Forma Extraordinaria Sua

by The Illusive Badgerpony

Rating: mature
Tags: Profanity, Adventure, Princess Celestia, Alternate Universe, Human, Princess Luna, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Princess Cadance, Fetish, Romance, Porn, Sex
Length: 16049

When a young Guardsman hopeful is rejected for the elite Holy Guard, High Priestess Celestia approaches him with a much more personal offer. Will he flourish in his new and exciting role... or will the incredible power of ritual magic destroy him?

From a very young age, Morningstar was obsessed with High Priestess Celestia, and the idea of becoming a member of her Holy Guard. Having trained for months alongside countless other recruits, he has done his best to impress his superiors and perhaps even make an impression on Her Holiness herself.

Little does he know, however, that his dreams are fruitless, about to be crushed like grapes beneath a farmer's boots. But there is still hope for Morningstar should he desire to protect the woman of his dreams... a highly secretive sect of the Sun Faith, personally overseen by all of the High Priestesses, men and women dedicated to serving them in rituals both mundane and maddening.

If he accepts her offer... can Morningstar survive passions inspired by Gods? Or will he succumb to the perils of boundless magic?

I was inspired to write this by the cover art... a few years ago, I believe. I've had the sfw edit I made of the image hanging around in my computer's files for ages and just never did anything with the idea.

Well, ya know what they say; better late than never! Enjoy your latest shot of actual content from this wreck of a human being.

!WARNING: CONTAINS!

Conan-esque cheesecake (the barbarian, not the talk show host), rituals, orgies, ritual orgies, many, many original characters, a wide diversity of body types, and much more. These content warnings will grow as the story develops, but the current plan may involve: incest implied and/or explicit, aged-up characters, tattoos and/or piercings.

Preread/edited by Regidar, r5h, and Brasta Septim, among others.

Cover art originally by robotoseckshau5. Site-safe edit made by me. Several months ago. I am sad.

Published 2018-08-18 21:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2018-08-18 21:10:01 UTC

Introit

“Rise and shine, ladies! Graduation day! Get yourselves dressed and report for duty! No delays, no delays!”

Morningstar was jolted awake by the sound of a horn and the booming voice of his Centurion. Vague memories of the night before filtered through his mind, involving too much wine and too little restraint, and it was likely that a few things were broken. The last thing that he remembered before blacking out was sucking down close to an entire keg of mead, the laughter of his shield-brothers still echoing in his ears. So they had brought him back to bed? They were celebrating something...

Sitting up in bed, the still-groggy trainee watched through still-waking eyes as a barracks full of naked young men, his comrades in arms, leapt to their feet. They kicked open their footlockers, slipping on training tunics and strapping on boots, as all the while Centurion Swordfeather shouted and shook any still-sleeping boys awake. The Centurion cut an imposing sight, six and a half heads of anger with a massive wingspread, already dressed in full plate as he applied a bit of nominal organization to the chaos of a Guardsman trainee’s morning. He was even more frightening right up in Morningstar’s face, staring right into the boy’s eyes, and oh ye Gods he was right there.

“On your feet, Morningstar! You’ll be lucky to place in the Legionnaire Reserves with this kinda initiative!” he bellowed, his voice ringing in Morningstar’s ears and his spittle splattering across the boy’s face. “You think the bad guys are gonna wait for you to get out of bed?! Get your ass in gear!”

“Y-Yes, sir,” Morningstar said groggily, starting to lean out of bed, but the Centurion was not satisfied with his answer, and before Morningstar could even correct his mistake, he was already grabbed by the top of his head, and forced to stare the Centurion in the snarling face.

“Sir?! Do I look like a ‘sir’ to you?! You’d best start talking to me like a proper soldier or I’ll personally throw your ass over the castle walls and let you crawl back home! Now give me a ‘yes Centurion’ and get your ass in gear!”

“Y-Yes, Centurion!”

“Louder, boy!”

“Yes, Centurion!” Morningstar shouted, leaping to his feet as soon as Swordfeather let him go. He didn’t hold the abuse against him – after all, they were training to be Guardsmen, and some, Morningstar included, hoped to join the venerated Holy Guard. But it seemed that the Centurion had found a good target in Morningstar that day, for as the boy slid on the baggy pantaloons of a Guardsman trainee, Swordfeather stood behind him the whole time, goading him, taunting him.

“Not like you to be this sloppy, Morningstar,” he said. “You’re lucky your old man isn’t here to see you fuck up this bad.”

“Yes, Centurion!”

“Thought you wanted to be a Holy Guardsman, boy! You think Holy Guardsmen have time to slip on their socks like dainty little princesses?”

“No, Centurion!”

“If you’re gonna be guarding the High Priestesses, you gotta be disciplined, boy! Though even that won’t help a femme-looking thing like you. The Holy Guardsmen are men, boy, not whatever the hell you are! You still think you got a chance?”

“Yes, Centurion!”

Swordfeather’s wings flapped a few times, and a chuckle rumbled from his throat. Morningstar swallowed. Even now, on the cusp of their graduation into the Guard, the Centurion was still testing their mettle.

“Oh? Why so, Morningstar?”

