take it slow?” suggested Argent.

The friar winced. “I had hoped word of her ire had not spread. Twilight wrote of it, I presume?”

“Her reports to the princess are very thorough.” At the mention of the princess, the stallions looked even more uncomfortable. Good. They should be. Especially since it’s too late for them to back out. “Let’s strike a bargain, Friar,” proposed Argent. “You fight this one first,” she gestured to Rampart, “and if you’re feeling up to it, I’ll let you fight the others as well.”

“Splendid!” agreed Jacques, unbuckling his swordbelt and handing it to Oaken before rolling up his sleeves. “Don’t worry. This shan’t take long.” Addressing the crowd, he said, “I’d advise everyone step back. His magic may shoot in unexpected directions as I instruct him in manners.”

The onlookers didn’t need to be told twice. Rarity continued stammering and pleading as Oaken gently led her away, assuring her that Friar Jacques was going to be just fine. Argent followed and took a seat next to them, idly lamenting the fact that she didn’t have time to find refreshments. She put a light magical barrier around the duelists to keep stray shots from hitting the crowd and rattled off the rules of conduct for all combatants. The four stallions barely listened, as they were too busy psyching themselves up for the fight. Friar Jacques nodded respectfully, even though he seemed to know the rules already. Once she was done, Argent allowed Jacques and Rampart to square off, the former in a deceptively open boxing stance, the latter with all hooves planted and a spell charged.

“This is insane!” protested Rarity.

“On my mark!” cried the captain.

“He’ll be hurt!”

“Three…”

“Or his wound will open!”

“… two…”

“Or something even more dreadful!”

“… one…”

Rarity covered her eyes with her hooves, but Argent could tell she was peeking.

“… mark!”

Rampart immediately fired a stun spell at Jacques’ face. The crowd gasped. Argent smirked. The friar swung one fist up to intercept the blast, white magic flaring briefly in his hand as he shattered the attack spell. Rampart’s jaw hung open.

Rather than capitalizing on his enemy’s shock, Jacques held up an apologetic hand. “That wasn’t entirely your fault. You were guessing with my abilities, and a stun spell to the head is a logical opening move. Now that you know, however, perhaps you might consider a new tactical approach—”

Rampart fired a flurry of blasts at the friar, who either struck them out of the air or absorbed them on his shield.

“Or you could do that,” sighed the friar, who muttered something about the stubbornness of youths as he crossed the distance between them in a few long strides and clubbed the stallion over the head, knocking him to his knees. The friar crouched down next to him. “That was sloppy,” chided the old man. “You have to think for yourself instead of just reacting.” He pulled his opponent to his feet, then walked back to his starting position and resumed his ready stance. “Again!” he ordered.

Rampart ground his teeth and started circling Jacques, looking for an opening while his cohorts egged him on. Thinking he found one, he fired two blasts then charged in their wake. Jacques simply shrugged off the attack and grappled the pony, lifting him off the ground and pinning him in a manner that pointed all four legs towards nothing but air. Rampart tried to fire off another spell, but Jacques clamped down hard on his horn with a gnarled hand and the spell fizzled.

“That was better,” the friar told him, “but it was risky closing the distance with an unknown creature who has several feet on you and the distinct advantage in reach. What I would suggest instead…” Rampart wriggled impotently and spat profanities that earned many huffs of disgust from the onlookers. Jacques mildly continued his lecture through the storm, touching on the basics of unarmed combat and concluding, “… and that is how you use the flow of battle to feel out your enemy’s weaknesses. Now, as far as I’m concerned, honor could be satisfied at this point if you can but put aside your pride. Are you ready to apologize?”

The answer was another string of obscenities.

“Very well,” replied Jacques. “In that case, I will instruct you in a demoralizing tactic I learned from an earth pony of the noble Apple Clan.” Shifting his grip to clutch the pony under one arm, he knuckled his fist back and forth atop Rampart’s head. “Noogie noogie noogie noogie!” he shouted as the crowd erupted in cheers. Oaken laughed uproariously, and Argent could not hold back chuckles of her own. Even Rarity was tittering into her hooves, her face still torn between merriment and worry.

Only the other three barons were dismayed, as they cried out desperately for Rampart to fight back and for Jacques to release their friend. Argent decided to take pity on them.

Sort of.

“Well, what are you waiting for, gentlecolts?” she called to them. “Get in there!”

Exchanging worried glances with each other, the three stallions displayed admirable loyalty (if arguably questionable judgment) and rushed forward with a warcry. Jacques responding by hefting Rampart and throwing him sidelong into them. The equine missile crashed into Summervale and Meadowcreek, bowling both over.

Silk Stocking took to the air and leapt over them, straight into a jab to the face that almost knocked him out of the air. He flapped to recover, which unfortunately left him within Jacques’ reach. The friar seized him, held him overhead, and, as soon as the other three untangled themselves, threw the pegasus at them.

As the four scions struggled to overcome their tangle of limbs, Friar Jacques strode over and began helpfully pulling them out one at a time.

Less helpful was the fact that every time he pulled one free, he immediately punched the unlucky pony in the face.

Glancing away from the spectacle and ignoring the riotous cheers of the crowd, Argent addressed Rarity. “Still concerned?” she asked.

The ivory mare was flushed with a peculiar mix of horror, fascination, and glee. “Well...” she demurred. They watched as a laughing Jacques strode around the arena with one humiliated baron under each arm, delivering sharp kicks to the other two whenever they strayed within range. “Not so much.”

Celestia blinked languidly, centuries of practice enabling her to maintain an impassive mask of stoicism. Outwardly, she resembled a marble sculpture – a statue of regal bearing whose features bespoke both the wisdom and the will to absolve or condemn with inborn grace.

Inwardly, it was exceptionally difficult not to throw dignity out the window and exclaim… something. Whether that something was dismay, delight, disbelief, or some complex combination therein, she could not say, but by Equestria she wanted to exclaim!

Luna, who sat beside her in the Great Hall, acted with less restraint, openly grinning at the four visitors who stood before them.

Rarity looked absolutely mortified, to the point that she wasn’t even trying to explain the situation but rather stared at the red carpet as though debating hiding beneath it. Though if she’s mortified it at least indicates she’s working past what happened on the train.

Oaken’s face was locked in the standard-issue Royal Guard Expression of Stoic Professionalism, but there was a gleam in his eyes that Celestia recognized as the non-regulation Expression of Supreme Satisfaction.

Argent, quite openly and defiantly, had allowed the Expression of Supreme Satisfaction to display across the entirety of her features in a breach of protocol that would have been shocking, even scandalous, if she hadn’t been a member of the legendarily brazen REF.

Jacques, perhaps most strikingly out of all of them, looked as innocent as a grandfather cradling a sleeping child. Celestia thought that was quite a feat, given the way he stood at something resembling Parade Rest in a stained and battered robe that showed ample signs of his recent martial activities. Activities which the princesses had just been briefed on.

Celestia and Luna had, of course, been warned by a runner to expect a briefing on the assassination. What had not been expected was the briefing that followed it. A briefing which left Celestia in the interesting position of weighing which matter to pursue first.

She took a slow breath in and out through her nose to conceal the deep sigh she felt like heaving. Intellectually, the elder princess wanted to set the Code Duello issue aside. They plainly had more important matters to attend to, chief among them an assassination attempt mere miles from Canterlot by a pony who was, no doubt, a Shade agent. The reasonable thing to do would be to let the subject of the duel drop.

And yet…

“Let me clarify a few points, just to ensure I didn’t miss anything,” she began with tranquil patience. “You soused out an assassination attempt on a member of parliament, thwarted said attempt, determined a probable connection to the Shades, and then, logically, concluded that it would behoove you to travel here immediately. Am I correct so far?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” replied Argent, taking it upon herself to speak for the group.

“Good,” nodded Celestia. “Now – along the way, you encountered a rather discourteous band of stallions who happen, just happen mind you, to be the sons of some of the most powerful Primarchist lords in Equestria. These happened to include Lord Guarded Rampart, the son of Count High Castle. True?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“And I believe that next, rather than simply passing them by, Friar Jacques, who, if I recall correctly, had been stabbed, took it upon himself to amend the situation. The good friar thus, with Captain Argent’s express permission, and dare I say support, proceeded to challenge the four of them to a duel and beat them silly.”

“That is an accurate description of the events, Royal Highness.”

Celestia let out a slow breath through her teeth and tried to ignore Luna’s increasingly broad smile.

“Well, now that we’ve clarified the happenings which brought us to the present, am I sound in my recollection that, following said duel, you dragged these four ponies to the Castle with the intent of, and I quote, ‘instructing them in the art of proper masculinity and decorum.’”

Friar Jacques took over for Argent. “It seemed only right, Your Highness,” he stated. “I believe, as do you, I’m sure, that any sapient being is capable of change. They showed some courage in facing me, which suggests a likely avenue for appealing to their better instincts. They regard themselves as nobles, but have been malformed in their upbringing, and thus labor under an impression of nobility that is, shall we say, lacking. Perhaps now that they have learned a little respect, they might be amenable to thinking in a manner healthier than that with which they’ve been raised.”

The princess had to bite the inside of her cheek. “I see,” she said. “This, may I surmise, is the reason there are four bloodied stallions sitting in the foyer?”

“In fairness, Royal Highness, most of that blood is mine. My stitches popped open partway through and smeared everywhere.”

A noise that might have been a snort sounded from Luna’s direction, but Celestia steadfastly ignored it. “Well, we wouldn’t want to give the impression that we leave the survivors of massacres sitting untended in the foyer.”

Oaken spoke up, demonstrating remarkable forwardness for an enlisted pony. Fritters must be rubbing off on him. “It may please Her Royal Highness to know that we provided them with icepacks and antiseptics,” he reported, keeping his eyes forward and speaking with the standard-issue Guard Voice of Official Reporting.

Another snort-like sound emanated from Luna’s vicinity. Celestia felt her eye twitch. “That does please me, Private Oaken. Thank you for informing me.” The alicorn’s languid gaze fell on Argent. “Have you anything to add, Captain?”

“On or off the record, Your Highness?”

Celestia mentally cast her gaze heavenward. Am I being tested? “Off the record,” she answered against her better judgment.

“It was delightful, I enjoyed it immensely, and I would do it again, Your Highness. In fact, I respectfully submit that we handle the entire Primarchist Party this way. Mayhap it will do them some good.”

This, finally, was too much for Luna. The younger alicorn began giggling in a rather un-princessly fashion and left even Oaken struggling to maintain a straight face.

I give up, thought Celestia, shooting her sister a look that would have been severe if it weren’t so tired. “Luna, you’re not helping.”

“Oh, do lighten up, dear sister,” smirked Luna unapologetically. “You and I both know it was deserved. In my opinion they got off lightly. They’re just fortunate it was Friar Jacques who sorted them. Had I been present, I would not have been so gentle.”

“No doubt,” said Celestia dryly. “Friar Jacques, I agree totally that their behavior was reprehensible and required correction, but I hope you can understand that I’m cautious about condoning violence as a means of settling such matters. It can set a bad precedent, especially to ponies less versed in the ethics of legal brawling. Before I pass judgment, perhaps you could explain your reasoning?”

Jacques gave a respectful dip of his head. “Of course, Princess. We must begin with noting that violence is a punishment often disproportionate to the crime. Simply assaulting someone for an offense, for example, is entirely improper, not to mention highly impractical – after all, threats and violence by themselves do not evoke conversion of the heart. Likewise, fighting someone merely to punish them and with no thought given to true resolution is both morally wrong and practically ineffective. As a general rule, there are better ways of settling insults, disputes, and philosophical differences. If every act of disrespect or disagreement was answered with a blow to the head, then half the land would be pounded silly in short order.”

Celestia nodded. “True enough.”

“However,” Jacques continued, “when two individuals agree to terms of an honorable and legal bout to settle a disagreement wherein words have proven ineffective, I believe that this relatively bloodless violence can, under the right circumstances and if handled wisely, be an acceptable means of resolving the issue.”

He held up three fingers and ticked them off as he made his points. “Firstly, the insult is answered in an emphatic fashion which satisfies honor for both parties. Secondly, the organized nature of the duel sets an upper limit on the conflict; properly handled, this ensures that the dispute ends in one brawl instead of growing into a feud. Thirdly, both parties tend to gain a mutual respect for the fighting spirit of the other; this can be built upon to open true dialogue in the wake of the disagreement. I have on many occasions faced differences with other men that seemed irreconcilable until we took a measure of each other in the sparring yard, after which we respected each other enough to be open to each other’s perspectives.”

“Thus,” he concluded, “while walking about knocking people’s heads just because you despise what they say or stand for is both morally wrong and a poor substitute for debate, there is something to be said for engaging in a mutually agreed upon and closely regimented bout of fisticuffs. When applied judiciously, it can do wonders for venting aggression and opening dialogue. All of this assumes, of course, that it is done within the confines of a culture which both accepts and understands the limits of such means of settling disagreements. Being that Code Duello is practiced in your land and that these stallions take their noble titles seriously, I calculated that it would be an appropriate way to open conversation.”

His argument concluded, he stood quietly, leaving Celestia to mull over the moral complexities of organized boxing as a means of starting a dialogue.

Luna needed less time to mull, and simply grinned approvingly. “You are a pugilist philosopher, sir knight,” observed the lunar princess.

Jacques shrugged. “You are too kind, Illustrious Highness. All good warriors must have something of the poet in them, lest they direct their capacity for violence towards unsavory objectives.” His gaze shifted to Celestia. “I hope I have not overstepped, Princess.”

Celestia sighed and brought one hoof up to massage her temple, deciding that she didn’t much care about royal image at that moment. “Well you certainly did nothing illegal.” Though you already knew that. She allowed herself a small smile. “And, while I shall no doubt be hearing from High Castle at length regarding today’s events, I do admit taking a certain… satisfaction in them.” Rarity visibly relaxed. “As for Her Illustrious Highness Luna, I think it obvious how she regards the matter.”

The friar looked at Luna and smirked. “Quite favorably, I trust?”

Luna returned the smirk. “Quite.”

