Morningstar was thankful that his sallet hid the sweat upon his brow as High Priestess Celestia led him through an endless series of corridors. His feet felt more sore now than they would have after a thousand years of marching, and the air, though cool, was thick and musty, the muted glow of the lanterns lighting their path made hazy with errant dust. It didn’t help matters that the murals across the walls became more and more lurid, the abstract shapes and subtle brushstrokes evoking wild images in Morningstar’s mind. It was fiendishly clever, in his opinion – to your average pilgrim, these murals were merely decoration, with no greater significance. The trained mind of a Holy Guard hopeful, however, was guaranteed to see the true messages behind these murals, and the message was, admittedly, somewhat uncomfortable for Morningstar.

The stone slabs beneath his feet soon led to a long staircase, and the murals, mercifully, ended at the foot of the stairs. Gods, he had been such a fool, to believe that the Faith was tightly controlled and celibate! The things in those murals would have turned his local Priestess’ face paler than moonlight. His mind was now racing with a thousand questions, but before even one of them could escape his lips, Celestia stopped and spoke, glancing back at him with a wry, silken smile.

“Is everything alright, Praetorian?” She said. “If you need a minute to rest, I’m more than happy to give you a chance to catch your breath.”

“No, your Holiness,” Morningstar said, standing at attention. “I was merely deep in thought. I have a tendency to lose myself in it while on patrol. Rarely, of course, but – ”

“I noticed,” Celestia said, giggling gently. “You were looking at the murals throughout this whole journey. I’m sure you have a thousand questions.”

Morningstar clicked his tongue. “Well, your Holiness, I don’t want to insult you…”

Celestia frowned, though there was no malice in her expression. “I thought we went over this, Morningstar. Perhaps it slipped my mind. As a Praetorian, you act not only as a guard, but as a lover and a confidante to the High Priestesses. If you have a concern, you may voice it. If you feel that any of us have wronged you, you may complain. If you dislike something, you are free to disagree, even argue with us. Few can claim to have the honor of being close to us, and we encourage our Praetorians to speak to us not as Children of the Gods, but as mortals, same as them.”

She smiled warmly, offering her hand to Morningstar. He took it, and she began guiding him up the steps. “It will take some getting used to, but I can see you already have some concerns.”

Morningstar swallowed. “Your Holiness, I was raised to believe certain things about you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Morningstar said. “I grew up in a hamlet not too far from here. The priestess there taught us that sex is sacred, that to engage in it before marriage, to engage in it with the same sex, to engage in it in groups... All of that was an affront to the Gods, an insult to all that they stood for. They said that we should follow the example of the High Priestesses, of you, especially, before Luna returned from exile, and be celibate and respectful of the bodies we were given. I… I wanted to join the Holy Guard to defend that, in a roundabout way. And now I’m being told that not only are you not celibate, but that in fact there is an entire branch of the Guard and an entire branch of the Sun Faith’s priestesses dedicated to lurid rituals.”

“What do you think of that?” Celestia asked. Her voice was devoid of any sort of judgement, and yet it made Morningstar’s stomach do backflips.

“I… I don’t know, your Holiness,” Morningstar admitted. “I just don’t understand. Why would they hide this from us?”

Celestia sighed, a certain sadness in her voice. “Oh, we didn’t at one time. It didn’t turn out so well, to say the least. Magic born from sex rituals tends to be extremely potent. If one isn’t careful, it can completely destroy the mind, the body, and the soul. I don’t wish to worry you, but let’s just say we learned that lesson the hard way.”

“Is it truly that dangerous?” Morningstar said, raising an incredulous eyebrow. “To be hidden away, to make sex as a whole seem shameful and obscene, to condemn a wide swath of our rituals to be forgotten by all but a small, secret group?”

“Yes,” Celestia said, not even hesitating to answer. “You’ll understand better once we’ve taken you through a few rites, but you’ll soon see why all this is sworn to secrecy.”

Morningstar pressed a fist against his heart in salute to the High Priestess. “I will do my best, High Priestess, despite my, erm, inexperience!”

Celestia beamed, and Morningstar felt a swell in his chest once her smile had returned. “Worry not, my little Guardsman,” Celestia said. “Your Initiation will take care of the, how you say, inexperience. I’m certain you can imagine how… Aha! We’re here!” Celestia said, clapping her hands together, that subtle smirk gracing her face once more. “Everything you’ll need to prepare for your Initiation tonight is here!”