“I’ve been earning top marks, Centurion!”

“You and sixty percent of the class! What makes you think you’ve got a chance? Just because your old man was in the Holy Guard doesn’t mean you’ll be pressed in because you get decent marks! It’s blood and skill, boy, and you’ve only got the first half!”

Morningstar swallowed back a groan, lacing up his boots, watching the last few trainees rush out the door, their helmets barely strapped on. “With all due respect, Centurion–“

“Don’t ‘all due respect’ me, boy! You think you’ve for what it takes? You can’t swordfight your way to the Holy Guard! It’s strength of soul and strength of body, and you’ve barely got the body! You think you’ve got the soul to handle what’s coming to you?!”

Morningstar stood up, looking up into the Centurion’s eyes, seeing a steely glint reflect off of them back into his. “I’ll give it my best damn shot, Centurion! You can count on that!”

The Centurion’s face held, steely and strong, for what seemed like an eternity. Morningstar dared not to even breathe. No weakness. No going back. Always pushing forward. Swordfeather had beaten at least that much into him. It was only the two of them in the room now. Morningstar swallowed, a thrill in his chest, finally sticking it to the man who had abused him and his comrades for so long, who had steeled them from trainees into brutally efficient soldiers.

Then, Swordfeather chuckled and patted Morningstar on the shoulder. “If you don’t make it in the Holy Guard, boy, you’ll be a hell of a Guardsman. Get the hell outta here and get your ass in line.”

Morningstar breathed out, unable to hold back a grin. “Yes, Centurion,” he said, slapping on his helmet and running as fast as he could from the barracks.

The sun had yet to rise over the Temple of Sol’s courtyard. Dusky, purple skies hung over the training grounds as Morningstar ran as fast as he could, trying to keep up with the growing line of trainees that streamed out of every one of the barracks like salmon at spawning season. It was hard to believe that this was only a tenth of how many had come to become Guardsmen two years ago, but thousands had turned to hundreds within the first few weeks, and now, maybe three dozen young men and women were here to graduate and join the ranks of the Guard.

And from those three dozen graduates, maybe one would join the Holy Guardsmen and personally protect Equestria’s High Priestesses. Most summers, nobody was selected to join their ranks. To be selected for the Holy Guard was a great honor, and as Morningstar fell in line, he swallowed down his fears that he wouldn’t even be considered. He’d worked hard to get this far, and even if he wasn’t chosen to join the Holy Guard, being here, being evaluated by the High Priestesses, being close enough to them to feel their magical radiance was enough for him.

Another horn blared across the training grounds, and the trainees knelt upon the grass as one. Not a single breath was drawn, not a single word was spoken. The shrill voice of a crier broke the silence before Morningstar could contemplate it any harder.

“All hail the High Priestesses!”

“Hail!” cried the guards-to-be in one voice, devout and disciplined.

“High Priestess Cadance, Acolyte of Aphrodite, Mortal Child of the Gods, Defender of the Realm of Equestria, hail!”

The first of the High Priestesses to proceed past the graduating guard class was Cadance, alongside her husband and High Councillor, Shining Armor. Sat together on top of a white horse, the sheer symbolism of it all would have made Morningstar want to vomit were it not expressed by the High Priestess of Love and Compassion. She dressed more like a queen than a priestess, the only token nod towards her status being the cloak and headdress draped around her head. Her Mark, a crystalline heart, was emblazoned upon the headband. Her husband held her around her waist, the face of an equal half of a great marriage. Morningstar’s fist tightened, and he vowed silently to the Gods that were he to be a Holy Guardsman, he would defend their lives and their marriage, saccharine as it could be, with his life. From the reverence of the class’s collective “Hail!”, Morningstar knew he wasn’t the only one making that vow.

“High Priestess Luna, Daughter of Artemis, Rescued from Darkness, Protector of Dreams and Vanquisher of Nightmares, hail!”

The silence became palpable as High Priestess Luna crossed in front of the guard class, followed by a contingency of her Night Guard. Nobody knew what exactly they did, but Morningstar had heard rumors that they were all Dreamwalkers, and stalked the world of dreams destroying nightmares. He stole a peek at the High Priestess as she rode by. Her body was pale, slender, but extremely strong, her bare arms covered in scars and bandages, her eyes filled with a warlike zeal and an unquenchable thirst for justice, her cloak black as night and billowing out behind her in the breeze. If it was true that she was once known as Nightmare Moon, as Morningstar had heard, then she certainly still carried that imposing figure.

Her eyes shifted to glance into his for but a moment, and that single second of the darkness billowing inside of her sent shudders down Morningstar’s spine.

“Hail!” came the cry from the guard trainees, this time somewhat fearful, impossibly respectful. Morningstar knew that if he became a Holy Guard that he would have to earn her respect, and as femme as he was, he anticipated the challenge.

“High Priestess Celestia, Daughter of Sol, She Who Rules Sun and Earth, Mother of All that Lives, hail!”