“Though I do hope, Friar, that you will not be making a habit of this,” admonished Celestia.

Argent chortled. “I imagine he’d have a hard time finding any takers once word gets around.”

“No doubt,” said Celestia dryly. Then, continuing more soberly, “As diverting as this has been, however, the matter on the train requires the attention of the Crown and the Guard, and the three of you,” she indicated the travelers with her muzzle, “require the attention of the staff.”

With a flare of her magic, she rang the bell which summoned Kibitz and Raven Inkwell. The princess introduced both and asked them to show the trio to their quarters in the Ivory Wing. Argent was asked to remain behind and confer with the Diarchy. The travelers bid gracious farewell and departed.

Once they’d gone, Celestia simply looked at Argent, tilted her head in the direction of the departing travelers, and raised an eyebrow. The captain understood immediately and replied, “I have Solar and Lunar Guards vetted by Ernie pulling security in the Ivory Wing, and some of my Dogs standing by with orders to discretely tail our guests if they leave. When we got to the palace, I pulled one of my Dogs aside and had him put another pony on both Rarity and Jacques beyond what I’d originally planned. Oaken will be staying in Ivory, not the barracks, and I put Rarity’s room between his and the good friar’s. I also strongly suggested to Chaplain Trench that he visit with Jacques tonight. I imagine those two will be talking philosophy and metaphysics into the wee hours.”

Luna nodded slyly. “Which just so happens to put another Adjurist in the Ivory Wing.”

“Purely coincidental, I assure you,” deadpanned Argent.

Celestia raised an eyebrow. “Do our guests know about the increased security?”

“Oaken and Jacques do. I’ll leave it to their judgment whether they think it wise to tell Rarity.” The captain frowned. “The duel provided a considerable distraction for her, but today’s events were unkind to her. Perhaps it would be better not to burden her further.” She turned to Luna. “Either way, I imagine she’ll be needing your ministrations tonight, Princess Luna.”

“They shall be given gladly,” assured the Dream Warden.

“How quickly things change,” remarked Celestia quietly. Or, at least, how quickly they seem to. Our enemies’ schemes may come as a surprise to us, but they do not form overnight. She glanced at the clock and noticed that it was approaching midday. Only noon… yet it feels as though we are edging towards midnight.

Shaking the thought away, she addressed her sister. “How long until your meeting with Mason?”

“A little over four hours from now,” replied the lunar alicorn. “I could cancel, but…” she trailed off with a shrug.

Celestia didn’t need her to explain further. They’d learned long ago the value of maintaining ‘business as usual’ whenever possible to avoid panic. They’d already seen to it that news of the assassination be smothered, at least until they’d had time to brief the appropriate ponies and decide on their next move.

As to who those ponies will be, well, that is for us to decide. “We’ll try to keep you to your appointment, then,” she promised aloud.

Luna smirked. “It should not matter if I am a shade late. He’ll no doubt forgive me any tardiness in exchange for such a delicious tale as four Primarchist scions receiving a severe thrashing.”

“No doubt,” concurred Celestia with a slight frown. I hope, dear sister, that he is not turning you into a gossip like him. Dismissing the thought, she rose from her throne and gestured to one of the side passages. “Let’s adjourn to my study. It shall be far more comfortable for discussing assassinations and villains lurking in the shadows.”

“Not to mention what ponies we can trust enough to brief to what degree,” added Argent with an irritated snort as the group moved out. “Have I mentioned how much I hate not knowing which ponies we can trust to do what?”

Celestia smiled dryly as they exited the throne room. “You should try a career in Parliament some time.”

Argent made a retching sound.

Rarity followed the dark-maned Raven Inkwell through grand halls lined with hanging lavender, gilded marble colonnades, and drapery of finest brocade.

Their splendor was lost upon the fashionista in that moment. She had far grimmer thoughts on her mind. Jacques’ spirited response to the four lordly stallions’ disrespect had proven a potent diversion while it lasted and brought her to the palace in a state of considerable distraction. But Jacques had now vanished along with Kibitz and the four stallions, and it seemed that wonderfully odd diversion he’d wrought had departed with him. Now, Rarity dwelt once more on the dead assassin.

Intellectually, she appreciated the words of Oaken, as well as the wordless support he continued to offer as he walked beside her. His conduct and insight provided a soothing balm to her emotional state. But it was still too fresh, too raw to simply dismiss, and it seemed that the longer they walked, the more the thoughts consumed her mind.

In a detached sort of way, Rarity reflected on the irony that she was so caught up in thinking about the recently deceased that the insults of the four disgraceful ‘nobles’ barely registered. Their words had hurt, to be sure, but they’d only hurt. Had her mind had not been bent to another priority, she likely would have been devastated. A silver lining, I suppose. The thought made her smile, but there was little humor in it.

When they reached the Ivory Wing, Raven showed Rarity to her expansive quarters. The princess’s kindly secretary made a great effort to talk up the fine qualities of the chamber and all its truly impressive artistic and cultural history. Oaken, bless him, chipped in with a politely admiring whistle (though he’d doubtless seen the room before while on duty) and asked obviously leading questions of Raven to help her show off the chamber.

Rarity appreciated their efforts and tried to look interested, but her heart wasn’t in it. Eventually, Oaken excused himself to stow his duffel in his own room. While the two mares were alone, Raven trotted over and surprised Rarity with a quick but earnest hug. “Some ponies may forget what the Bearers have done for Equestria and the princesses, but the palace staff hasn’t,” the secretary assured her. “Anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”

The promise caused a tear to form in Rarity’s eye. “Thank you, darling,” she said huskily.

With a sympathetic smile, Raven departed. Oaken reentered at the same time, sharing a meaningful look with Raven as she left. When she was gone, he cleared his throat and asked, “How can I be of service?”

Rarity chuckled dryly and collapsed into an opulent divan. Not as plush as my fainting couch, but it will do. “Fetch me a few cartons of Fudgy Ripple Surprise?” she said, making the joke without thinking.

Oaken dipped his head in acknowledgment and ducked out of the room. Rarity heard him exchanging words with one of the guards in the hall, then he trotted back in. “Your ice cream will be up in a few minutes,” announced the soldier.

The fashionista sat up, her face reddening. “I- I really shouldn’t impose—" or eat all that ice cream that in front of you—

“In the meantime,” Oaken continued, pretending not to have heard her, “I have a favor of my own to ask.”

Rarity blinked, not quite sure how to take this turn of conversation. “You… do?”

“Yes,” he said, trotting over to a coffee table and nudging it up in front of her divan before sitting on the floor across from her. As he moved, she could see he carried a thick book of some kind on his back. “I’ve always admired your generosity in helping aspiring fashion designers and, well…” he reached around, grabbed the book, and set it on the table between them. “I’ve been fiddling with some designs to show to my sister.”

Rarity nodded automatically, her memory helpfully reminding her that he’d taken an interest in fashion to better connect with his sister, Bobby Pin, who lived with autism and had a passion for the art.

Oaken flipped the book open and slid it across the table so she could see the sketches better. “Now, I’m clearly just an amateur, but I’d like to be able to bring something interesting to the table next time I visit home. Would you be willing to help me?”

He looked up at her with pleading eyes that Rarity couldn’t help but think were slightly put on. She likewise detected a certain deliberateness in his tone – a subtle effort to elicit a particular response from her.

This is crazy, she thought. An MP was almost murdered! A pony was killed! How can we possibly talk about fashion at a time like this?! This stallion is just trying to distract me!

Rarity glanced down at the designs. Still… I suppose it is for his sister… and that is a bold choice with that color scheme…

“Why don’t you tell me about this one,” Rarity heard herself ask. She pretended not to notice the look of triumph in his eyes.

“Well, I was thinking to do a hybrid of Blush Taffeta’s and Woven Damask’s last season, but I’m not sure it came out quite right. Mostly I’m concerned about this stitching here…”

The soldier went on to explain the various designs in his sketchbook. They were decent, for an amateur. A couple even had the potential of being professional designs with some refining. As Rarity allowed herself to be drawn into the art, she noticed that the anguish in her mind lessened, and her spirit calmed.

The arrival of the Fudgy Ripple Surprise certainly helped, but mostly it was the companionship.

As Oaken continued to talk about his designs, she couldn’t help but notice that he seemed quite satisfied with what she had to say, no matter how critical, so long as she was speaking.

During one of his explanations, she stopped looking at his designs and simply watched him. Eventually, he noticed her scrutiny and looked up, his face innocent. “Yes?” he asked.

“Don’t think I don’t understand what you’re doing,” she told him.

Oaken grinned sheepishly. “Is it working?”

Rarity couldn’t suppress a fond grin. Not that she had any intention of trying. “Yes, darling. It is.”

Kibitz reacted to having an alien guest and four battered barons on his hooves with remarkable aplomb. Outwardly, at least. Jacques had been around enough majordomos to recognize that the stallion was quite distressed that the princesses’ schedule and the carefully wrought peace of the castle were being disturbed. Yet the frustration was almost invisible, manifesting only as a slight quiver behind Kibitz’s mustache and a certain deliberate openness in his gaze. That he keeps such control of his features is a testament to his talent. That, or a testament to how… interesting things get around here.

When they had first exited the throne room, Jacques wasted no time in requesting a quiet place where he might converse with the four bruised lords without being disturbed. Kibitz ably found them such a place: a garden close enough to the guest quarters in the Ivory Tower to be convenient, but far enough away for privacy. The majordomo instructed Jacques to speak to one of the guards at the entrance to the garden when he was ready to be led to his chambers.

As opposed to speaking to the guard who’s quietly tailing me for protection? thought Jacques, having briefly spotted his tail, though he did not voice the dry musing in front of the four nobles.

Once Kibitz left, Jacques bade his erstwhile students sit on nearby benches. They did so with the quiet obedience born of knowing, first, that one is in the wrong, and, second, that the one who has been wronged is more than capable of exacting justice.

Jacques paced slowly before them, his eyes closed as he pondered the lessons he was to give them. This was hardly his first time giving such a speech, but he always made minor alterations based on context. When he finished collecting his thoughts, he opened his eyes and spoke.

“I alluded earlier to my first Order, the Knights Templar. In their service, I commanded many men. Some were country knights whose fathers or grandfathers had been elevated for valor. Others were descendants of the Peerage of Christendom who could trace their lineage back hundreds of years to the very foundations of their realms. Most were ordinary soldiers of common blood. All were drawn by the same goal.” He stopped his pacing and swept his gaze over the four stallions. “To serve something greater than themselves. To uphold the sacred and defend the helpless. This was our shared brotherhood of purpose. For it we bled and died in lands so distant and alien from the lands of our ancestors that most of our kin could know them only by imagination.”

Jacques cast his gaze heavenward and smiled. “Ah, there were such grand deeds in those days. Imagine it – the charge of a thousand armored men, utterly silent, our shields locked together and our lances gleaming, holding so close to each other that a stone tossed in our midst would not have touched the ground. No earthly force could stand against us but with overwhelming numbers, and even against them we sold our lives so dearly that they feared even to take us prisoner.”

The stallions watched his with rapt attention through blackened eyes and did not doubt the veracity of his claims.

“For generations we were the finest soldiers in the known world. Not since the glory days of the Old Roman Empire had any force been so masterfully trained, so profoundly lethal upon the battlefield. Ours was a legacy of glory.” He smiled with fondness at the recollection. Then his face turned sad. “And yet, we were destroyed, our Order dismantled, our warriors tortured, butchered, burned alive. Few survived to find succor in other Orders, and many of those who lived have now passed on. I am one of the last, and when we last ones die, there will be none to take our place.”

Jacques sighed, and for a moment allowed the himself to feel the fullness of his grief. Then he returned his attention to the stallions. “Do you know what brought us low?” None ventured to guess and he smiled encouragingly. “Speak freely. I shall not punish you for wrong answers.”

Meadowcreek exchanged glances with his fellows before asking with great hesitation, “Your enemies?”

The friar smiled. “No, not our enemies. They may have defeated us in battles by great force and bravery, but they never broke us. Other guesses?”

Silk Stocking bit his lip, then asked, “Was it the… common soldiers? Did they break or fail in their duties?”

Jacques took a slow breath and reminded himself that he had told them he would not punish them for wrong guesses. Then he reminded himself that the young stallion was simply parroting the dreadful thinking that seemed all-too-common amongst the vain and ignoble nobility, whatever world they dwelt in. Finally, he reminded himself that he’d expected one of the stallions to blame the commoners. These reminders helped dull the pain of the grave insult which Stocking had offered his former comrades.

Somewhat.

“No, not the commoners,” replied Jacques, hearing huskiness in his own voice. “Those brave souls bled and died on the battlefield as courageously as any knight. More so, in many ways, for they lacked our armor and yet took the same risks. When our enemies destroyed us, neither master nor servant was spared.”

The friar sighed and shook his head, casting his eyes to the ground. “No, the Templar Order did not fall to any great army of foes or to any great corruption from within. It fell to a foe we should have had no cause to expect, to one who should have been our ally.”

He looked up, and his eyes gleamed. “We were betrayed by a king. By a man who thought that his high birth and great standing entitled him to all the riches and powers of heaven and earth, and so demanded that which was not his to demand. He stole from commoner and prince alike, wielded his power like a greatsword, and clove asunder anyone who stood in his path. He amassed wealth and dominion unheard of since the days of the great Emperor Charlemagne, and with it he destroyed the flower of Christian nobility.”

The friar’s eyes pierced each of the stallions in turn. “Do you know what became of this mighty king?” Mutely, the stallions shook their heads. “He died, like any other creature, and all his earthly power came to naught.”

Jacques bent to be at eye-level with them, and his voice dropped to a low and earnest octave. “Listen well, lads. Death comes for us all, soon or late. The pawn and the king go back into the same box. When you face Judgment, it will not matter who your father was, or how much money you had, or what power you wielded in this life. All that will matter will be what you did with that power.”

He straightened and gestured to the surrounding opulence. “You have been given much, and you expect more, but this is wrong. You have been given much… and so much shall be expected of you. Power is an obligation, not a right. It is a gift, yes, but one which may be taken away if misused. In time, all earthly power will end. What account shall you be able to give for how you spent what you had?”