Morningstar blinked. The chamber before him was massive. Huge swathes of flowers were kept in meticulous rows, filling the room with their soft, soothing scents. Vines crept up every inch of the walls, touching murals of the Sun and the creation of the world by the Gods, wrapping into the rooms of the greater complex beyond through the many windows into the chamber. In the center of the room was a well, and around that well was a fountain, from which water gently flowed across the floor of the entire courtyard. Sunlight beamed into the chamber from its tall ceiling up to the surface, warming Morningstar’s skin in a wash of mid-afternoon heat. It was certainly beautiful, no doubt, but Morningstar knew what this place was, and to say it aloud to the High Priestess almost made his entire body heave.

“Your Holiness, these are the quarters for the Sisters of Sunlight.”

Celestia placed a gentle hand on Morningstar’s back, “And?”

“Well, men are forbidden from entry, under penalty of death. Laywomen, too. Like any other convent across Equestria.”

“And?”

“Did we take a wrong turn? I… I hardly think that they have an armory or anything. Why are we here?”

Celestia smiled, patting Morningstar’s back, a hint of musical bemusement in her voice. “First, we’ll put you in proper uniform. And after that, well, we’re going to meet the young lady who will take your virginity.”

The salty-sweet taste of sweat beaded against Morningstar’s parched lips as Celestia took him through the garden. Sisters of Sunlight, the personally-picked priestesses of Sol, glanced up from their work in the gardens and did not stop looking. Clad in white cloaks not unlike Celestia’s, although certainly less ornate, the only key Morningstar had to their response to his presence was the occasional glimpse of headscarf-framed face. They seemed less confused or angry and more… curious? It occured to Morningstar that they knew exactly why he was there, and were eyeing him up like a cut of meat in a butcher shop. Were they not allowed to kill him dead for desanctifying their holy grounds, he would have been flattered.

Celestia was mad. She had to have been. Everything Morningstar knew about her was… well, it wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Obviously, the powerful and godly of the world had secrets to keep, and Morningstar wasn’t holding that against her, but the brazen way she flung his preconceived notions of who she was to the wind was certainly giving him pause. Celestia smiled and nodded at her priestesses, who bowed respectfully and returned her little grin, cocking their heads as Morningstar passed by, giggling helplessly when he tipped his helm towards them. They could kill him at any time, after all. It paid to be polite. After the third or fourth tip of his helm, Celestia took ahold of Morningstar’s hand, giving him a wry smile.

“Don’t worry. They already like you, Morningstar.”

Morningstar blushed, giving Celestia’s hand a small squeeze, and getting one back. His mind was still turning wildly in his skull that he was holding the hand of the High Priestess, but her touch felt far too real to be some sort of lucid dream. He cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders, and licked his still-dry lips. “I… I imagine I’m not who they were expecting, your Holiness. You did say I was different earlier…”

“We’ll get to that later,” Celestia said, raising her hand as the great clockwork doors of the Sister’s Quarters slowly creaked open. The crooning of the cryer on a parapet above filled the still air with shrill adulation.

“The High Priestess comes with a new Praetorian!”

In but a moment, Morningstar and Celestia were mobbed by dozens of Sisters of Sunlight. He had never seen such a crowd of priestesses in all his life, nor had he ever felt so many hands on him at once. Snatches of compliments and complaints caught his ear.

“I didn’t know they let boys into the Concubini Praetoriae,” an older Sister muttered.

“His abdomen is like those marble statues in Roma,” a younger one remarked.

“I look forward to kissing those lips,” crooned a Sister at least a head shorter. Celestia raised her hands, and craned back her neck just a bit, putting on the most regal airs she could.

“Ladies!” She said, her voice firm, commanding, but not reprimanding. The Sisters of Sunlight were immediately quiet, hanging on the High Priestess’ every word. Celestia smiled, gently pushing back a few of them, prompting the rest to follow suite and a sea of embarrassed faces. Morningstar almost smiled, but held back, not wanting to further humiliate the Sisters that he had once feared. Well, they could still kill him if they wanted to. Nothing was stopping them except Celestia at this point.