Morningstar’s head tilted upwards, and he tipped his sallet back to watch Celestia, no, to burn the image of Celestia riding past into his mind. She was radiant. Never in his life had Morningstar seen her in person, and now that she was here, she was real, she was close enough to touch, Morningstar wanted the moment to last forever. She rode no horse, instead leading it across the line, her every step as poised and graceful as a swan in the summer sun, her cloak hiding her form but those glimpses of her legs beneath it revealing them to be long, voluptuous, and most voluminous. And yet was most focused on her face. Even now, it beamed passion and patience, and when it flared into a smile it caused his heart to twist in circles. He was so enamored that he hardly noticed her looking back, not until her smile became wry and she waved at him. He immediately sipped his sallet back over his face and fell into rigid reverence, whispering prayers and praises to all the gods, but particularly Sol.

“Hail! Hail! Hail!” Such was the Guard’s reverence for Celestia that she warranted three cheers, and then some, as the line devolved into a seemingly endless chant of hails, each one a fervent prayer, each one a call for guidance and peace. Few on the line that day were as fervent in their prayers as Morningstar, though, as he begged the Gods to give him a chance, only one, to defend the Daughter of Sol, to be her confidant in times of need, to give his life for her when nobody else would. It was odd, in a way, to beg Sol for a chance to defend his daughter, but begging and pleading was all Morningstar had left to do, as they had already made their choice for who would join the ranks of the Holy Guard.

The horns blew again, and the guards ceased their prayers. An overwhelming silence fell over the courtyard again, so quiet that Morningstar could hear his own heart beating swift with anticipation. Bootsteps behind them thumped across the silence, and Morningstar heard the throaty, blaring voice of Centurion Swordfeather echo across the fields.

“Companyyyy rise!”

As one, the graduating trainees rose. Swordfeather was halfway down the line now, but Morningstar could swear that he heard him chuckle. High Councillor Shining Armor dismounted his horse, his hand lingering on his wife’s thigh before he stepped forward to inspect the men, his face analytical and impassive. Morningstar had heard rumors that his sister was an Archmage, and those rumors seemed easier and easier to believe as the High Councillor passed by once more. He didn’t dare breath as Shining Armor stepped in front of him, looking him straight in the eye. Morningstar swallowed, but held firm at attention.

“You didn’t tell me they were recruiting boys, Swordfeather,” Shining Armor said.

Swordfeather chuckled. “That’s Morningstar, sir. Don’t let his looks fool you. He’s one of the better ones.”

“He hardly looks old enough to be a squire, let alone a Guardsman. How old are you, boy?”

“Eighteen summers, High Councillor,” Morningstar said, breathless. The High Councillor was talking to him. This had to be a sign.

“Summers? You follow the Sun Faith, then?”

“Same as my father, Zweihander, before me.”

Shining Armor’s eyes lit up with an odd sort of realization. “You’re Zwei’s son? Didn’t even know he had one. We don’t count our ages in summers anymore, boy. Not since…”

He looked back at High Priestess Luna, and gave her a curt nod. “Not since the Moon Faith returned to the fold.”

Morningstar’s eyes widened, and he coughed into a tightly clenched fist. A few spluttered chuckles echoed across the line, laughter at his expense, his chest tightening. “I apologise for my ignorance, your Lordship!”

The High Councillor shrugged, and turned to continue on. “It’s of no concern. The change was recent. Show me more of your best, Swordfeather.”

As Shining Armor went down the line, Morningstar went over the conversation in his own head, again and again, whipping himself in his mind over and over. He had spoken out of turn. He should have known better. People had been counting his age in seasons almost the entire time he had been training. He should have been paying more attention. Stupid, stupid, stupid. All he had left for consideration were his prayers to the Gods, and the Gods wouldn’t smile kindly upon his foolishness and ignorance. Even if High Priestess Luna was once the demon called Nightmare Moon… Stupid, so very, very stupid! Sol condemn his spirit to eternal fire!

Shining Armor now stood a stone’s throw away from the recruits, debilitating with the High Priestesses and Centurion Swordfeather in hushed whispers. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could make out their voices just barely, ranging from Luna’s haughty and commandeering tone to Cadance’s careless whispers. But no voice captured the young guard-to-be’s imagination anywhere near as much as Celestia’s. It was so soft, so guiding, so… so motherly. It was the sound of something that Morningstar had missed in his youth, the sound of his late Mother, Sol be with her. Please, Sol, he begged silently. Let me protect her. Let me protect who I couldn’t when I was small.

”Teeeeen-shun!”

If any guard trainees were at ease, they immediately tensed into the picture of military perfection. Morningstar, for his part, realized that his very bones were aching, he had been standing at attention for so long. But he wasn’t about to show the High Priestesses any sort of weakness. Only the best would join the Holy Guard, after all. And as Shining Armor stepped towards the line, Morningstar prepared himself to be the best of the best. Shining Armor cleared his throat, his face filled with stoic professionalism, and not the littlest bit of pride.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You’ve made it, boys and girls. I’m not going to keep you for hours on end as Celestia’s High Chancellor did when I graduated. You all know what you’re undertaking here. It’s a task that tests your strength of soul as much as your bodies. It’s of holy significance as much as it is political. The High Priestesses are more than the leaders of Equestria. They are children of the Gods, whether through blood or merit, and need a God’s strength to keep them and their realm safe from those who would destroy it. Grand Zealot Discord may have reformed his faith into something more compatible with our nation, but the threat of Chaos still looms on the horizon, and many a wannabe dictator is already building up forces in nations beyond our own.”