The friar fixed each with his gaze in turn, mutely asking for them to account for their lives. One by one, each stallion looked away.

Raising his arms heavenward, Jacques continued, “Your elevated birth makes you no grander in the eyes of the Author of Life than any of His other children. He loves all, and especially loves those who make the most of their gifts, whether great or small. The lowest peasant in the meanest hovel who lives with virtue is more pleasing to Him than the loftiest king who sows only wickedness.”

“The king who betrayed us was heir to the first and greatest throne of Christendom,” declared Jacques, his fist unconsciously tightening. “Do you think he is more kindly remembered than the lowly peasant who quietly fed orphaned children from his own bread?”

“No,” came the answer. Jacques turned to see that Rampart had spoken. The young lord looked almost embarrassed, as though he hadn’t intended to speak.

Jacques smiled proudly. “No indeed.” His gaze drifted to the Ivory Wing where Rarity was no doubt unpacking her baggage, emotional and otherwise. “In your land, you have been privileged with princesses and many great nobles who have heeded the Way of Harmony and welcomed the Fire into their hearts. But, most recently, your realm has been saved from destruction by six very ordinary ponies – a librarian, a farmer, a tender of animals, a baker, a weatherpony, and a seamstress,” he raised an eyebrow at the stallions, “the last of whom you insulted.” They looked away, shame-faced. “Of them, only one has any ties to noble blood, yet they have all borne Harmony in their hearts and wielded its Elements against foes beyond your imagining. And it is not for any nobility of status that they have succeeded. No, it is for the nobility of their character.”

He strode up to the bench and bent low as he walked the line, bringing himself nose to nose with each as he exhorted them, “You call yourselves nobles, but that is just a station empty of meaning unless you live up to it. If you want people to follow you, be someone worth following!”

His piece said, he stepped back, turned his back to them, and waited.

“How?”

The friar turned his head to look over his shoulder. It was Meadowcreek who’d spoken, but now he, like Rampart, seemed unsure of himself.

It had been enough, though. Enough to start the others speaking. Silk Stocking, after biting his lip, screwed up the courage to echo, “How?”

Jacques half turned to face them. “How?” he repeated, prompting them to commit.

The four ponies exchanged glances with each other, each hoping the other would speak first, each wanting someone to say what needed to be said. Come on, lads. Have courage. Take the step.

Rampart closed his eyes, sighed, and managed, “Nopony’s ever talked to me like… told us that…”

“Nopony’s ever told us that’s what it is to be a noble, Friar Sir Jacques,” Summervale finished for him. Rampart and the others shot him relieved looks for saying what had to be said.

Jacques allowed a gratified smile to spread across his features. “Ah, so you wish to know what it is to be stallions of truly noble character?”

Each of them looked to the others for solidarity until, one by one, they nodded.

“Magnifique,” grinned Jacques. “That desire, my young friends, is the first step. The desire to be better, to live and to love beyond one’s meager self, that is the beginning of true nobility. To have one’s life rightly ordered to righteous purpose is to live a life worth emulating! And this greatness is yours, if you but reach out to grasp it!” He sat down cross-legged before them, a humble teacher serving his students. “Yes, young nobles, we shall learn much together. To begin, I would like to tell me of your fathers and mothers, and what they have taught you.”

Once again, the stallions exchanged glances. Rampart, seeming to feel the obligation of the ringleader, began, “Well, you already know who my father is. He’s… a driven stallion, and I’m starting to realize just what that’s meant…”

The stallions spoke, and Jacques listened, asking clarifications only when he needed to. When they had finished, he spoke to them of the errors they’d been raised with. And, though he was quite blunt in explaining the dangers of the vain elitism to which they’d been born, he was always careful to keep malice from his tone. Rather, the friar spoke of correcting bad ideas and healing corrupt hearts. He judged the sins harshly, but the sinners with compassion.

Jacques did not speak only of wrongdoing, however. He taught them of discipline, maturity, and self-mastery – of how this ability to freely choose the Good rather than consent to vice is the key to happiness and true freedom.

He did not shy from warning them that this transformation would be no easy task, and that poor sinners like them (he included himself, of course) could never hope for perfection in this life. But he reassured them time and again that in pursuing perfection one might reach excellence.

The friar and his students spoke for hours, all unaware of the other ears that’d drawn close enough to listen – staff, soldiers, other nobles. Quite unbeknownst to Jacques and the barons, what they said quietly in the garden would soon be the talk of the palace.

Celestia decided it was fortunate that her schedule had already allotted the afternoon to administrative matters that would not require her visible presence around the palace, because as the minutes ticked by it looked increasingly like she’d be indisposed the entire afternoon.

She, Luna, and Argent were seated in the elder princess’s study, enjoying the comforts of decadently plush divans and the full extent of the Royal Tea Collection while their minds endured the grueling problem of plotting a course through unsettled waters.

The first hour had been relatively straightforward – discussing security rosters and discretely increasing hoof patrols throughout the city, particularly around the residences of MPs and Lords. They resolved that matter before Celestia and Luna were even halfway through their ginseng tea and while Argent was merely on her second cup of earl grey (which, being that she was a Trottish pony, was an accomplishment in itself).

After that had come fiddlier matters, first among them determining which of those same MPs and Lords could be trusted to know about the probable motives behind the assassination.

Celestia was of the opinion that the Cabinet and certain key officials be briefed on at least the basics. Her argument was that the Cabinet was trustworthy and had assets they could call upon that the current inner circle did not, which would speed the investigation. Moreover, one of them had nearly been killed, and it would not be long before they all began asking questions.

Luna, on the other hoof, was inclined to keep them in the dark. It was not that she didn’t trust the Cabinet members – it was that adding more ponies to the investigation increased the odds of their enemies figuring out what they were up to. “Many hooves might make light work, but they also make more noise,” she’d pointed out.

Argent, meanwhile, played devil’s advocate to both sides.

After much deliberation (which polished off the first cups of ginseng and the third cup of earl grey), it was decided that the Cabinet would have to be read in when Argent correctly pointed out that none of the members were stupid. They already knew the gist of the threat, though not the specifics, and all had been involved in the investigation whether they knew it or not. After Windforce’s brush with death, keeping them in the dark would no longer be effective in keeping them safe. Instead, it wouldhamstring whatever they might do to help. “Like ordering a soldier to fight with one hoof bound to his barrel,” was Argent’s analogy.

Luna reluctantly agreed. “It was prudent to keep them in the dark at first,” she said, “but the time for such secrecy is ending, and they will be more useful inside the tent planning than outside throwing rocks.”

Most difficult of all, however, was the question of whether to tell the press about the assassination.

Or, more precisely, what details to give the press about the assassination, amended Celestia. No matter what they did, it would be impossible to keep it out of the public eye entirely. That would have been true centuries ago, and the current climate amongst the newspapers and pundits only made the fact more apparent.

In the past, the papers had generally been respectful enough to delay publication of sensitive matters when asked by the Crown or the constabulary. For the sake of public safety, they often willingly agreed to sit on stories until the matter was resolved. True, the tabloids were more temperamental, but few ponies took them seriously in those days. And, in any case, Celestia had learned to use them to her advantage – allowing them their absurd stories as a smokescreen for things she wanted to keep quiet, like the Lace Curtain Incident thirty years ago or, more recently, the true events surrounding the Elements’ reawakening.

But the old rules of news had died with the new breed of politics. Covering the divisiveness of Parliament had proven to boost sales, which had driven the tabloids to branch out into political hit pieces loosely disguised as journalism. Worse, big money behind the various parties had given rise to a new breed of publications – openly slanted political newspapers which largely served to glorify their chosen masters while slandering everypony else.

Allegedly, of course. Papers like the Canterlot Post and the Equestrian Enquirer were always very careful to be “non-biased” and “paragons of open journalism.” In truth, this was a merely a façade to offer them legitimacy whilst they decried the Tri-Party Government and its leaders. Accusations ran the gamut from “imperialists” to “insular nativists”, from “weaklings” to “tyrants,” from “money-grubbing elitists” to “commoner-coddling coots.” It all depended on the offense of the day and the political bent of the paper.

Celestia was no stranger to having newsies of all stripes lambast her. Partisan politics had been a fact of life from the dawn of Equestria, and she found newspaper hit pieces abundantly preferable to hit ponies. She even found the outrage of her political opponents instructive, and was known to keep a collection of the most lavishly caustic ones in her private library. The princess took them out whenever she needed a reminder that partisan politics had always existed and, historically, had often been far worse (or for when she needed a good laugh at her own expense).

The difference was that, a few decades ago, even the most caustic of the noteworthy publications had been willing to acquiesce to the requests of the Crown and constabulary so long as they could be reasonably persuaded that delaying the story was genuinely in the interest of the public good.

As things currently stood, however, the rumor mill was doubtless working overtime on the mysterious events of the train, and the vast commercial and political enterprise of the papers couldn’t help but notice. It would not surprise Celestia in the slightest is she got a report at the end of the day that Windforce’s guards had needed to persuade some journalists to stop lurking under the poor MP’s eaves. By morning, the rumors would have swept across Canterlot. If the Crown didn’t make a statement first, they would lose what little control of the narrative they had, along with any chance to reclaim it.

Luna’s solution had been simple: forbid the papers to publish on the matter.

The subsequent discussion had been… heated.

“No, Luna, we cannot do that,” Celestia repeated for the third time as she blew on a fresh cup of ginseng. “Tempting as it would be, it would only cause more problems in the long-term.”

“Why should we care?” demanded the younger alicorn, her head raised imperiously as she set her cup down on its saucer with a hard clink. “This is a matter for the Crown, not the pony on the street. What right have they to the information?”

“Princess Celestia is not suggesting that we give them the details of the investigation,” noted Argent diplomatically as she poured herself a fourth cup of earl grey tea. “Simply that we admit there is an investigation. That way we keep a hoof in the door, so to speak.”

Luna harrumphed. “You have coddled these newsponies, dear sister. The matter is a secret. We ought to say so and be done with it.”

“‘Secret’ is a dangerous word to throw around, Luna,” Celestia reminded her as she refilled her sister’s empty cup with soothing ginseng. “I’m not proposing we give out state secrets, but the abuse of censorship is an abuse of power, and one quite likely to backfire. No, we must give them something, if only to maintain public trust.”

The lunar princess rose from her seat and stalked over to the window, leaving the soothing tea undrunk and muttering something unpleasant in Old Ponish. Celestia glanced at Argent and found the captain contemplating her earl grey and studiously avoiding looking at either princess. A reasonable choice under the circumstances, Celestia admitted.

After a moment, Luna reclaimed her seat, still unhappy, but calmer. “I suppose you are right,” she admitted. “I detest having to buy loyalty, but I suppose that is the age we live in.”

Celestia smiled. “Don’t be so dour, sister. There are advantages we retain in this, among them—” There was a knock at the door. Celestia temporarily dismissed the sound-dampening spell on their conversation so the guards could hear her. “Yes?” she asked.

“Colonel Query to see you, Your Highness.”

Perfect timing. “Send him in, please.” Earnest Query entered, bowed, and took one of the proffered seats as Celestia resumed the sound dampening spell. “Tea, Ernie?” she offered. “You’d better get some before the Trottish pony drinks it all.”

Argent shot Celestia a censorious glance.

“No thanks,” replied Ernie. “I don’t have long, and I’m a coffee pony anyway. I just slipped out to check in with you. I have to let the train crew sweat a few minutes before I question them anyway.”

“Do you think any of them are involved?” asked Argent.

Query shrugged. “No, but I’ve been wrong before. And, before anypony asks, no, I don’t have anything new to report at this time.”

“That’s quite all right, Ernie,” Celestia assured him. “I don’t expect you to work miracles. Actually, we were just discussing what official statement to make tomorrow. Any suggestions?”

“Yup,” replied Query. “We tell ’em somepony tried to kill Windforce, that he was saved by an off-duty guard and two deputized travelers, that the investigation is ongoing, and that it’s too early to make a comment about the killer’s motives. If they ask if we think he acted alone, we repeat the ‘too early’ bit. You know the drill.”

“Thank you,” smiled Celestia, who’d already been planning on that exact response. She glanced at Luna and saw her sister staring in shock.

“That’s it?” exclaimed the younger alicorn.

Celestia chuckled. “I told you I wasn’t planning on giving out state secrets. There’s a certain song and dance to these things. Oh, the unfriendly papers will wail and moan about a cover-up, but they would have done that no matter what we told them. This open-ended answer lets us claim the moral high ground with honesty while retaining control of the narrative.”

Luna frowned. “And how, pray tell, will we use that control?”

“Well, let’s say we want our enemies to think we’re on the wrong trail. We make a public statement that the assassin acted alone for personal reasons. Then, if we want to make them afraid we know more than we’re letting on, we let some of the less scrupulous castle staff ‘overhear’ that we suspect he was a member of a cabal, the Blank Slates reborn for instance, and see what happens when they leak it to the press.”

It was amusing to watch her sister’s eyes widen in shock. “You… you deliberately keep such disloyal wretches around the palace?!”

“Of course,” answered Celestia mildly. “If you plug the leaks, somepony will just drill new holes, and this time you won’t know who the leaks are. If, however, you control the leaks, you can isolate them from any secrets of genuine import whilst using them to feed the enemy false information.”

Luna blinked, then shook her head in amazement. “And ponies say I’m the conniving one.”

Celestia chortled. “You are the conniving one, dear sister. You just haven’t had a thousand years of governing a constantly evolving state to teach you how to apply it to the modern systems. Don’t fret – once you learn the ropes, I have no doubt your devious machinations will be the stuff of legends.”

Argent emitted a dry laugh. “Now there’s a little bit of royal repartee it wouldn’t do for the newsies to get wind of. They think you’re manipulative enough as it is.”

Well, even that has its advantages, mused Celestia. Though perhaps that point would be superfluous at the moment. “I think that about settles it,” she said aloud. “Unless anypony has other suggestions or wants more tea, that is.”

Query cleared his throat. “One last thing, Your Highness,” he said slowly.