“Thank you,” the High Priestess said, her voice pleasant and conversational. “I know you’re all very excited to meet our newest Praetorian. This is Morningstar. Say hello, my little Guardsman.”

Morningstar blushed a bit, and bowed softly towards the Sisters. “It is a great honor to be in your presence, Sisters.”

“Now,” Celestia said, her smile turning wry. “I’m certain that Morningstar isn’t to everyone’s taste. Perhaps you were expecting somebody more experienced, or perhaps you would have liked a towering leviathan of a man. There were plenty to choose from in the Guardsman class, after all, and some of you are used to the average man in the Praetorianae. This is part of my reason for picking Morningstar – to give us all some much-needed variety – but it is not all of the reason.”

Celestia placed a hand on Morningstar’s shoulder. “Morningstar is well-read on all matters religious, and is one of the holiest, most faithful people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. We can all agree that the Faith has become somewhat dispassionate as of late, and though we still work miracles, some have argued that we have lost our way, particularly the Praetorianae. We may work miracles now, but with someone like Morningstar in our ranks, we will work great miracles. Hail, Morningstar!”

“Hail,” the Sisters say, bowing their heads towards the young Guardsman, his blush hot enough to reach the tips of his ears now.

Celestia leaned in and whispered in his ear. “No pressure,” she said, her hand lingering on his back, that little smirk of hers burrowing into his mind. She glanced towards the Sisters once more, and pointed at a couple of them.

“Sister Marigold, Sister Buttered Cream, Sister Featherfall,” Celestia said. “Please take Morningstar to the Armory, and provide him with his equipment. I will head to the bedchambers and retrieve Initiate Pastel, and will meet you there. I’m sure she’ll be excited to meet the boy who will take her to womanhood.”

Morningstar almost got a word out to Celestia, but the Sisters were faster than his tongue. Buttered Cream and Marigold took ahold of Morningstar’s arms, and Featherfall took point as they led him deeper into the Quarters. Morningstar tried to catch sight of Celestia one last time, but she had already disappeared to do as she promised to. He said a silent prayer to Sol that he was not about to be killed and eaten or something, and let the Sisters cart him away.

The next few minutes were a blur of questions from the Sisters dragging Morningstar across the halls. Other Sisters peeked out from behind doorways, or glanced up to catch sight of him in the midst of their own prayers, but to say that Morningstar was totally overwhelmed at that moment was an understatement, and he blindly answered any questions that he could. “Where are you from, Morningstar?” asked Sister Buttered Cream, squeezing his arm just a touch too tight.

“Connemara,” Morningstar replied just a bit too quickly, squirming a bit in her rock-solid grasp, but she did not relent.

“Connemara, eh? Do you know Sister Judgement?”

Morningstar blanched, thankful that his expression was hidden by his sallet. “I, well… she taught me everything I knew, before it was blown out of the water.”

“Do you have a big cock?” Sister Featherfall asked.

Morningstar blinked. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that last one.”

“We’ll see in a moment, Sister Featherfall,” Buttered Cream said, a sideways smirk etched on her face. Her skin was the same sandy tone that Morningstar’s was, and though she seemed somewhat plump under that massive cloak, she was far stronger than she seemed. Morningstar never underestimated earthkin, but they still surprised him now and again. “The armory’s not terribly far, now. Just a bit further…”

“You know,” Morningstar said quietly, “I can walk myself. I’m not that tired…”

“Please,” Marigold said, squeezing Morningstar’s arm. “We insist. This is a special occasion, after all. The Praetorianae don’t get new recruits every year. It’s been ages since we’ve done a proper fitting.”

Morningstar stumbled in the grasp of Marigold and Buttered Cream, prompting a fit of giggles and flapping wings from Featherfall. “Alright,” Morningstar grunted, dusting himself off. “Frankly, as long as I’m not getting killed for trespassing, I’m perfectly fine with whatever comes.”

The foursome soon arrived at a large, reinforced door of oak and steel. From beneath her cloak, Sister Featherfall produced a dainty little key, stuck it into the keyhole, and turned it four times. With a thick and mighty click, the door immediately swung inwards from its own weight, and Morningstar was unceremoniously shoved into the armory room.