He smiled. “All of you will protect the Children of the Gods with your lives, if necessary. One of you will take that one step forward and defend them personally. We were spoiled for choices amongst the Guard Class this year, and many of you seem eager to take on the burden of being a Holy Guard. But the demands are so strict, the risk so great, the bar set so high, that we can only select one of you.”

Morningstar breathed in. This was it. The moment of truth. His new life began now. As it had for his father, as it had for his father’s father. Sol guide him.

“...Lucky Clover, step forward.”

Morningstar’s jaw went slack. A young woman stepped forward, her own mouth agape. Lucky Clover?

“Welcome to the Holy Guard, Lucky Clover. Swordfeather tells me you’re one of the most devout and dedicated young Guardsmen here. You’ll fit right in with the rest of the Holy Guard.”

Lucky Clover? Lucky Clover wasn’t Morningstar’s name. He hadn’t even considered her. She was good, but… but she wasn’t even…

His brain was shutting down. Every single thought and process blank and gone. Every single dream falling and collapsing into itself, sinkholes sucking away his thoughts. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be possible. Lucky Clover was…

“Join us, Legionnaire Clover, as we put the night to rest and raise the Sun together. The High Priestesses will be safe underneath your care.”

He wasn’t a Holy Guardsman.

Lucky Clover, the new Holy Guardsman, joined the High Priestesses in a circle. There was humming and chanting, but it all washed over Morningstar like waves upon the sand. His father’s legacy had died in an instant and not a whisper was spoken. He wasn’t a Holy Guardsman. Lucky Clover was. She was in that circle, in that ritual, humming and praying and praising Sol, helping the High Priestesses raise his Sun and lower his sister’s Moon. His family’s legacy was dashed against the rocks with nary a whimper of protest.

As the sun rose above the courtyard, as sunlight gleamed off of Morningstar’s well-polished helm, he stood in shock. He had the skill, the faith, and the legacy. And the High Priestesses just didn’t care. Morningstar told himself not to be jealous, but jealousy billowed in his gut. What did she have that he didn’t?! By what measure did they select her?! Morningstar lowered his head as much as he could get away with, holding back his tears, taking in a shaky breath. There was nothing for it. The Children of the Gods had spoken, and they had not spoken for him.Soon, the sun was raised, the circle broken, and three cheers had broken out as they all became Guardsmen.

“Alright, gentlemen!” Centurion Swordfeather cried, breaking Morningstar’s reverie, though tears still blurred his sight. “Welcome to the Guard! Report to Quartermaster Quill immediately and get back out here for your assignments!”

More cheers, more joyous cries, but none of them came from Morningstar’s mouth. He swallowed down his sadness, and willed his feet to move, following his comrades into the keep, not a triumphant member of the Holy Guard, but a lowly, disposable Guardsman. If his father was watching him from the heavens, he was most likely as disappointed as could be, and Morningstar didn’t blame him. He shuffled indoors, a failure, looking ahead at a life no longer worth living.

Morningstar’s every step through the damp, darkened corridors of the Sunshroud Keep felt as though a thousand stones were piled on his feet. What was he going to tell Aunt Terra Firma? His siblings still living with her? He had told them that he would return a Holy Guardsman, and instead of that, he was going to return from leave seeming merely adequate. An average Guardsman. Exceptional, yes, in the eyes of the layman, but Morningstar’s family went back generations as members of the Holy Guard. Releasing a disappointed sigh, Morningstar stumbled, hung-over and deeply depressed, through corridor after corridor.

It occurred to him that somewhere in his self-reflection he had taken a wrong turn or two. While he had been on enough mock patrols to know every corridor and every turn to every part of the keep, that knowledge was failing him now, and a part of him didn’t even care anymore. What was the point? He was but a Guardsman, most likely going to be stationed someplace cushy if not far away, such as the Zebrican Embassy or the Saddle Arabian desert. Gods, what a boring life that would be. It certainly would make his father’s spirit sing to the heavens to have a son who was merely adequate.

Morningstar found himself at a crossroads between two corridors. Huh. If this was the crossroads he was thinking of, perhaps he could turn eastward and make it to the barracks that way– but High Priestess Celestia was coming from there oh ye Gods High Priestess Celestia was coming.

Morningstar’s eyes bulged from his head for just a moment before he got ahold of himself and hid against the closest wall. She couldn’t see him like this. The tears hadn’t dried from his cheeks yet, and his eyes were stained red from the strain of his disappointment. Yes, the sallet did hide his eyes some, but even from a cursory look, one could tell that Morningstar was not having a great day.

“Morningstar?”

She knew his name. How did she know his name? He didn’t answer, holding his breath, hoping that she’d go away. He couldn’t be seen by the Daughter of Sol like this.

“Morningstar, I’ve been looking for you. Please come out. It’s very important.”

Morningstar blinked. What could be so important? Though if a High Priestess was asking for him, it must be important. Why him?

“The Gods have a greater plan for you, Morningstar. Believe me.”