Celestia raised an eyebrow. The stallion did not sound particularly happy to be raising his point. “Yes?” she asked.

The colonel chewed his lip for a moment in an uncharacteristic display of hesitation, then said bluntly, “I don’t think we should tell Hal that we suspect a connection between Glow and the Shades.”

That remark raised eyebrows. Colonel Steel Halberd, ‘Hal’ to his friends, had been given command of the Equestrian First Infantry, and its ceremonial title of Captain of the Royal Guard, upon Shining Armor’s retirement from the same position. Hal was well-suited to the command of the Solar and Lunar Guards – he was a tough, no-nonsense campaigner, the veteran of many years on the borders, and totally loyal to the princesses.

Or so I’ve thought. But, if Query is suggesting this, does that mean he suspects… but Hal wouldn’t… “Perhaps you should explain your reasoning, Colonel,” she said aloud, “as Steel Halberd has faithfully discharged his duties since long before this business with the Shades began.”

Query winced at the iron in her tone. “To be clear, Princess, I don’t think Hal’s dirty. I would never have let him pass muster when this started if I had any doubts about his character.” Halberd had not been given the full details about the Shades, but he’d been told a cabal of dark magic users might have infiltrated the Royal Guard. He cooperated without question, though it was plain he didn’t think any of his mares and stallions were involved. “My concern has nothing to do with the Shades per se,” continued Query. “It’s his wife. Or, more specifically, her political views.”

Celestia frowned. “I’ve never excluded a pony from my service because of his politics, Ernie, much less excluded him because of his wife’s.”

“Except that in this case his wife’s an outspoken member of the Equestria First Party,” replied Query gamely. “Halberd’s about as political as a brick, but his wife raises nine levels of Tartarus when she sets her mind to it, and her half-brother was a Blank Slate back in the day.”

Argent cut in. “I thought we believed that the Blank Slates are just a red-herring.”

“They probably are,” agreed Query, “but I’m not ruling anything out at this point, and we know that some of the Slates who slipped the net went ‘legit’ agitating for the EFP. Now, maybe I’m jumping at ghosts here. In fact, I probably am. But stallions say things to their wives without thinking about it, and even professionals make mistakes.” The colonel’s apologetic gaze turned to Celestia and Luna. “Hal’s solid, Your Highnesses, but I’ve known the guy a long time. He’s got a blind spot where his missus is concerned. That’s part of why I advised against giving him the full picture in the first place. This business with Golden only confirms my caution. I hate keeping him in the dark but, frankly, he doesn’t need to know about the possible Golden connection to plan palace security, and I’ll sleep a heck of a lot better if his wife is nowhere near this.”

Celestia frowned. “He’ll know we’re not telling him everything.”

“Respectfully, Your Highness, we’re not telling him everything now. Hal’s a professional. He’ll suck it up.”

The princess looked to Argent, who shrugged. “A soldier’s lot is to take orders without knowing the full picture, Princess,” replied the captain.

Looking to Luna, Celestia was greeted with a nod of agreement. “You know I err on the side of secrecy, Tia.”

“But secrecy from our Captain of the Royal Guard?” protested Celestia.

Luna held her gaze. “Why not? We’ve kept secrets from each other, haven’t we?” She smiled dryly. “Sometimes it was even the right decision.”

Celestia winced. The remark touched deeper than Luna knew. Even now, I keep secrets from you, dear sister. Time will tell whether I am right or not. With an unhappy sigh, Celestia turned to Query and dipped her head in approval. “Very well, Colonel. We will do as you suggest. Thank you for your diligence.”

“You’re welcome, Your Highness,” he said, sounding relieved. “Thank you for listening.”

“Well, it is what we pay you for,” remarked Celestia dryly. “Now is there any other business?” Nopony had anything. “Then I propose we table this for now. Ernie can return to the grind while Argent and I finish this tea and Luna flies off to a dinner engagement.”

“Ah, the cruelty of you nobles,” joked Query as he rose to depart. “Sipping tea and having dinner parties while commoners like us do all the work.”

“Again, that’s what we pay you for.”

“Touché,” he chuckled. Bowing to the sovereigns and nodding to Argent, he departed.

Celestia glanced up at the wall clock as she refilled hers and Argent’s cups and noticed that it was just after four in the afternoon. “It appears you’ll be late for your engagement, Luna,” she observed, “though only a bit. Hopefully Mason won’t be too hard on you.”

Luna snorted. “Oh, he’d give a speech about the ‘disdain of princesses for the cares of commoners’ if I was late by even ten seconds. You know how he is.”

Argent grimaced, but said nothing. Celestia thought back on to the stallion’s long and storied history of irreverence and wondered what he’d done to offend Argent. “Well,” she addressed Luna, “do give him our best.”

“I’ll be sure to,” said Luna as she charged her horn. “I have to nip down to the cellars for a bottle of ’76, and then I’m off. Tata, ladies.” There was a loud vwoom of magic, a flash of teleportation, and she was gone.

Argent and Celestia sat quietly sipping their tea for a moment. Then the princess prompted, “I take it you’re not fond of Mason Grey?”

The captain took a long sip before answering. “He’s not my favorite pony, no.”

“May I ask why?”

Argent pursed her lips. “There are many forms of irreverence,” she said eventually. “Some, like the irreverence of my War Dogs, is largely the inoffensive sort. Mason, I find… crude.”

Celestia hummed thoughtfully, not sure how to dispute the accusation. “I suppose that’s fair.” She sipped her tea and considered asking Argent if that was the only reason she disliked Mason, but ultimately decided it was none of her business. “I’ll be sending a letter to Twilight shortly,” she said instead. “Would you like me to attach one for Morning Song as well?”

The captain tilted her head back and forth as she considered the question, then answered, “No, but I would ask that Twilight share the report with her, along with a few other items I’d like to list at the bottom…”

Princess and captain fell to composing the letter. With the matter fresh in their minds, it did not take long. As they finished, Argent ticked off each item out loud. “… suspicions about the assassin, a strongly worded instruction not to bring the other Bearers to Canterlot without specific request, some of Query’s speculations… anything else to add?”

“Not unless something falls on our laps in the next few seconds—”

The blinding flash and resounding boom of desperate teleportation lit the room and rattled the china. Luna stood before them, blood streaming from a wound on her face as she clutched in her forelimbs the battered form of Mason Grey.

“DOCTORS!” she cried. “SUMMON THE DOCTORS!”

Author's Note

“I HATE THIS CHAPTER!”

The stentorian roar came from inside Antiquarian’s office. Aura de Patience, exhibiting forbearance which confirmed the aptness of her name, rose from her desk, politely excused herself from the conversation she’d been having, and lit up her horn, collecting a stack of papers that needed her employer’s attention anyway. This done, she let herself into his office. “Problem, boss?” she said calmly.

Antiquarian, who seemed much more harried than usual (which, among other things, equated to doubly bloodshot eyes, twice as much stubble, wildly untrimmed mustache and mane, and the demeanor of a stallion verging on starting a barfight just for laughs), looked up at his secretary as though she’d grown a second head. “I hate this chapter,” he repeated more evenly, perhaps wondering how she hadn’t heard him the first time.

“Yes, I caught that little whisper,” Aura replied. “Would you perhaps care to explain why?”

The writer opened his mouth to shoot back a fierce reply, but the calm peace with which she greeted his expression cooled his temper. He sat back in his chair, a dour expression on his features as he obliged. “Well, to start, the double-cliffhanger. I left the last chapter on a cliffhanger, which generally demands resolution. But then, instead of giving one, I actually left off at very nearly the same place with Mason… only worse.”

“I see,” said Aura. “And how did that happen?”

“It wasn’t intentional,” groused Antiquarian. “I wanted to make sure that Jacques and Co. made it to the palace before wrapping up the cliffhanger. Then, I decided that there were some other plot elements that either needed to be introduced or elaborated on because they’ll be relevant in the future.” He grimaced. “Then, thirteen thousand words later, I realize that the chapter is massive as it is, and I have no choice but to end on a cliffhanger again.”

“And you hate doing that?”

“YES!” shouted Antiquarian, half-rising out of his chair. “It’s so frustrating as a reader and it throws off the pacing of the story!”

Aura nodded. “So, why not just rewrite it?”

Antiquarian slumped back. “I can’t. By the time I realized my mistake, the chapter was already mostly finished, and I have neither the time nor the energy to rewrite it.” He ran a hoof over his mane. “Worse, I think a lot of people will think this chapter is just filler, which makes the lack of resolution on the cliffhanger only more frustrating.”

“Is it filler?” she asked.

“Well,” he dipped his head side to side, “yes and no. Strictly speaking, there are a lot of things in this chapter that don’t need to happen – I didn’t need to go as in-depth with the security and news, for example, or have that section with Rarity and Oaken…”

Aura smirked. “Or reference Secondhand Lions?”

Antiquarian gave a slight smile. “Caught that, did you? Yes, I had fun writing that. I love that movie, even though a lot of people misunderstand the ending these days. The diner fight scene with Uncle Hub and the stiffs and his ‘what every young boy needs to know about being a man’ speech (beware spoilers; skip to 3:30 for just the speech) are cinematic gold. Though,” he added gloomily, “the fight actually added some unexpected complications of its own.”

“Let’s take it one thing at a time,” she advised. “Why did you go in depth about the security, news, and so on?”

“Two reasons. First, I think it’s important to show the heroes being competent and thinking things through – if their thought processes are on display, people tend to be more forgiving of mistakes since they can see that the heroes are intelligent, but not omniscient. Then, if the villains gain the upper hand, it’s not because the heroes are incompetent, it’s because the villains are good at what they do. This also makes the villains more menacing.”

Continuing, he said, “The second reason is that I think a lot of people assume the modern contentiousness in news, politics, and so on is something new. It isn’t. Jump back to the 1850s, the 1810s, or any number of decades and you’ll see people getting shot over columns in newspapers. There’s an ebb and flow to these things, and I think it’s healthy to have that perspective – it helps people freak out less about current problems when they realize that there really is nothing new under the sun. Past generations have weathered these storms, and we will too.”

Breaking the Fourth Wall, he addressed you, the reader, and said, “Incidentally, I continue to be grateful that you’ve all kept modern politics and social issues out the comments section. Truly, it brings joy to my heart that you respect me and each other enough to do so.”

Returning to the semi-Fourth Wall breaking conversation with Aura, the mare herself said, “And what about the Rarity/Oaken scene?”

Antiquarian shrugged. “Again, I thought it was necessary to flesh out Oaken and to deal a little more with Rarity’s coping mechanisms. It’s also a moment of light-heartedness and levity – I never want the story to stray too far from that.” After a moment’s thought, he added, “I stand by that scene, actually. It’s needed for both characters, though I don’t know if people will agree. I had a similar intent with Jacques and the nobles, with the added desire to flesh out Argent and her frustrations with the modern nobility (which will be relevant later) and to show Jacques confronting one of the three main ideologies of the Opposition.”

“Don’t you mean mane ideologies?” quipped Aura. Antiquarian raised an eyebrow. She blushed. “I’m sorry. Please continue.”

“The main problem with that scene, besides the length and cliffhanger conflict, is that I’m afraid it will say things that I don’t want it to,” explained Antiquarian. “You and I both grew up in sub-cultures that have a history of considering and understanding the moral implications of brawling with all its spoken and unspoken rules. Unfortunately, some of the readers almost certainly didn’t, and I would be horrified if someone went out and made a bad decision because they read my story.”

Aura shrugged. “So why don’t you just put a brief explanation in the author’s note? That’s what you’ve done before. And, ultimately, what people do is up to them. You’re not encouraging violence or illegal behavior, and you sank several paragraphs into Jacques explaining the morality. Between that and the author’s note you’re covered. Honestly, I think you’re overthinking this.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he admitted with a sigh. “But that still leaves the issue of the cliffhanger and that this chapter might feel like filler.”

Aura raised an eyebrow. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you have been redlining the ole’ brainbox for two months with insufficient rest and emotional energy. Is that going to change in the next couple days?”

“Probably not,” he admitted.

“Then don’t you think the readers would prefer to have something? Especially when that something actually does advance the plot, a lot more than they might realize at the moment?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I just don’t want to get run down by the Angry Mob right now. My arthritis is playing up and I’m too tired to run anyway.”

Aura smiled reassuringly. “Oh, don’t worry. Like you said in the chapter, peaceful solutions are often possible even for people who seem unreasonable. You just get that author’s note written and take the rest of the day off. I’ll handle anything that comes up.”

Antiquarian smiled gratefully. “You’re a princess, Aura. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“Thanks, Antiq,” she said. The secretary passed off the papers she’d brought in, ducked out of his office, then dismissed the sound projection spell she’d had going – the one she’d used to project the entire conversation to the Angry Mob which had assembled at her desk.

Now facing the Mob, Aura raised an eyebrow and said, “Well, people-who-often-seem-unreasonable, what do you think of my peaceful solution to the conflict?”

The Angry Mob exchanged glances with each other, and an unspoken communication passed between the members. Tar and Feather, in front, spoke for the assembly. “Seems legit,” they said. With that, the Mob turned and began filing out of the building. “See you next chapter, Miss Aura.”

Aura settled back into her chair with a smile and hummed a cheerful tune as she got back to work.

***

I want to clarify a couple things about the duel, though a broader dissertation on the topic may well appear as a chapter in A 14th Century Podcast whenever I get around to it.

I do not condone illegal activity. Neither do the heroes of this story. Don’t go picking fights.

Friar Jacques and Uncle Hub both come from (and live in) times where there was a fairly broad cultural understanding of when it was appropriate to brawl over a dispute, to what extent it was appropriate to brawl over a dispute, and, most importantly, when it is not appropriate. In my opinion, the present age no longer has a broad understanding of this delicate balance. Many people don’t have the first clue how to handle violence – they apply violence where words would be better, and refuse to apply violence when it’s actually needed. While I think this is a shame, unravelling where we are, how we got here, and what direction we might take is too lengthy a conversation for the author’s notes. Again, this will be a Podcast chapter. Maybe even several.