The armory, most certainly, was impressive. Across the walls were endless blades and clubs, the faint smell of polish touching Morningstar’s nostrils. A blacksmith’s forge lay dormant in the far corner of the room, awaiting the efforts of some great soul to expand the armory even further. The room was cool, almost frigid, much unlike the subtle humidity of the rest of the Quarters, and though the dust and cobwebs betrayed general disuse, it was clear to Morningstar that the Sisters took as much care as they felt they needed to when it came to their armory. The door shut, quite loudly, behind him, and Morningstar jumped slightly. A pair of soft, small hands tugged at his tunic from behind, and the voice of Sister Featherfall teased against his ear.

“Undress.”

Morningstar tilted his head. “Now? Here?”

“We’re not fitting new armor over the old, are we? Undress.”

Morningstar gently pried himself from Featherfall’s grasp, and slowly, shakily undid the strap of his sallet. The rest of his clothes fell off in a haze, the sort of blur one feels after a long night of drinking, a hazy memory hole where the pieces need to be put back together the day afterwards. It wasn’t that he was undressing for a fitting – he was undressing for women that, up until perhaps two hours ago, he assumed were sworn to chastity and had no interest in the male form in even a passing way. He soon stood before them as naked as the day he was born, and turned around, facing the trio of giggling Sisters. “There we are. Happy?”

Morningstar immediately regretted putting forth an attitude, as the Sisters approached and surrounded him like wolves surrounding a sheep. He suddenly felt like an ant surrounded by lions, and a small rush filled his head as it occurred to him that he could face death for such disrespect. Or he would have, were he Morningstar the Guard Recruit, and not Morningstar the Praetorian Guardsman. The Sisters seemed to relent, and Buttered Cream stopped before him, and gently laid a finger on his half-hard length. The touch sent a shock through Morningstar’s entire system, and his length twitched incessantly as she slowly dragged her finger across its surface.

“He’ll do just fine, Sister Marigold,” Buttered Cream said, wearing the smile worn by a fox in a chicken coop. Her fingers closed around the base of Morningstar’s cock as he felt more hands feel down his sides and hips. Morningstar tried to repress his shaking, but it was practically impossible to do so. Had he entered only a day ago, they would be stabbing him, not stroking him. Frankly, Morningstar wasn’t sure which one was less comfortable at the moment, given that this attention came totally unprompted… though not totally unwelcome.

“Hmmmh. His girlish hips are quite nice, I admit,” Sister Marigold said. “I’m sure the other Praetorians will appreciate them, and I expect him to be quite the graceful and flexible lover.”

Sister Featherfall cleared her throat, and the two sisters molesting Morningstar moved away from him, grinning foolishly. “Shame on the both of you,” Featherfall said. “The boy hasn’t even been through his Initiation and you’re riling him up.”

“But Sister, Initiate Pastel should see him at his, heh, full potential,” Buttered Cream protested. “He’s not like Brickbreaker, the man I Initiated with. Goodness, I was scared stiff all afternoon about putting that in me.”

“Gods, you’re both insatiable,” Featherfall said, sighing softly and shoving a haphazard pile of clothes into Morningstar’s arms. “Here. Your undergarments. The Sisters will help you put these on. And stop touching the poor boy! I don’t want to answer to the High Priestess if she comes back to find your faces sodden with seed.”

“She’d probably congratulate us,” Sister Marigold muttered, yanking clothes from the pile in Morningstar’s arms. “Well, whatever. Let’s get you armored up, young Morningstar.”

As the Sisters helped him into his armor, it became very clear to Morningstar that this set of armor was hardly practical.

Firstly, there was the lack of any sort of plating around his midsection, leaving the vital organs in his belly completely exposed, and giving anybody at his back a clear shot at the bottom of his spine. To his chagrin, his crotch and buttocks were also afforded sparse protection at best, without only a loincloth between him and exposure, and even then, the material hardly covered up the tent in his loincloth that was not going down fast enough. At least his upper body was afforded a fair amount of protection – the breastplate certainly seemed solid, and the pauldrons, while large and showy, were certainly flexible enough to allow him a natural degree of movement. The chainmail coif and attached sleeves added a small bit of extra protection, and Morningstar always had a soft spot for the sugarloaf helmet style. Unfortunately, all of this made the armor very top-heavy; Morningstar knew that he would have to get used to the imbalance, and fast. After all, as heavy as the greaves were, they were hardly going to make up for the exposure this armor represented –

Morningstar started a bit as the door opened behind him, prompting the Sisters to giggle. Ah, well. At least everything fit just fine. Morningstar suspected that there was some subtle magic at play making the armor fit just so.