Morningstar sighed. It wasn’t wise to keep a High Priestess waiting. He wiped away his face as best as he could, and stepped out from the corner, standing at attention. “Here, Your Holiness,” he said, taking a shuddering breath.

“Oh dear! Have you been crying?” Celestia said, rushing, no, gliding to him, and placing a hand on his cheek. Gods, this was embarrassing.

“No, Your Holiness! I…”

“Don’t be ashamed,” Celestia said softly, her thumb resting on Morningstar’s lips. He bit his tongue, swallowing back his protests. How could she be so kind to him? “I understand your disappointment. If I was in your boots, I’d be disappointed too.”

“Your Holiness, I… I don’t mean to sound rash, but…”

“Why didn’t we choose you?”

Morningstar swallowed, and nodded, expecting Celestia’s smile to turn into a cruel scowl. But it didn’t. It only grew warmer and more loving, and Morningstar couldn’t turn his eyes away.

“Like I said,” Celestia said. “The Gods have a greater plan for you. Are you familiar with the Concubini Praetorianae?”

“The… The… Say again, Your Holiness?”

Celestia smiled. “I thought you hadn’t. Most aren’t aware of their existence. You remember your history lessons, yes? All that talk of the ‘old rituals’?”

“I… Vaguely, your Holiness,” Morningstar muttered, his cheeks beginning to glow bright red. He should have remembered. He was top of his class. Yet here he was, a spluttering wreck before an immortal demigoddess, barely capable of putting words together.

“Well, perhaps fate has conspired to bring you here,” Celestia said, patting his cheek and turning around, beckoning him to join her down the southbound corridor. “Come with me, my little Guard, and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

The corridor felt endless. Morningstar could have sworn that the temple was only so many steps long, and yet the torches lighting it seemed to stretch on for hundreds of miles. Celestia hadn’t spoken a word for quite some time, and whenever he spoke up, she shushed him, and told him to gaze into the elaborate paintings across the walls. They were abstract, but Morningstar could still vaguely tell what they were meant to convey, narrowing his eyes, observing their elaborate, asymmetrical shapes and patterns.

“Tell me now, Morningstar,” Celestia said, her voice crisp and chipper. “What do you see in these paintings?”

Morningstar cleared his throat, trying to stand up as straight as possible. “They’re abstractions. The ancient Equestrians felt that depicting the perfect Gods in any way would be inherently imperfect. So they used ways of conveying their perfection through abstractions. Circles and four-pointed stars for Artemis, for example. The Saddle Arabians did something similar with their gods.”

“What if I told you abstraction was meant for more than the Gods? That their rituals, too, were buried in these depictions? That the key to the great magic that makes the sun and moon shine upon our fields was here, in these paintings?”

Morningstar tilted his head. “It’s seems very possible, Your Holiness.”

Celestia chuckled, walking backwards now, gesturing towards the paintings. “These rituals are hardly things of the past, Morningstar. Though myself and my sister are their children, and Cadance is one of our most honored friends, we still must have the favor of the Gods to do the great magic of raising the Sun and the Moon. See these paintings here?” Celestia said. She was pointing to a series of scattered purple patterns, with bowing curves and sagging circles, and the thought of what these represented sent shivers down Morningstar’s spine.

“They depict a great famine,” he said softly. “Gods.… Look at all these circles. These are the dead. There must be thousands of these marks…”

Celestia’s eyes softened, and she sighed deeply. “It was certainly a sight to see. Without my sister here to curry favor with Artemis, our crops died by night. Many would awaken to find entire fields being consumed by locusts. Others would have had their farms flooded overnight. The Gods were not happy about her banishment, but there was nothing else I could have done. Either thousands died, or all who opposed her would die. It was…”

Celestia paused for a moment. Morningstar could have sworn he saw her shudder. He stepped forward, thinking of placing a hand on her shoulder, stopping himself just short. What would she do if he… he touched her? He simply couldn’t stand to see his High Priestess so… so sad. Yes, she was a God’s child, but she was also human, and she must have seen so much pain in over eleven-hundred years of life…

Celestia took his hand in hers, smiling at him. For a moment, their eyes met, and Morningstar felt a wave of warmth travel through his entire body. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I usually have no trouble getting through this part, I assure you, but I must stress the importance of what I will be asking you to do.”

She didn’t let go of his hand as she continued to guide him through the corridor, waving a hand towards the paintings, causing parts of them to glow. “As I said, only through great ritual are we able to gain the Gods’ favor. Most rituals are tame, things that anyone can do. A sacrifice of bread or water, the burning of wool or molted feathers, giving up pieces of ourselves to give ourselves to the Gods. You know this, of course, as you grew up in a Sun Faith household. Had you grown up with the Moon Faith, you would know that even greater sacrifices exist, sacrifices that vanquish nightmares and protect the realm of dreams. But for truly great magic, it takes more than sacrifice. Sol, in particular, demands communion.”

Morningstar blinked. “Communion, Your Holiness?”