Obviously, even in the Friar’s time and Hub’s time, there were people who took fights too far and did nasty things – in Jacques’ Europe, duels were often senselessly fought to the death; in Hub’s case, the guys he was fighting were trying to beat up an old man. What makes Jacques’ and Hub’s decision to fight ethical is twofold: first, their ultimate intent to bring about justice and mercy (both by dealing with the present problem and by helping their defeated opponents to become better people afterwards) and, second, the fact that both men actually had the wherewithal and experience to both win the fight and (far more importantly) help the young men improve their characters afterwards. They’re professionals; don’t try this at home.

Violence for its own sake, even to address a legitimate offense, cannot be justified unless it achieves (or at least may probably achieve) a genuine good. In fact, violence may still be unjustifiable even if it does achieve a genuine good if the motives and methodology behind the violence are amoral. Deciding where that line falls is often difficult, which is why I advise people to err heavily on the side of peaceful solutions, especially if they haven’t actually put in the time and consideration that such judgment calls require. One of the opening Podcast topics will be on the ethics of war and killing, which will take a look at this topic in that context and allow future entries to build from there.

***

This chapter’s shoutout goes to Thatby James Pwyll. Because it amused me.

Also, if you watch the diner fight carefully, you can see Robert Duvall (Hub) actually punches Travis Willingham in the face, which is a fun story in itself.

Jump to top

Enter Stage Left

Twilight’s Laboratory, Golden Oaks Library, Ponyville

“Okay, let’s review the spell theory once more,” growled Twilight, brushing back a few strands of frazzled hair as she read back through the section on the shadowmancy technique she’d been struggling with for the past several hours.

“‘The Shadowstep differs substantially from a conventional Teleport in that it is at once far more limited and far more versatile,’” stated the text Princess Luna had given her. “‘On one hoof, the Shadowstep has a limited maximum range. Whereas a sufficiently powerful mage can – theoretically – Teleport across a continent or more, a Shadowstep can only transport a mage within the range of what could theoretically be seen, assuming healthy eyesight and the lack of obstacles to one’s line-of-sight. Further, a Teleport can transport the caster to any unoccupied space, while a Shadowstep can only transport the caster from one shadow to another. Further yet, a caster can be forced out of a Shadowstep – possibly with injury – if the shadows to which they are traveling are dispelled.’”

Twilight snorted to herself and muttered, “I love how it says ‘possibly with injury,’ as though being forcefully ejected from a semi-incorporeal state wouldn’t hurt.”

She continued to read, “‘For all its drawbacks, however, the Shadowstep is unquestionably superior to the Teleport in terms of efficiency of energy. A properly-executed Shadowstep requires substantially less magic than even a short-range Teleport. Further, it tends to be far subtler, as a Teleport is commonly accompanied by a flash of light and a loud burst as the air occupying the space to which the object or creature is teleporting is forcefully expelled to create room for the matter now occupying the space. Since a Shadowstep merely renders the subject incorporeal, however, the transport of matter is smoother and less abrupt, resulting in quieter and less obvious movement, though at the cost of being less-than-instantaneous and leaving the subject more vulnerable to interference.’”

“‘Unlike a Teleport, which is principally Spacial Magic requiring the folding of space around the subject to ‘warp’ the subject from one point to another, the Shadowstep incorporates both Shadow and Trasmogrification Magic to both temporarily alter the subject and transfer the subject to the destination.’”

“‘Novice Shadowmancers may prefer to consider the Shadowstep in stages – enter the state of incorporeality, ‘warp’ from one shadow to another, reconstitute self at destination. It is important not to think of it like a Teleport, which is, fundamentally, a single action, albeit an immensely complex and multifaceted one requiring both a firm understanding of the theory and the raw power to effect its function.’”

The explanation of the spell theory continued on for several pages, followed by formulas and permutations – along with numerous safety warnings. Twilight read back through it all. Not because she’d forgotten the words, of course; Twilight’s memory was exceptional, particularly with regards to magic and the written word.

No, she read back through the entire section for a twelfth time because she couldn’t seem to make it work. Her hope was that perhaps she’d missed some critical component, or else failed to grasp some element of the spell theory properly and as such failed to effectuate the shadowstep.

Maybe this time will be different, she thought, trying – with only marginal success – to reassure herself. Twilight turned her attention to a patch of shadow in the far corner of her laboratory. She was, currently, standing in a partially shadowed part of the lab. It didn’t take much shadow to be able to shadowstep, at least in theory, but she’d left herself plenty of large shadows in the lab just to make it easier.

The unicorn mage focused on her magic, visualized what she intended to do, charged the spell, and cast…

… and cast…

… and cast…

… and stayed exactly where she was.

“GRAHH!” she snarled, striking the ground with her hoof in frustration. “Why won’t this work?!”

“Why won’t what work?” asked a voice behind her.

Yelping, Twilight jumped, spun in midair, and charged her horn for an instinctive shield spell – a spell she dispelled the moment she realized the speaker was a bemused-looking Spike.

“Eesh, Twi, jumpy much?” chuckled the young dragon.

Flushing, Twilight sat down and rubbed a hoof across her brow. “Sorry, Spike. I guess I didn’t hear you come in.” She gestured to the book Luna had given her. “It’s this… this… this shadowmancy! It’s impossible!”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Come on, Twi. You’re the smartest unicorn in all of Equestria. You’ll crack this.” Twilight muttered something unintelligible, earning a raised eyebrow from Spike. “Hey, you’ve already managed to cast some shadowmancy from Luna’s book.”

Twilight snorted, rose to her hooves, and began pacing angrily back and forth. “Yes, throwing my voice and creating a few minor illusions,” she snapped, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m sure those little party tricks are really impressive! Why, if I start a ventriloquism act, I’ll bet I can trick the Shades into surrendering!”

“Twi—”

“It’s not enough, Spike!” she shouted, rounding on him. “I need to be ready for what’s coming!”

Spike recoiled from her ire. The sight cooled her anger, and she sighed guiltily. “I’m sorry, Spike. I shouldn’t take my frustration out on you.”

The dragon recovered quickly, shrugging and smiling reassuringly. “Hey, water under the bridge, right? Don’t even worry about it.”

“But—”

“Apology accepted, Twilight,” said Spike, his tone making it clear he considered the matter closed. “Let’s focus on getting past this mental block, eh?” He hopped up on a nearby stool and struck a thinking pose. “Do you think you understand the mechanics of it?”

“Well, clearly I don’t, or else I’d be standing over there right now.”

“Or, maybe you do understand, but something else is the problem,” he countered. “Didn’t you tell me Redheart was having trouble learning healing magic because it’s so intuitive? What if book learning isn’t the problem?” Spike smirked. “Let’s be honest, when has book learning ever been your problem?”

Twilight found herself laughing ruefully. “Fair point. And… yeah, I guess Luna’s book does warn that shadowmancy does rely pretty heavily on intuition and instinct.”

“There, see?” said Spike triumphantly. “You just needed the help of your Number One Assistant.”

Twilight giggled. “And I’m very grateful, Number One, but knowing the problem doesn’t necessarily help me solve it.”

“So you just need to act on instinct, right?” he asked. Twilight nodded. “Then here’s what we’ll do.” He hopped down from his stool and pointed a claw at himself. “I am going upstairs. In exactly seven minutes, I am going to eat an entire tub of ice cream. You are not allowed to stop me unless you shadowstep.”

“What?” exclaimed Twilight, aghast. “That’s not what we’re doing! You can’t just decide—”

“Ah, ah!” chided Spike. “I challenge you, as a top-knotch unicorn mage, to use shadowstep and only shadowstep to stop me, on your honor as a mage. Between the challenge to your professional prowess and your strong maternal streak, your instincts should kick in and let you shadowstep.”

“That’s not how this works!”

“Clock is ticking, Twilight,” called Spike as he turned and walked upstairs.

“Oh, what, so you think challenging my pride as a mage is gong to get to me, huh? Is that what you think?” she called after him as he reached the top of the stairs. “You think my compulsive need to prove my capabilities as a magic-user is going to subconsciously compel me to abide by the rules of your challenge?” Spike didn’t look back once as he shut the door behind himself. “Well it’s not!” shouted Twilight after him. “It’s no going to work!” she insisted as she stayed put in the basement. “I can just come up there and stop you! Nothing’s holding me back!”

Silence answered her.

“This is ridiculous,” the unicorn muttered to herself. “I’m just going to go up there and make him not eat the ice cream. I’ll just march right up those stairs and do it!”

Twilight nodded, satisfied with her decision.

At least until she realized she wasn’t moving.

“In fact, I don’t even need to go upstairs. I can just teleport the ice cream out of the icebox so there’ll be nothing for him to eat.”

She prepared her magic to do just that. Strangely, after preparing herself, nothing happened.

“It wouldn’t be cheating,” she reminded herself. “I never agreed to the contest. It wouldn’t be cheating. It wouldn’t.”

“But... since I’m down here anyway... I might as well try to do it by shadowstepping. Since I’m down here.” Shouting up the stairwell, she declared, “You hear that, Spike? I’m not doing this because I have to! I’m doing this because I want to!”

Spike sat by the icebox reading a comic book, listening to the clock count down. “You keep telling yourself that, Twilight,” he said with a smirk.

His smile broadened as the minutes slipped away, and he knew that, no matter the outcome, he won.

Meanwhile, Fluttershy’s day was not going much better than Twilight’s. It wasn’t that anything in particular had gone wrong – market prices had been good, ponies had been friendly, and she’d gotten most of her errands done in short order.

No, the reason Fluttershy’s day had been less-than-pleasant was that she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

Fluttershy didn’t get senses like Pinkie did (for that matter, she didn’t know anypony who had senses like Pinkie, but that was neither here nor there). In fact, Fluttershy seldom had ‘gut feelings’ that moved her one way or another. She had her fears and anxieties, to be sure, but for the most part these could be put down to a general nervousness and timidity.

With that said, on the occasions when her gut feelings did choose to make themselves known, it was typically for good reason. She was adept at reading the signals nature gave her in the behavior of the animals, the currents of the air, and – albeit with less reliability – the subtle tells of ponies.

Fluttershy had also come to suspect – perhaps through Friar Jacques’ influence – that perhaps the Source had seen fit to give her certain insights into the world around her, the better to read the terrain and be prepared for crises when they arose. Real crises, that is, she thought. Not simply my own overdeveloped anxieties.

Today, as it happened, there was something in the wind. Today, Fluttershy’s instincts told her that trouble loomed like a distant storm cloud. Today, Fluttershy had the profound sense that something was going to go wrong, and it wasn’t just Pinkie’s ominous prediction at the train station that had led to this conclusion. No, Fluttershy was listening to her instincts, and her instincts issued a stern warning to watch her back.

So, even when Fluttershy completed her errands, she lingered in town, feeling that was where she needed to be. If asked, she could not have explained why, but she remained all the same.

Still, it felt awkward to loiter, and even the thought of other ponies staring at her wondering why she was lingering was enough to send a chill down her spine. Rather than endure their gaze, she opted to make her way to Sugar Cube Corner instead.

“Hiya, Fluttershy!” Pinkie greeted her with typical ebullience.

“Hello, Pinkie Pie,” replied the pegasus in a much more muted tone. “I hope I’m not interrupting, I just stopped by to—”

“Whoop! Gang way!” cried a filly’s voice. Fluttershy eeped in surprise as Scootaloo ducked around her, a tray of muffins balanced – after a fashion – on her head. As the filly scurried along, the tray tipped alarmingly, nearly spilling the golden-brown confections. Scootaloo compensated by overcorrecting, almost launching the muffins off the other side, which led to her reverse-overcorrecting, beginning – or perhaps continuing – a precarious path across the room to deliver muffins to a cross-eyed mailmare known, affectionately, as Ditzy Doo.

Fluttershy didn’t have time to ponder why Scootaloo might be serving muffins to grey mare, because at that moment she had to avoid another collision, this time from Sweetie Belle, who managed an, “Excuse me, Fluttershy!” as she scurried by in the other direction with a plate of apple fritters for the display window.

Clattering up to intercept Sweetie Belle came Applebloom, who was desperately (and futilely) attempting to explain to Sweetie Belle that the apple fritters weren’t quite ready yet and that they needed a little more time. Applebloom actually managed to avoid Fluttershy more or less without issue, even saying “Pardon me, Miss Fluttershy,” though the fact that she passed the pegasus mare without near collision was perhaps more due to the wide intercept-course she’d charted to catch Sweetie Belle than it was due to any attempt to avoid running into the yellow mare.

Intent on extricating herself from the helter-skelter movements of the fillies, Fluttershy took to the air and flapped over to Pinkie Pie. “Things seem, um, quite… lively in here,” she observed, making sure to not phrase it in a way that might be interpreted as critical.

“Yupperooni!” agreed Pinkie as she frosted a stack of cupcakes with her tail while simultaneously applying sprinkles to a cake with her forehooves. “The CMCs have been helping out around the shop today!”

There was a clatter and a crash from Ditzy’s table, though the simultaneous “Oops! My bad” from the grey mare and “Oh gosh, Ditzy, I’m so sorry!” from Scootaloo made it difficult to tell who was at fault.

Pinkie Pie didn’t bat an eye, but only glanced over with her ‘As-Long-As-The-Baked-Goods-Survived-It’s-Okay’ look. Seeming satisfied that the muffins had escaped destruction, she carried on with her multitasking without interruption. “It’s been nice to have some extra hooves helping out,” she remarked, seeming unfazed by the argument between Applebloom and Sweetie Belle over the contents of the display window.

Fluttershy tilted her head in confusion. “Really? I thought… I mean… it might not be any of my business, but I thought they were grounded from crusading.”

“We are!” chorused the three fillies, who’d broken from their tasks long enough to make the declaration before resuming their frantic activity.

“Oh, so… this isn’t crusading?” asked Fluttershy.

“Nopers!” replied Pinkie, who had moved from working on cakes and cupcakes to putting the finishing touches on cookies and strudels. “They already found out they’re not going to get their marks in baking or waitressing, or busing tables, or washing dishes, or making candy, or eating candy, or getting sick from eating too much candy…” the pink mare proceeded to rattle off a list of (failed) cutie mark quests to have taken place, some of which implied such significant levels of disaster that Fluttershy wondered why the trio were even allowed in the shop.