Just as Morningstar was about to fall into a lengthy reverie, High Priestess Celestia, who seemed to subconsciously cast a spell that turned the young Praetorian into a puddle of mush, entered the room. A young woman in a green cloak, her face completely veiled from view, followed the High Priestess into the Armory. She was at least a half a head shorter than Morningstar, and though her cloak hid her body, Morningstar could tell that she was, to say the least, quite petite. He surmised that this was the Initiate that he was going to…

That he was going to make love to. Lose his virginity to. Consummate his entrance into the Concubini Praetorianae with. Morningstar tried to swallow, but his mouth was completely dry.

“High Priestess,” he said softly, pressing a gauntlet-bound fist against his chestplate. “This is Initiate Pastel?”

Celestia smiled. “Indeed she is, Praetorian Morningstar. I hope you’ll forgive her veiled state. Until she joins us in Initiation, she will remain so.”

Morningstar coughed a bit, his voice echoing a touch in the steel confines of his helm. “I understand. Erm…” Morningstar gave the Initiate a small, awkward wave. “Hello.”

The Initiate – her name was Pastel, yes, but Morningstar could hardly attach a name to a faceless thing like that – seemed to take pause, but rolled her fingers at him, an equally awkward greeting that prompted a dirge of giggles from the Sisters behind Morningstar. Celestia rolled her eyes, and clapped her hands together, smiling as widely as ever, though Morningstar had never seen her force her smile in the few hours he had known her. “Sisters, let’s leave these two be for a little while, hmm? We’re hardly good company for a pair of the Uninitiated… Especially you, Sister Buttered Cream.”

“Guilty as charged,” Buttered Cream muttered, following Celestia’s lead out of the armory, flanked by her fellow Sisters of Sunlight. Celestia gave Morningstar a wink as she closed the door behind her, leaving him alone with the, so far, silent Initiate Pastel.

It felt like hours before either of them said anything. Pastel was completely silent, content to sit on a stool and watch Morningstar as he perused the weapons selection that hung upon the Armory’s walls. It was quite the impressive collection, with everything as mundane as shortswords and spears to exotic seeming weaponry from far-off places Morningstar had only read about in books. Saddle Arabian scimitars and katar push daggers shone in the dull glow of the hearth. From the far east of Neighpon were a collection of folded blades, from the infamous Katana to the impressively long Odachi. And Bhatrot’s eclectic collection of blades, from the curious kukri to the impressively simple khanda, particularily caught Morningstar’s eye.

Blades. Blades, he could understand. Not this woman. And not what he was being asked to do with her in the near future. Although, Morningstar mused to himself, taking a dagger off the wall and weighing it in his hand, Pastel and the blades seemed equally as talkative.

Morningstar sighed, placing the dagger back on the wall, peering out at the selection through his helm. Heavy as his armor was, he was slowly getting used to it, though he couldn’t help but feel as if he was being sized up all the time considering how much of himself it exposed. “So,” he said, slowly, trying to gauge Pastel’s reaction. “You don’t seem to talk very much.”

In the polished gleam of a zweihander, Morningstar saw Pastel shrug dismissively. He chuckled, more out of nerves than genuine mirth. “Do you talk at all?”

Another shrug, and a tilt of the head. Morningstar sighed, taking the zweihander off the wall, peering down its impossibly straight and expertly crafted edge. “Hmh. Alright. You know, there’s this bard who travels Equestria, fills her instruments with lightning. Woman is mute. Survived a stab to the neck from a bandit as a child. Can’t recall the name, but she passed through my village once. Everyone was very excited to hear her music, as loud as it was.”

Morningstar turned around, the zweihander laying against his shoulder. “You’re, erm, not mute, I imagine?”

Gods. He couldn’t see her eyes behind that veil, but he could feel them. They were the sort of eyes that could pierce into the soul and see the deepest of secrets. Whatever smile Morningstar had worn earlier had faded completely. He thanked the Gods for his helmet – at least with that, both of their expressions were unreadable.