Celestia chuckled, a bit dryly. “Well, yes. There are few things more glorious than the human form, after all. And the Gods share in our joys and our sorrows when they are well-earned. It is the responsibility of the Priesthood, as well as the Praetorianae, to engage in these communions. Some are tame – communal prayers, shared chants, festivals held to honor a sacrifice or holiday. You already know of those. Others, ones hidden from public eye, can get… pretty wild.”

Morningstar glanced at the wall, and he felt his jaw go slack. “Y-Your Holiness, I… Did someone tamper with these paintings?”

“What makes you say that?” Celestia said, her voice sugary sweet.

“These colors, these lines, these patterns… this is depicting an orgy, High Priestess!”

“Told you,” Celestia said, beaming at him, giving his hand a squeeze. “This is the responsibility of the Concubini Praetorianae, Morningstar. Working hand and hand with the Faith’s Priests and Priestesses in rituals ranging from prayer sessions to…”

She tilted her head at the painting in question. “Well, that’s one of the tame ones. Not a length of rope in sight.”

Morningstar pulled away his hand, biting his lip. “This… This is insane! The faith is beautiful, not debauched!”

“You’re preaching to the choir, my boy,” Celestia said, putting her hands on her hips. “Besides, there is nothing debauched about this. Sex for the sake of the Gods is glorious, perhaps the most enjoyable sort.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with Celestia?”

Celestia chuckled, stepping towards Morningstar and taking him by the hand again. “I understand that this is a lot to take in, Morningstar, but you needn’t put me on a pedestal. What I’m asking of you is a great honor. I don’t let just anybody join the Praetorianae. You’re a very skilled young man, from magic to swordfighting. You’re physically, mentally, and magically strong, stronger than most even already in the group. And you’ll be able to know me, know all the High Priestesses, in more ways and more often than most anybody.”

“I am not a prostitute,” Morningstar spluttered.

“I’m not asking you to be one, you silly boy,” Celestia said, taking his other hand and and squeezing them together, looking into his eyes. “It’s not all sex and festivals. Think of it as something beyond even the Holy Guard in terms of closeness. Were an assassin to leap into my bedside window, a blade at the ready, do you think the guards outside my door would know? Even Luna sees the defensive need for a man, or woman, in one’s bed who is willing to die to defend their bedfellows. Sol heard your prayers, Morningstar. Believe me, if anyone would know, it would be me. You wanted to protect me more than anything. It’s more than merely the sweet musings of a young man.”

Morningstar took a deep breath, steeling himself. “I…”

“Please,” Celestia said softly, her eyes wide and filled with hope. “Join us. Join me. Let us make this world brighter together.”

Morningstar swallowed, lowering his eyes. He couldn’t say no, not to her, not to the woman who he had prayed to defend and who was the child of his God. Yet he still had some… reservations. One that felt immediately important to the job.

“High Priestess, I am honored that you would consider me for this,” he said, softly. “But… Well, I’m not sure why you would choose me. I, erm, have never really… consumated before.”

Celestia let out a small, silken laugh, patting Morningstar on the cheek. “Oh, I knew that! Silly boy, if this was about experience I would have a stable of whores, and despite what you’re hearing from me, that’s hardly what the Praetorianae are about.”

“I don’t want to disappoint you, Your Holiness,” Morningstar mumbled, thoroughly embarrassed, his sandy skin turning a bright red hue right to the tips of his ears. Celestia ran her hand down Morningstar’s chest, and though there was a tunic between her fingers and his pectorals, Morningstar could feel the sheer heat behind her touch. Was this a sort of magic, or was it just him, feeling more sensitive than ever before? He caught Celestia glancing downwards, and his blush grew even brighter.

“Oh, tut, tut, Morningstar, don’t worry about that,” she said, her arms wrapping loosely around his shoulders. Gods, she seemed so tall... “You’re built like nobody else in the Praetorianae, you know.”

Morningstar swallowed. “I am?”

Celestia smiled, a crooked, almost mischievous smile, her fingers tracing down Morningstar’s sides. He realized that his own hands, armored in heavy gauntlets, were resting on Celestia’s hips, and that beneath her cloak, the High Priestess left little to the imagination. She wore a single-piece silken garment of some sort, that slung over her shoulders and under her bottom, like some sort of sling. She was dressed like this the whole time, but had kept it literally under wraps, the bulk of her cloak now softly flowing back and forth in the light draft within the halls. She had the body of a goddess. Even underneath his gloves it felt nearly hot to the touch. Every curve was like the stroke of a paintbrush, starting slim and ending thick, and Morningstar had only heard mere tales of women with such bountiful, buxom–

Celestia pulled away, laughing airily to herself, her cloak seeming to wrap around her body once more, shielding it from Morningstar’s gaze. “Goodness, I’m sorry, Morningstar, I got a little carried away,” she said.

Morningstar blinked. The High Priestess apologizing? To him? He shuffled a bit, trying his best to adjust his trousers around the, ahem, snakelike new obstacle within. Dammit. He had never been harder in his life. Hardly her fault. He bowed his head, placing a fist against his chest, the traditional salute of the Guard.

“Your Holiness, it’s nothing to apologize for,” he said. “I… I kind of liked it, to be honest.”