“I guess that makes sense,” said Fluttershy, “but, if you don’t mind my asking, if they aren’t crusading, why are they here?”

“To keep us outta trouble,” groused Scootaloo as she past them into the kitchen with the pitiful remains of a table setting.

“And ta work off our sentences,” added Applebloom as she likewise hastened into the kitchen with the apple fritters, with Sweetie Belle running after her, still arguing that they were plenty ready to show off.

Pinkie clarified, “It was my idea! I saw the CMCs had big frowny faces from being grounded so long, and I thought to myself, ‘Hey! Why don’t we let them do a work release program? Like when ponies who did bad things and got caught and got sent up the river and locked in the pokey,” she mimed being locked in a jail cell, “but then they want to get back into the community, so they prove they can be trusted to work outside the penitentiaries and so they get jobs to help reacclimate to community and gain a better sense of respect for themselves by proving – to themselves and the to other ponies – that they can be reliable! That way they can work off their prison sentences and be productive and have something to keep them out of trouble in the meantime and it helps lower the rate of repeat incarceration!’ Great plan, right?”

Fluttershy stared at the pink mare, blinking repeatedly in incomprehension.

“What?” asked Pinkie Pie. “I do standup comedy on the penitentiary circuit.” She smirked triumphantly and polished one hoof against her chest. “So far, every warden on the circuit says I help lower the rate of repeat incarceration.”

“Mm,” said Fluttershy noncommittally, courteously opting not to ask why Pinkie’s comedy was successful in lowering the rate of repeat incarceration. The charitable explanation – which Fluttershy thought was probably the correct one – was that Pinkie mixed comedy with uplifting speeches to help ponies resolve to make better decisions with their lives.

On the other hoof, Fluttershy distinctly remembered when Pinkie sang for the buffalo and frontiersponies in Appaloosa in an attempt to unite them… and had only succeeded in uniting them against her song. Either way, she helps ponies make better life choices, and I guess that’s what really matters. “That’s very impressive, Pinkie Pie.”

“Thanks!” beamed Pinkie with a smile that lit up the room. “I’m confident it’ll work here too!” Even the sound of heated argument and another crash in the kitchen didn’t dampen her smile.

Okay, probably Pinkie uplifts ponies and that’s why they stay clean after discharge. Appaloosa was an anomaly.

“So,” said Pinkie, changing subjects, “what brings you to Sugar Cube Corner today? Cupcakes? Cookies? Apple-Fritters?” She glanced around furtively, then whispered, “They’re not ready yet!”

“Told ya!” crowed Applebloom in the kitchen.

“Um, no, Pinkie, thank you,” replied Fluttershy. “I came by because… well… maybe I’m just being silly but… do you feel like there’s something… off today?”

Pinkie sat back and tapped her chin thoughtfully, her face scrunched up as though to help her better ponder the question. “Now that you mention it,” said the pink ponie, “my ears flapped up and down earlier, which means a bird is going to fly in here today.” As if on cue, her ears flapped like the wings of a robin flying full tilt. “Correction, one bird followed by a flock of birds.”

“A flock?”

“Or, maybe just a flight of birds. It wasn’t that heavy an ear flap.”

“Um… okay. If you say so,” said Fluttershy. “Do you… I mean… I know your Pinkie Sense isn’t always specific – not that I’m criticizing, I’m not, it’s just how it works – but do you know when this, um, bird or flight of birds will show up?”

“Hmm,” mused Pinkie. “I think right about… ten seconds from now.”

“Oh? Did you Pinkie Sense tell you that?”

Pinkie pointed out the door. “No, I can just see him flying like he’s imitating Rainbow Dash on opening day of Cider Season.”

Sure enough, a thrush zipped through the open door, flying so hard that he practically ran into Fluttershy. The mare had just enough time to turn, generate a cushion of air with her wings, and catch the bird before he impacted her head like an errant golf ball. “My goodness!” she exclaimed as she caught the thrush. “Thorvaldus, what on earth are you doing flying so fast! You could be hurt!”

The thrush, unmoved by his near-collision, tweeted out a rapid flurry of information, much too fast for even Fluttershy to track. “My goodness! Slow down, Thorvaldus, I know you’re feeling tense, but I can’t understand a chirp you’re tweeting.”

Thorvaldus slowed down and enunciated his tweets. What he said made Fluttershy’s blood run cold. He spoke of a Bad Blue Mare who had turned Ironhide and Morning Song into a living statue and a bird – respectively – before vanishing in a puff of smoke. “Are… are you certain?” she asked tremulously. The thrush chirped in the affirmative.

Fluttershy said heavily on her haunches, letting go of the thrush in her shock. Thorvaldus flapped awkwardly to the floor and rested there in front of her, worn out from the exertion.

“What’d he say?” asked Pinkie Pie. “Did we forget Celestia’s birthday? Did we forget Luna’s birthday?” She gasped in horror. “DID WE FORGET FRIAR JACQUES’ BIRTHDAY?! OH MY GOODNESS WE NEED TO— oh, hey, the flight of birds.”

Sure enough, a small flight of birds poured through the open doorway tweeting madly in a cacophony of warning that more or less equated to ‘Fear! Fire! Foe!’ along with the capture of Rainbow Dash and Marble Slab at her cottage and various iterations of ‘Bad Blue Mare.’

Fluttershy felt a change come over her, though she didn’t recognize it amidst other more pressing considerations. Had she noticed, she would perhaps have recognized it as the narrowing of focus and rapidity of calculation that comes when adrenalin and survival instinct make their presence known. An emotion came over her. It was not quite calmness – for anger and fear were present – but it was rather like calmness in that she felt no franticness or panic, only a clear-minded drive for swift and deliberate action.

Had Fluttershy noticed the change that came over her, she might have found it remarkable, shocking, or even frightening. As it was, she had no time for such niceties.

Such was the magnitude of the difference in her mental processes that, where Thorvaldus alone had tweeted too rapidly for her to follow at first, she was able to process all of the new birds’ warnings in spite of the fact they were chirping over each other.

Likewise, Fluttershy managed to tune out Pinkie’s questions and tangential commentary so as to focus on a plan of action. She’s coming for Twilight, so Twilight’s who I need to warn first. Twilight can teleport to warn Applejack, Big Mac, and Fritters. We also need to get ponies off the streets.

“Pinkie, call the girls in here,” she ordered. Not bothering to wait for an acknowledgment, she turned to the shop’s lone customer: the cross-eyed mailmare. “Ditzy? Would you please find Mr. and Mrs. Cake?” She glanced at Pinkie, saying, “They’re in the back, correct?”

“Yeah, but—” began Pinkie.

Fluttershy didn’t give her time to finish. She turned back to Ditzy and said, “Please tell them to get Pound and Pumpkin and take shelter in the basement. Then, would you please go sound the alarm bell.” Fluttershy reasoning that the basement would be the safest place for the Cakes, as most Ponyville residences had disaster shelters – ‘Tuesday Bunkers’ in parlance – for riding out whatever blew through town. If Ditzy were to then sound what many pithily labeled the ‘Bunker-Down Bell,’ it would warn all ponies to take shelter.

“Okay!” said Ditzy with her typical pleasantness, unfazed by the prospect of a disaster coming to town. She flew into the back, with only the fact that she managed to not run into anything – if only just – giving hint to how seriously she was taking the situation.

“Fluttershy, what’s going on?” demanded Pinkie as she ushered the three fillies into the room. “Why are we sounding the Bunker-Down Bell?”

“Is it pirates?” asked an excited Applebloom.

“Monsters?” queried Sweetie Belle.

“Monster pirates?” proposed Scootaloo.

Fluttershy was in the process of asking the birds to go warn the other animals to keep their heads down, pausing long enough to say, “Just a moment please, girls,” before giving her final instructions. Tired though they were, the loyal birds rose to the occasion and took off to fulfill their tasks.

This done, Fluttershy addressed Pinkie and the fillies. “Girls, I’m afraid Trixie’s back in town.”

Sweetie Bell giggled. “That loudmouth? We don’t need to ring the Bunker-Down Bell for her.”

“Yeah, more like ring the ‘Bunk’ Bell,” chortled Applebloom. The other Crusaders looked perplexed. Awkwardly, Applebloom explained, “You know, ’cos her stories are ‘bunk’?” Silence. “None o’ ya’ll heard that expression before?”

“Girls!” snapped Fluttershy, Stare flashing momentarily. “This is serious!” The fillies – and Pinkie – stood to attention as though she’d ordered it. “Now, Trixie seems to have gotten stronger than when she was last here. Much stronger. And it looks like she’s come here to fight.”

“Pfff!” snorted Scootaloo, shaking off the effects of the brief Stare. “Rainbow Dash will—”

“I’m afraid Rainbow Dash, Morning Song, Ironhide, and Marble Slab have all been captured,” said Fluttershy, her voice barely catching as she said it. Before the others could properly exclaim in horror or start to panic, she clarified, “They’ll be fine, but Trixie managed to catch all of them and… transmogrify them with her magic.”

“Whu- buh- HOW?! WHY?!” exclaimed Scootaloo, wings buzzing her off the ground in her consternation. “Loudmouth Trixie would never get the drop on Rainbow Dash!”

“Why would she even want to?!” demanded Sweetie Belle.

“Because she’s coming for Twilight?” volunteered Pinkie Pie. The others spun to face her in surprise. “What?” said Pinkie. “It’s a classic revenge arc. Petty character feels slighted, petty character gets power, petty character seeks revenge. Not exactly breaking new ground here.”

“That’s… a very probable theory,” admitted Fluttershy, “But right now…” she took a deep breath, “right now there’s something you three can do to help.”

The Crusaders stepped forward bravely.

“Yeah!”

“Let’s do this!”

“We’ll show Trixie who’s boss!”

The trio began throwing mock punches in the air and limbering up as though about to get into a boxing ring. Fluttershy was quick to disabuse any notion that they’d be part of the fighting. “I need you to warn Twilight that Trixie’s in town—”

Scootaloo pouted, “But—"

Fluttershy didn’t need to fully unleash the Stare to silence any protests. A quick burst of her gaze was enough. The three fillies wilted instantly, and even Pinkie Pie staggered back, struck by collateral damage.

Now that she had their attention, Fluttershy continued more evenly, “You will tell Twilight what I just told you, and tell her that Pinkie Pie and I will do what we can to stop Trixie, or at least slow her down. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss Fluttershy,” chorused the fillies obediently.

Fluttershy smiled gently. “Thank you, girls. Off you go now.”

The three fillies ducked out the back door, leaving Fluttershy alone with Pinkie Pie. The party mare was unusually subdued, and there was a narrowness to her eyes. “So…” said Pinkie as she pulled her axe out of her mane, “you think Trixie’s become a Shady character?”

Fluttershy thought about the grim implications of the question for a moment. The idea made her shudder, but she repressed the revulsion and tried to think objectively. After a moment’s pause, she said, “Well… um… I’m not sure, but, even if she did… weapons didn’t seem to do the others much good.” She tried not to think too hard about why. “Maybe we’d have better luck trying a more… peaceful approach?”

Pinkie shrugged and shoved the axe back into her mane. “Works for me. Let’s get our party on.”

At that moment, Ditzy tumbled out of the back room with the Cakes in tow. Ditzy waved farewell to them and exited the building, headed for the Bunker-Down-Bell as she hummed a song to herself.

For their part, Mr. and Mrs. Cake each had a baby, a sack of supplies, and moderately worried expression. “Girls, we’re headed for the Tuesday Bunker,” said Mr. Cake as he opened the trapdoor that led down to the shelter. “Will you be joining us?”

“Nopey lopey,” replied Pinkie Pie cheerily. “There’s a party pooper Fluttershy and I’ve gotta sort out.”

Pinkie had spoken in her customary chipper voice, and only a pony who knew her especially well would have detected the edge in her tone. Fluttershy knew Pinkie Pie well indeed and, judging by the worried look on Mr. and Mrs. Cake’s faces, they did too.

Still, the Cakes knew enough not to press the issue. With plain reluctance, they descended into the bunker without Pinkie Pie or Fluttershy. “You be careful, dearies,” Mrs. Cake chided them, trying not to sound worried.

“Yes, take care of yourselves, girls,” said Mr. Cake.

“Okay!” chirped Pinkie, drowning out Fluttershy’s quiet, “We will.”

Fluttershy and Pinkie Pie set out, following Ditzy’s trail on foot. The Bunker-Down-Bell was in the center of town, and thus seemed a good place to start to search for their foe. After all, no matter where Trixie approached from, if they started in the middle they wouldn’t be too far from trouble. Fluttershy trotted at a steady pace, brow furrowed as she pondered how best to handle the situation. Pinkie Pie forwent her typical springing locomotion and bubbly speech, instead trotting along in matching silence – a clear indication of her sober mood for those who knew her.

“Soooooo…” began Pinkie in a voice that reminded Fluttershy of the pink mare’s interrogation voice from the MMMMystery Incident. “What’s the plan?”

“I… I’m not sure,” replied Fluttershy honestly. “H-how long do you think we have until Trixie comes to town?”

Up ahead, in the town square still hidden from their view, there was a great flash of light, an audible *thunk* followed by a plaintive “ow!” from Ditzy and a maniacal “BWA-HA-HA-HA!” in the familiar voice of a certain blue showmare.

As dark stormclouds gathered overhead, Pinkie answered Fluttershy’s question, “I’d say we have about… zero seconds until Trixie comes to town.”

Pinkie was accustomed to smiling in the face of danger. In part, it was a genuine smile – life was full of hazards, so why not focus on the positive and enjoy the adventure and the challenge. Pinkie’d had lots of fun on their adventures over the years, and saw no reason not to have a good time. One ought to enjoy one’s work, after all.

Besides. Laughter is my schtick. Why break character and ruin the story?