She seemed to relent, looking away, coughing into her hand. Morningstar sighed again – his lungs ached with all the sighs he had emitted, but this entire situation was the sort where breath wasn’t about to be held anytime soon, and better a sigh than a groan of resignation and self-loathing. Whyever Celestia thought this was a good idea still eluded him, but then again, so was whyever Celestia thought that he was a good choice for the Praetorianae. Grunting, Morningstar lifted off his helmet and pulled back the hood of his coif, shaking his head and his mane of lavender hair free. He took a few tepid steps towards Pastel, his helmet tucked under his arm and his eyes locked onto the floor.

“Look,” he said. “I’ve been a bundle of nerves all day, and you’re not making things any better with all that… staring. I imagine Celestia sprang all of this nonsense onto you this morning, too? All these secrets, kept from us since we were children…”

Morningstar sighed, finally looking up, inches away from where Pastel sat. He did his best to lock eyes with… well, wherever her eyes were, and pushed away his discomfort about her burrowing into his soul. “When I was in training, they told me that I would most likely have to face death at some point. That I would have to put my fate in the hands of the Gods. I knew that, but I never knew how it felt until now. Sol’s daughter chose us for this task, and yet I, for one, feel terribly unequipped to handle it. I’ve hardly even kissed a girl, much less… handled one.”

Pastel’s head tilted again. Morningstar took a deep breath, and broke away from her gaze again. “I was told not to trust women.”

He could feel her stare grow incredulous, and Morningstar smiled despite himself. “My uncle was a bastard, what can I say? He told me to trust nobody, really. Not men, not beasts, and certainly not women. I had to learn to trust my fellow Guardsmen in training, and it was the hardest lesson I ever had to learn. It’s hard to put your life in somebody else’s hands, especially when you know so little about them. But I trust Celestia, and I know that she would never put any of us into anything she believed we couldn’t handle, and if she’s bringing you into the Sisterhood, well… that must mean she trusts you greatly. And anyone whom Celestia trusts is somebody who I know I can trust.”

Morningstar coughed. “If we are to get through this Initiation, I need you to trust me.”

Pastel giggled, the first audible thing she had done since Morningstar had first seen her. She reached up to her veil and undid its strings, letting it drop to the floor, shyly glancing up at Morningstar with big, blue eyes. Her face was pale, cherubic, with laughter creases in her eyes and a smile that sent Morningstar’s heart into overdrive. Pastel stood, and Morningstar took an instinctive step back, a step that she returned in kind, placing a hand on his breastplate.

“You talk a lot for a small man,” Pastel said. Her voice was mousey yet musical, every syllable like the note of a song. He cleared his throat, a relaxed, genuine grin falling upon his face for the first time in a long while.

“You’re not exactly a mountain yourself,” Morningstar said.

“Thank the Gods for that.”

She kissed him.

Morningstar froze completely, paralyzed in the moment. Her lips were a static shock against his, her body trembling a bit, drawing his free hand against her back and pulling him against her for warmth. It seemed to hold forever, and yet forever was not long enough. It was the sort of kiss that left a man hungry for more, the sort that one can’t put into words. A brief blink of time, where two souls connect, and a bind between them tightens around their hearts.

It was hardly a perfect kiss, or a lengthy kiss. Her lips were somewhat pursed, and Morningstar noticed out of his half-lidded eyes that she was shutting hers tightly. It was her first kiss, too, a risk she had never taken, a thing she had never dared to do with anyone else before. Morningstar held this close to his heart. When she broke away, and put a finger to his lips, he knew what she was going to say to him.

“Very well, small man. I trust you.”

Morningstar smirked, giving her finger a small peck, stepping back and saluting her. “Good. I… I’m glad, then.”

“I look forward to our Initiation together,” she said, glancing away, biting her lip. Morningstar was doing the same, glancing into the dark abyss of the inside of his helmet, as she reached down and retrieved her veil from the floor.

“Good,” Morningstar said again. “Gods be with you, Sister.”

“Not Sister yet, but… Gods be with you, Praetorian.”

She put on her veil. He put on his helmet. She bowed to him, and he saluted her. When she left the room, Morningstar was breathless, and for once that day, he was eager, not nervous, to see what was coming next.

Author's Note