Celestia giggled, airily, awkwardly, and Morningstar felt a great weight fall away from his shoulders. Yes, she was an immortal child of the gods, but she was as human as anyone else in the Temple, perhaps even more. For what was more human than mistakes made, and feelings overflowing causing a bit of awkwardness now and then? “I’ll take it you’ll join us, then? As… heavy as the responsibility may be, the Concubini Praetorianae is as much of an honor as the Holy Guard. In my opinion, arrogant, though holy, as it can be, it’s more of an honor.”

Morningstar nodded, kneeling before the High Priestess, hand on his heart. “I accept, Your Holiness. I will try to be worthy of this great gift you’ve given me.”

Celestia smiled, kneeling herself, placing a hand on Morningstar’s shoulder. “You’ll prove worthy in due time, my faithful Praetorian. Now, stand, and come with me. There is much to do in preparation of your Initiation.”

Author's Note

Offertory

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

First Communion

That night, between the second and third watches, Morningstar stood before the great double doors of the Chamber of Sacrifice.

The doors were huge, etched with carvings of the entire history of the Sisters of Sunlight, from their founding as a group of High Priestess Celestia’s friends to their many holy missions across the world, doing the will of Sol and protecting his followers alongside the Holy Guard. Morningstar ran his hand up a few of the carvings, feeling their intricacies even under his glove, his eyes wandering over the heroics of the Holy Guard. Not even a day ago, Morningstar had wanted to be one of those heroes, cleansing the land of chaos in the holy names of Sol and Artemis. But now, all of that seemed so quaint. Now, he was closer to Celestia than anyone in the Holy Guard could ever dream of. He was closer to Sol than anyone in Holy Guard could ever dream of.

It was a closeness that Morningstar knew came with a great debt, upon which utmost secrecy was only the first down payment. What Celestia had alluded to earlier was running through his head a thousand times over by now. Laypeople had tried, and failed, to tap into the magic that he was about to become a part of, and died by the thousands before it was outlawed by holy decree and hidden deep within these chambers. Doubtlessly, she had said the same to Pastel, said the same to many others who had walked through these doors. Morningstar wondered how many had entered this chamber only to never return, how many had been lucky enough to only leave a burnt-out husk of a corpse. The price of failure was heaped high upon his head. But the price of success…

Morningstar swallowed. Celestia wouldn’t have chosen him if she didn’t believe that he was capable of handling this sort of magic. Right?

He heard footfalls behind him and glanced over his shoulder. Another Praetorian, the first one he had seen the entire day, her armor identical to his save a long, purple plume erupting violently from her helm. This one was a woman, almost as tall as Celestia, but she was chiseled and statuesque in a way that would have made many a man jealous of her physique. Upon her tightly packed abdomen was a wide array of tattoos, elaborate and dazzling in such a way that it made Morningstar dizzy to watch them move on her flexing musculature. As she approached, Morningstar could smell the distinct scent of her perfume, a lavender scent that hung in the musty air. There was a lazy sway in her step, and as she approached Morningstar he heard her hearty, chuckling laughter.

“So, you’re the fresh meat, eh?” she said, punching him just a bit too hard on the shoulder. Her voice held the trademark lilt of the faraway Highlands, an accent that Morningstar felt held the delight of living.

Morningstar nodded, turning around to face her and giving her a salute. “If by that you mean the new Praetorian, yes, Ma’am,” he said.

She laughed again, the sound of it scratchy and worn like an rusty, if reliable, sword, and she placed a hand on her hip. “Knew I heard there was gonna be an Initiation today,” she said. “Gotta admit, was thinkin’ they’d be bringin’ in somebody taller.”

Morningstar grunted. Did everybody have to rub it in? “I assure you, I’m Praetorianae material, Ma’am.”

“Ah, I don’t doubt it,” she said. He couldn’t see her expression past her helm, but Morningstar could tell that she was wearing a dry smirk on her face. “I bet yer awful nervous, eh, fresh meat?”

“Not at all,” Morningstar said. “Pastel trusts me, and I trust her. We’re in this together and we’ll exceed all expectations, I’m sure.”

The woman laughed again, heartier than ever, punching Morningstar in the shoulder once more. “Well, that’s certainly a leg up from my first time. Poor girl thought I didn’t have what it took. Literally, of course,” she said, gesturing vaguely to her crotch. “Guess these gals all cooped up in here have never figured there’s more n’ one way to ride a horse. Most of the fellas coming in don’t either, but they learn right quick.”

Morningstar crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. He had figured the other Praetorians would be taking this seriously. This was holy magic, after all. He could feel her grinning behind her helmet, just before she pushed him against the door, summoning a strength Morningstar had rarely seen to press him up against its surface.

“Yer not impressed, huh? Figured I’d be some kinda mystic type? Never was one fer faith, afore Celestia brought me into her Praetorianae. Always liked fightin’, though!”

“Clearly,” Morningstar said softly, taking ahold of her arm. “F-Frankly, I didn’t really have any expectations. Though I’m a bit… perplexed by your behavior before a ritual such as this.”

“Not like you were prayin’, eh?”

“Did that before I came here.”

“Ah, shite,” the woman said, relenting and letting go of Morningstar, flicking her hand a few times. “Figured Celestia would do better than a freakin’ altar boy.”