Sometimes, though, the smile was a mask, at least in part. Sometimes, Pinkie didn’t feel much like her usual, cheerful self. No one could – or should – be chipper all the time. But Pinkie often still pretended she was, if for no other reason than it was what ponies expected of her, and she observed it had an odd way of reassuring her friends. Life might be grim, but Pinkie would always be Pinkie.

This was certainly one of those times. Inside, Pinkie felt like she’d just walked into a village of ponies with fake smiles run by a cult leader who thought the solution to the inevitable inequalities of society was to reduce everyone to an equally low level – except the leaders of course, as they were naturally more equal than the rest.

But Pinkie kept a smile on her face, tight-lipped and grimace-y thought it was, because Fluttershy was actually doing really well in the Facing-Danger-With-Courage Department, and Pinkie didn’t want to throw her off by acting like a Debbie Downer, a Scaredy Sally, or an Angry Annabeth.

And I reeeeeeeally want to act like an Angry Annabeth, thought Pinkie.

“Got a plan yet?” she said out loud.

Fluttershy swallowed audibly. “Um… run away and hide in my cottage?” mumbled the pegasus.

Pinkie threw a comforting foreleg over Fluttershy’s withers and pulled her in for a hug. “Good backup plan. What’s Plan A?”

Dimly, they heard the sound of another *thunk* and a louder “Ow!” from Ditzy. Pinkie’s jaw tightened, and her smile took on the feel of bared fangs behind closed lips.

At hearing Ditzy’s dismay, Fluttershy swallowed. “Plan A is… we try to talk Trixie down and buy time for Twilight to show up.”

“Okie-dokie-lokie!” said Pinkie with forced lightness as she choked down anger. “And if that doesn’t work?”

“Then…” Fluttershy took a deep breath, “… we delay her more directly.”

Pinkie patted her on the head. “Good plans. Let’s bounce!” She pranced forward with aggressive vigor, Fluttershy close behind.

As they approached the town square, the commotion up ahead increased. Ponies were retreating from the area rapidly, unsure what was happening but apparently deciding they didn’t want to stick around to find out. They weren’t engaged in the full-bore Ponyville panic – yet – but they were wisely scurrying for cover. Pinkie and Fluttershy didn’t slow their pace, even when passing ponies stopped to tell them about Trixie or ask what was going on. Instead, Pinkie just said, “Bunker-Down Party! Spread the word! Bunker-Down Party! Spread the word!” over and over with as much forced jollity as she could muster. She wasn’t sure why Ditzy hadn’t rung the bell yet – though she felt confident the reason started with a ‘T’ and ended with ‘rixie’ – but at least warning those they met on the way would start the Bunker-Down process.

By the time they reached the town square – creeping along the final stretch under the eaves of the shops and taking cover behind scenery when possible – they found it was empty of all ponies save two: Ditzy Doo, and the Crazed and Maniacal Trixie (as Pinkie was presently inclined to label her). It became readily apparent why Ditzy Doo had not yet rung the bell.

She couldn’t.

Trixie had, it seemed, encased the bell behind brick walls on all sides. Ditzy, in a magnificent display of both tenacity and durability, was attempting to break through the walls from any angle she could. In addition to leaving an impression on the bricks, she also appeared to have left an impression on Trixie, as the showmare had ceased cackling madly and was observing Ditzy with the sort of fascinated intensity that Twilight brought to her own study of the inexplicable and bizarre.

As Pinkie and Fluttershy snuck deeper into the town square – thus far unnoticed – Ditzy took a wide loop upwards, angled over, and plunged for the top of the brick barricade that separated her from the alarm bell.

*WHAM!*

“Oh my,” winced Fluttershy as the grey mare bounced off the bricks like an awkwardly thrown baseball, flipping almost lazily in the air on her rebound and landing in a heap beside the pile.

Undeterred, Ditzy picked herself up, blinked at how proper the alignment of her eyes was, and shook her head until they went back to normal – for Ditzy – before flapping unevenly into the air to try again.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” Trixie asked, her violet eyes narrowed in concentration.

“A little,” responded Ditzy politely. She began an upwards climbing turn to gain enough altitude for another dive. As she arced over for her attack run, she added, “But not too bad.”

*WHAM*

While Trixie was distracted with the impact-resistant properties of the local mailmare – who was gamely staggering to her hooves once more – Pinkie took the opportunity to pull a pair of binoculars out of her mane and observe Trixie more closely. From what Pinkie could tell, Trixie looked the same as she always did. Same hat, same cape, same smug smile, same necklace—

Wait? Necklace? thought Pinkie, focusing on the neck accessory – or ‘neckcessory,’ am I right? – which Trixie had added to her ensemble. Pinkie thought the addition of a neckcessory was a good look for Trixie, but guessed Rarity probably wouldn’t like the color scheme or design, at least not on Trixie. She’d probably find the angles too pointy, the alicorn motif to clash with the stars and moon cape and hat, the red gemstone to be—

—A BLOODRED EYE GLARED BACK AT HER THROUGH THE LENSES OF THE—

Pinkie muffled a scream of terror by dropping the binoculars and shoving her hooves in her mouth. Fortunately, the muted exclamation was drowned out by the sound of Ditzy ramming unsuccessfully into the brick wall once again, and Trixie didn’t notice.

Fluttershy did, however, and was immediately at Pinkie’s side, her voice even quieter than usual. “What did you see?” she whispered in a voice so soft that, if it had been written on paper or displayed on some sort of viewing screen for folks to read, it would have been too small for the readers to make out the words, and they would’ve either needed to infer the meaning from Pinkie’s response or else form an angry mob to punish the writer for his malfeasance.

“Neckcessory bad,” responded Pinkie, matching Fluttershy’s tone. Pinkie reached into her mane and started pulling out her cat burglar suit. Though why would ponies want to burgle cats? That wouldn’t be very nice!

Fluttershy blinked several times before parsing out the likely meaning of ‘neckcessory,’ at which point she asked, “What are we going to do?” in the same small-voiced whisper.

“Well,” replied Pinkie as she slipped into her sneaking suit, pulled out a rope and grappling hook, and started gauging a route across town. “I’m gonna go super-sneaky-spy on her and snatch the super-sinister-neckcessory right from under her nose!”

Fluttershy was aghast. “That’s a terrible plan!” she whispered, slightly louder than before, but still quite sotto voce. “You’ll be caught!”

“No I won’t, silly filly,” Pinkie quietly declared. She gave Fluttershy a reassuring pat on the head. “Because you’re going to distract her for me!”

“Wha—?!”

“Bye!”

With her distraction assured, Pinkie confidently grappled her way into the nearest rooftop, burrowed under the thatching, and started making her way across the rooftops through her erstwhile tunnels. She had complete faith in Fluttershy. So long as she didn’t take a left turn at Albuckerky in the course of her cartoonish tunneling, she’d be just fine.

As Pinkie Pie burrowed through the thatching of the rooftops – Fluttershy tried not to wonder how Pinkie moved from one rooftop to the next – the yellow pegasus considered her options.

She found the list of options to be regrettably short. Go up to Trixie and start a conversation in the hope she doesn’t zap me? Throw a rock and hope the noise distracts her? Sing an aria?

Fluttershy was not enamored of any of those options, and the last – singing in public – terrified her. Think! Think! What would Pinkie do?

In the course of her musings, she noticed that the stall she was taking cover behind sold imported clothing, including some Japonese garb. Her mind was transported back to a foreign exchange she’d undertaken two years ago with the Society for the Preservation of Animals. She’d spent several weeks in Japone, drinking in the culture and absorbing the language. Her guide – Hana – had complimented her on the speed with which she picked up the Japonese language, and the ear she had for the intricacies of the accent.

The memory brought to mind a plan. A bizarre, ridiculous, even absurd plan that bordered on surreal, which no sane mind could have conceived and would have seemed painfully contrived were it to appear in a narrative form.

In other words, just the sort of thing Pinkie might do.

Knowing that if she took the time to consider her plan rationally, she would never do it, Fluttershy snatched up a kimono that looked relatively her size and hastily did her mane up in the manner Hana had taught her. I must be out of my mind, she thought, before assuring herself that this proved she was thinking like Pinkie.

Her hasty disguise donned, she started towards Trixie – who was still watching Ditzy – all the while lamenting that she lacked Rainbow Dash’s uncanny knack for impressions. “‘Just distract her, Fluttershy,’” she muttered to herself under her breath, mimicking Pinkie’s chipper tone. Then she felt bad for being passive aggressive, and resolved to apologize to Pinkie later.

Trixie – perhaps sensing her approach – snapped her head around to glare imperiously at Fluttershy. I will apologize to Pinkie… if I live through this, Fluttershy amended mentally.

“Konnichiwa,” Fluttershy said in her best Japonese accent. “I am new to this town and appear to be lost. I’m looking for—”

Trixie’s eyes flashed red, lightning flickered upon her horn, and storm clouds began to gather overhead. “You dare interrupt the Grrrrreat and Powerful TRIXIE?!” demanded the showmare.

Fluttershy allowed her trembling to bear her groundwards in an instinctive bow. “Gomen'nasai! My humblest apologies, oh Great and Powerful Trixie. We have heard of your greatness and power in Japone, and I trusted that one so magnanimous as your great and powerful self would be able to assist me.”

Trixie raised an eyebrow. The snarl left her face, but her eyes remained red and the clouds continued to gather. “From whom did you hear of Trixie’s Greatness and Powerfulness?”

The pegasus swallowed hard. “I… uh… it was…” Mercifully, Thorvaldus’ description of Morning Song and Ironhide’s fight with Trixie came to mind. “I-It was a member of the B-Black Cav, your Great and Powerfulness,” managed Fluttershy, remembering that Trixie had briefly softened towards Morning Song upon realizing what unit she belonged to. “They were stationed in Japone some years ago. The officer’s name was… A-Argent Sabre.”

Trixie loomed over Fluttershy, and thunder rumbled overhead.

Then Trixie’s gaze softened, and her eyes dimmed to their usual purple. “Ah, yes, the unicorn captain. Trixie recognized she was a mare of culture. And she appears to have served Trixie well by spreading word of her Greatness and Power to the Japonese. Perhaps she may be of further service to the Great and Powerful Princess Trixie…” blue wings unfurled from beneath Trixie’s cloak. “After all, a princess needs her army…”

Fluttershy felt sick at the sight of her friend’s wings attached to the blue showmare. She bowed lower to hide her nausea. “That seems m-most r-reasonable, Your Great and Powerfulness.”

“Of course it does,” snorted Trixie. “The Great and Powerful Princess Trixie is always reasonable. And she demands a retinue who understands her might. Stand up, pegasus.” With trembling legs, Fluttershy stood. Trixie cast a critical – and red-glinted – eye over her, as one might examine a piece of furniture or a decoration. “Trixie rewards those who appreciate her.” Her eyes became purple again for a moment, and Fluttershy felt like Trixie saw her as a pony again. “And a worthy audience is never unappreciated.” Trixie glanced back at Ditzy, who was lining up for another run on the brick wall. “Talent, too, shall never unappreciated in Trixie’s new realm.”

*WHAM*

“Ow,” said Ditzy, having impacted off the brick wall yet again.

The storm clouds grew darker overhead, and lightning rippled through them.

“Yes…” said Trixie slowly, musingly, “The Great and Powerful Trixie is going to make that grey pegasus an assistant in her stage show. What do you think of that?”

“I… I think she would be a popular addition to any show, Your Greatness.” said Fluttershy.

*WHAM*

“Ow.”

“Indeed,” agreed Trixie, gesturing to the brick wall. “That is a magic wall that ten earth ponies would struggle to break, and yet she persists.” Her musing voice returned to its normal, irritable tone for a moment. “I bet she wouldn’t whine about blunt force trauma like Trixie’s last three assistants.”

Oh, this day just keeps getting worse.

“You, though,” said Trixie, returning her attention to Fluttershy. “You might make for a fine majordomo.”

“Arigato, Great and Powerful Princess Trixie,” said Fluttershy with a bow.

“Your first task shall be to—”

“BANZAI!” cried Pinkie Pie as she sprang from beneath the thatching of the nearest roof to dive on Trixie like a bird of prey. The pink mare bore Trixie to the ground in a flying tackle and reached to grasp the amulet around her neck. “I’ll just take this neckcessory off your—”

*KRRACKOW*

Red bolts like lightning rippled out from the amulet with a sound like thunder, snatching Pinkie up in their crackling embrace and firing her into the nearest storefront. The Pink mare punched clean through the wall and landed with a crash amongst the commodities within.

“Pinkie!” shouted Fluttershy in horror. She started to run for the shop, only to be grasped as by a mighty hand. She felt herself lifted up in the gleaming grip of Trixie’s magic and turned to face the showmare.

Trixie’s eyes were a deadly red glint.

“You know her?” asked Trixie, her voice deceptively quiet. “Not a tourist, then?”

Fluttershy gulped.

Ditzy, who’d been setting up for another run at the brick wall, changed course and dove at Trixie. “Let her go!” shouted the grey mare.

Trixie’s hoof gleamed red with power. She backhoofed Ditzy without bothering to look and sent her flying to land with a loud *CRASH*…

… followed immediately after by the thunderous tolling of the alarm bell.

The showmare snapped her gaze to the pile of rubble that had once encased the Bunker Down Bell, and saw Ditzy lying in a heap amidst the shattered bricks, the bell tolling loudly above her head. Trixie’s errant strike had launched Ditzy straight through the wall and into the bell.

Semi-conscious, the grey mare mustered enough energy to pump a triumphant hoof in the air. “Ah gOt i~It,” she managed, “Mshhun ’ccomplshed. Imma sleep n~ow,” before passing into unconsciousness.

Trixie regarded her own gleaming hoof for a moment. “Power… Trixie wields power like an alicorn…” greedy delight gleamed in her gaze. “Such power…” her glance fell on Ditzy, momentarily that of a showmare again. “Such durability…” An avaricious grin distorted her features. “She shall make a fine addition to Trixie’s collection.”

Fluttershy fought the urge to struggle in Trixie’s grasp, knowing it would do no good. “C-collection?” she asked. If I can keep her talking, maybe she won’t go after Pinkie.

“Yes… collection,” sneered Trixie. With a flash of light, Trixie revealed her ‘collection’ – all of Fluttershy’s friends who’d been captured so far, transformed or altered to suit Trixie’s whims. In addition to those the birds had warned of, there were two great apple trees – tinted like Applejack and Big Mac – producing skinless apples, and a spear that matched the colors of Fritters. Fluttershy could not restrain a gasp of horror. “Recognize them?” cackled Trixie. “The Great and Powerful Princess Trixie thought you might.”

A bird bearing a striking color-similarity to Morning Song chirped angrily as a wingless Rainbow Dash spat invectives. “Trixie you coward! Let Fluttershy go or I’ll—”

Magical duct tape silenced the wingless pegasus.

“Yes, yes, you’ll do unspeakable things to Trixie,” said the showmare, sounding bored. “Before she was so rudely interrupted, Trixie was going to say…” she glared red at Fluttershy, “… that she detected the stench of the Elements upon you.” She pulled the pegasus closer. “Now… which one are you?” The amulet pulsed. “Kindness is it? Well, let’s put that Kindness to the test, shall we?”

Reaching out with her magic, Trixie pulled Pinkie Pie out of the destroyed shop front. Fluttershy half-sobbed with relief to see the pink mare was still breathing, but her relief was dampened by the sight of Pinkie – bruised and unconscious – still suffering the after-effects of unspent magic. Red electric shock rippled on and off along her body, causing her to twitch and spasm.

“This interloper,” snarled Trixie, “had the gall to place her grubby hooves upon the Alicorn Amulet.” She turned her mocking gaze upon Fluttershy. “What shall the Great and Powerful Trixie do with her, oh Bearer of Kindness?”

At the sight of Pinkie – so helpless, so weak, dangling from Trixie’s grip – a fire woke deep in Fluttershy’s heart. The fire that had let her overtake Rainbow Dash on the wing during the Discord debacle. The fire that let her risk Nightmare Moon’s wrath to help Twilight. The fire that let her face down a cockatrice and bend to her demands.

Fluttershy fixed her eyes on Trixie’s… and Stared.

“You will let her go.”

Trixie blinked rapidly, her eyes shifting between red and purple. “What?!” hissed the showmare.

“You will let her go.” Fluttershy repeated. “You will not hurt her anymore.”

The showmare recoiled, an animal-like noise rising in her throat. Her blinking intensified, and she turned her gaze away from Fluttershy, flinching as though from a blow.

“You will let her—”

Trixie backhoofed her across the face. Fluttershy felt one of her teeth loosen and tasted warm blood in her mouth.

“Impudence!” spat Trixie. “You are like all the rest! Always mocking Trixie, always pushing her around, using her, belittling her! Trixie was never given her due! NEVER! But now Trixie has all the power! Now Trixie is the greatest mage to walk the face of Equestria! Not Twilight Sparkle, not Luna, not even Celestia! Trixie! The Greatest and most Powerful wizard there ever was! All shall love Trixie and despair!”

Fluttershy let a globule of blood dribble out of her lips. She heard Rainbow Dash thrashing furiously in her stockade, heard the chirping of Morning Song and even what sounded like the rustling of trees alarmed at her plight, but she tuned them all out. Source, grant me wisdom.

“That is why you will not hurt her anymore,” said Fluttershy.

The baleful red eyes fixed again on her, lavender flickering in their depths.

“You have so much power you can afford mercy,” Fluttershy declared. “You claim the title of princess? I tell you that a beloved princess shows compassion to those who have transgressed. By sparing her, you demonstrate an inner greatness.” Her Stare bored into Trixie, not to cow, but to shine a light through the darkness that gripped the showmare. “You are one who seeks to delight an audience, not destroy them. That is your nature. You love to entertain, to hear the cheers of the crowd. If you spare Pinkie Pie, I promise you she will cheer loudest of all when she recovers, and it will make you happy to see her happy.”

Trixie stepped back, her eyes fixed on Fluttershy’s as though unable to look away. The storm clouds swirled ever darker overhead and thunder echoed from all directions. Trixie’s horn lit with a terrible light, nearly blinding in its intensity. Fluttershy did not look away, but kept her eyes fixed on Trixie’s.

The unicorn let out a great howling cry. There was a flash of light that blotted out all else, a great ringing clash, and then a slow, echoing rumble that followed.

When Fluttershy could see again, she found herself in a large cage, along with a medical satchel and the unconscious forms of Pinkie and Ditzy. The magic that rippled through Pinkie had subsided, and she lay calm. Fluttershy saw Trixie looking down at them all, her face unreadable, her eyes their natural hue.

Dipping her head with genuine gratitude, Fluttershy said, “Thank you.”

Trixie sniffed haughtily. “It is what a Great and Magnanimous Princess like Trixie does.” Then, under her breath, with a furtive glance as though speaking to some hidden figure, she hissed, “It was Trixie’s idea! Yes it was! It is better this way! Better, yes, better.” She turned away, muttering to herself.

Fluttershy heard a muffled, indistinct voice behind her, and looked to see Rainbow Dash – still gagged with duct tape – desperately trying to communicate. The tape prevented proper verbal communication, but the grateful, relieved tears she shed said all that needed to be said.

“We’re okay,” whispered Fluttershy in response. “We’re okay.”

“TWILIGHT SPARKLE!” roared the red-glinted Trixie, her voice magically amplified to be heard throughout the town, even over the storm. “TRIXIE HAS BESTED YOUR LACKIES!”

Stinging, icy rain fell from the roiling black thunderclouds.

“TRIXIE HAS STRIPPED THEM OF THEIR POWER! TRIXIE HAS CLAIMED YOUR HOME! TRIXIE IS THE GREATEST AND MOST POWERFUL UNICORN WHO EVER LIVED!”

She paused for breath, as the downpour became a torrent, and her voice had become as much a shriek as a warcry.

“YOU CANNOT ESCAPE, SPARKLE! STOP HIDING AND FACE TRIXIE!”

Chains of lightning flashed across the sky, casting the town in a harsh, red glare.

Through the storm came an answering call, loud enough to be heard over the storm, yet conversational in tone.

“No need to shout, Trixie,” said Twilight.

Trixie whirled around as the bright *snap* of teleportation illuminated the grim scene. Twilight Sparkle, features hard set and implacable as iron, faced down the mad showmare.

“I am here.”

Author's Note

Please forgive typos, grammatical mistakes, the fact that the Looney Tunes reference probably didn’t make hardly any sense outside my own head, and any errors in Japanese. I just wanted to finally publish this freaking chapter. Enjoy the obligatory Antiquarian and Aura short below.

***

Aura had a key to her adoptive uncle’s house. She had inherited it from her father, who had kept it around for those occasions when Antiquarian dropped off the map on some project or another and everypony started worrying that he’d accidentally activated a dangerous artifact (acquired in the course of his work to find and eliminate such threats), or perhaps accidentally drunk the Yakyakistani tea which he kept around for his occasional yak guests (as a general rule, non-yaks should never, ever, ever drink yak tea).

On this occasion, however, there was no great disaster to explain his disappearance, so long as one did not consider the bloodshot eyes, incoherent mumbling, and devastated basement to be a ‘disaster’ (and, to be fair, the organized Aura most certainly would have considered it a disaster had it been any pony but Antiquarian).

The basement floor was littered with empty coffee cups, scattered plates bearing the crumbs of long-devoured bread, and butter knives still half-smeared with the cocoa-hazelnut spread Antiquarian had become seemingly addicted to in Bitaly. In the corner was a loose pile of empty five-gallon containers that, to the uninitiated, looked like cannisters of spackle, but that Aura knew to be economy-sized buckets of Antiquarian’s preferred brand of what he called ‘sweet, glorious cocoa-hazelnut perfection.’

Walls were plastered with newspaper clippings, scraps of notepaper, pictures, scrawled sketches, and the occasional physical clue, all connected with lines of various colors of yarn – Antiquarian considered using just red yarn to be insufficiently detailed – to form a vast web of interconnected data.

At the center of the mess sat Antiquarian, his eyes so bloodshot they looked almost 75% red in the dim light of the basement, his mane and tail so disheveled that Aura suspected Rarity was actively having a chill run down her spine, and gripped a coffee cup bearing the words ‘Don’t annoy authors; they’ll put you in their books as low-grade minions,’ on the side.

“How goes the research?” asked Aura placidly.

Antiquarian drained the coffee in a single gulp without taking his glare off the web of data. “Well,” he grated, “my blood type registers as A+ Coffee and my biomass is about 50% cocoa spread and carbs. You tell me.”

“Any closer to finding your target?” she asked.

The grim-visaged professor used his magic to dump fresh grounds and water into his coffee machine, still without looking away from the wall. “I lost the trail of Writer’s Block somewhere in the Cape of Forlorn Wishes.”

Aura took the liberty of casting a spell to start tidying up the mess on the floor. “What about that agent of his you captured?”

“Dead end,” grimaced Antiquarian as he magically supercharged his coffee-maker. “Block wiped his memory before I could get anything useful out of him.”

Aura deftly turned off the coffee-maker and put a cup of anti-caffeine purple tea in his hoof instead. “Perhaps you need a break,” she suggested.

“What do you propose?”

“Well,” she said, pulling out a notebook, “you could start with telling me what you want to go in the author’s notes so the Angry Mob is less-inclined to disturb you.” Antiquarian snorted as though the idea with unthinkable. “And after that you could paint some Battletech miniatures.”

Antiquarian mulled over the suggestion for a moment, then turned away from the wall. “Notes and minis it is,” he agreed. “First note: lots of fans have speculated that Fluttershy is a ‘weeb’ - as the kids say - on account of her having some manga-looking pictures in that Nightmare Night episode where she scares the pants off everypony. I decided to take a different tack and have her know Japanese and have a genuine appreciation for the culture, but one that shies away from having her be a manga junkie, just to be different.”

“Fair enough,” said Aura. “Any particular reason?”

“Because I can almost count the number of mangas I’ve liked on one hoof and I have no intention of making a bunch of references. Nor do I want recommendations on what mangas to read. Not trying to rain on anybody’s parade, but I’ve been burned way too many times by the genre, and there are exactly two people I trust to recommend mangas to me. If you are not one of those two people, you will not get anywhere with me, so I’m going to preemptively say, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’”

“Feeling salty, are we?”

“Not salty, just honest. I truly appreciate people desiring to share what they enjoy with me, but I’m flatly not going to start new series right now, so people would be better off spending their time doing other things than trying to convince me of something I’m not interested in.”

“Understood,” said Aura, jotting down the necessary notes. “Second item, because people will ask, why did you get the idea to have Fluttershy pretend to be a Japonese tourist.”

“No idea,” said Antiquarian bluntly.

She glanced up. “None whatsoever?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Hmm. Okay then. What else?”

Antiquarian grunted as he ran through a mental checklist. “Let’s see… Trixie still isn’t quite aware that she is no longer entirely in the driver’s seat… the better parts of her nature are still there, which is why nobody’s dead, but things are definitely getting worse… Ditzy Doo is awesome…”

“True.”

“… and Fluttershy didn’t so much Stare Trixie down so much as she Stared her up. She succeeded because she reached to that part of all of us that desires goodness and nobility of character. Sure, she framed it in such a way as to partially play to Trixie’s ego so that the Amulet would let it slip by, but ultimately Fluttershy was showing the appeal of virtue and magnanimity to Trixie. Trixie’s better, truer self shone through just long enough to take the opening Fluttershy gave her and choose a better path. It was a near miss, but, fortunately, virtue broke through vice just long enough to prevent tragedy.”

Aura dutifully took down all the notes, then snapped her notebook shut. “Excellent. I’ll get this out today.” Reaching into her saddle bag, she pulled out a forcepack of Battletech miniatures. “And here are your ’mechs.”

Antiquarian smiled as he took the pack. “You’re a saint, you know that?”

“Just doing my part,” she replied.

After he left the room to go to his den and start painting the new ’mechs, Aura took a moment to examine the data set Antiquarian had compiled. Her uncle/employer was a talented researcher, but sometimes he failed to see the forest for the trees. Aura may have lacked his ability to gather such a vast amount of data and tie all the pieces together, but she made up for it by getting right to the point of the data when it was gathered in one place. It didn’t give her a complete picture, but it gave her enough of one.

“Cape of Forlorn Wishes, eh?” she mused aloud. Striding over to an inconspicuous looking cabinet, she removed the false latch and triggered the lock with her magic. The locking mechanism whirred, then opened the cabinet to reveal an armory. Selecting her preferred weapons, a go-bag, and a map, she set off for the train station. “Let’s see if we can do something about Mr. Writer’s Block.”

***

My sincere apologies for the long delay. I don’t have anything else so say about it at this time other than “sorry.” I do want to do better. Thank you all for your loyalty and patience. I love this story, and it’s been a joy to write it for all of you. I have no intention of abandoning it.

It’s kinda funny to me that everyone thought I was making a Doom reference in the last chapter. I have never played Doom. I have no interest whatsoever in ever playing Doom. I don’t even think I knew about the quote until like half of you commented on it (or, more accurately, I’ve probably heard people say it but didn’t know where it came from). I just put “rip and tear” because those two words often accompany each other, and I even added a third word, so it’s not even the realy quote, and yet somehow a bunch o’ y’all decided Applejack has become Doomgal.

Whatever. I’m beyond questioning it at this point. The internet is too big for me and I will inevitably appear to reference things that I would never actually intend to reference.

I guess it could’ve been worse. At least I didn’t accidentally write something that people thought was a line from bull@#$% stories like [deleted at the suggestion of Aura] or [deleted at the suggestion of Aura] or, worst of all, [deleted at the insistence of Aura]. Then I’d really be in deep.

Suggested reading is “I Like You Just the Way You Are,” because, seriously, we could all use some Mr. Rogers in our lives. The guy had a hard life and many struggles, just like anybody else, but he typified “love your neighbor as yourself,” and was a genuinely loving, saintly gentleman. He and Friar Jacques (and Mr. Arrow from my “My Neighbor” stories - shameless plug alert) would get along quite well indeed.

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