Morningstar smirked. “Not impressed, huh?”

The woman undid her helmet, yanking it off of her head, and pushed back her coiffe. Her head was shaved halfway on the right hand side, with a long, violently pink part to the left. Her face was spotted with freckles and covered with scars, and one of her bright green eyes had gone milky and blind. especially seeing that almost every inch of her carried a scar, and most likely a story. She gave Morningstar a wry grin, and offered him her hand, which he gladly took. “Name’s Sword Dancer. Most call my Dancey. Pleased ta meet ya, fresh meat.”

“I’m Morningstar,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze. “Something tells me this wasn’t your first service.”

She already wore a broad grin and a twinkle in her eye, but both seemed to double in size. “Holy Guard, lad. Was a First Pikewoman in the Changeling Wars ‘bout ten years or so ago. Served under Captain Zweihander, toughest motherfucker that e’er walked the earth, not countin’ High Priestess Luna of course. Got roughed up pretty badly after a skirmish, made sure everybody got out save me. Surgeons said they got me pretty good, n’ that I wouldn’t fight again. Celestia offered me a place in her Praetorianae personally, an’ ya don’t turn down a High Priestess, do ya?”

Morningstar’s grip loosened a bit, and his face fell under his helmet. “Zweihander was my father,” he said quietly.

She let go of Morningstar’s hand, placing hers on his helmet. “No shit?”

“No… No shit.”

Her smile was smaller now, but there was something different about it. She pulled up Morningstar’s helm, and that different smile didn’t grow, only… intensified with the sort of queer sadness it had. “Ya look jus’ like ‘im,” she said. “Mayhaps a wee bit younger than when I knew ‘im, but… Gods, that’s uncanny.”

She let his helmet drop back down on his head. “He was a good fella. Fought ‘til the bitter end. Wish I was there ta see him through. Sorry ‘bout… well, y’know.”

Morningstar swallowed. “He fell in battle alongside his comrades. That’s the most we can all hope for.”

Sword Dancer yanked her coiffe back up over her head, and slipped her helmet back on, giving Morningstar a few hearty pats on the shoulder. “Well, yer certainly honorin’ his memory, though prolly not the way ya intended. Catch me after the ceremony, eh? Think I’ve some good liquor stashed away.”

“I don’t really drink,” Morningstar said.

“Well, then, let’s make this a night o’ firsts, eh? Speakin’ of, pretty sure there’s some delightful little morsel of a young lady waitin’ for ya in there. We shouldn’t keep ‘er waitin’!”

“Of course not,” Morningstar said. Gods, Pastel really was waiting, wasn’t she? He wasn’t about to disappoint her, and if things went right, he wouldn’t disappoint anybody else, either.

Dancer laughed, pushing him aside, deftly opening both of the great double doors with one arm, using the other to gesture Morningstar inside. “Well, come on then, fresh meat! Onwards to yer Initiation!”

The Chamber of Sacrifice was massive, the sheer scale of it making Morningstar’s head spin. Though it was deep underground, the ceiling projected the moon and stars as if they were on the surface, undoubtedly an effort of great magic. Candles held by the Sisters and Praetorians who crowded the chamber offered some means of lighting besides the beckoning glow of the altar itself, a long, wide slab covered in runes. Indeed, wherever Morningstar looked, there were runes, a dazzlingly long series of ancient prayers and rituals carved into the very stone, in a language so old that even he, with all of his bookish knowledge on the subject, couldn’t recognize it. There was only one thing missing from the chamber, and that was Celestia herself, who was nowhere to be found. Odd, seeing as the Initiation was surely only minutes away, but Morningstar had little time to contemplate where Celestia was as Sword Dancer led him to a corner of the room where the Praetorians were huddled.

“Oy, Moonblade,” Sword Dancer said, pushing Morningstar towards the other Praetorians, “check out the fresh meat Celestia’s offerin’ us!”

Out of the huddled mass of scantily-armored men and women came one man. He seemed the size of a mountain, his armor elaborately decorated, gold and silver damascene glittering in candlelight. He towered over Morningstar, his fists almost as large as the boy’s head, his body a hulking mass of muscle and discipline. In his right hand was a tremendous staff, with charms and trinkets adorning it by the thousandfold, the ground seeming to shake wherever it touched down. Morningstar did his best to stand his ground, but certainly felt dwarfed in comparison. He puffed out his chest as best as he could, and kneeled before who was, surely, his new commanding officer.

“You must be Morningstar,” he said, his voice smooth as leather and deep as the ocean.

“Y-Yes, sir,” Morningstar mumbled.

“I am Elder Crescent Moonblade. You will call me Elder,” he said. “The Praetorianae has a loose structure, but one of us must speak for all of us, and I speak for all of us at any given time. I trust you understand the importance of our mission?”

“Loud and clear, Elder,” Morningstar said, his fist banging against his chestplate as he saluted.

“Good. Some of us may seem undisciplined,” he said, gesturing vaguely Dancer, “but the Praetorianae Concubini expects the best from you at all times, Son of Zweihander. We will be watching you, especially when it seems we are not.”

“Understood, Elder,” Morningstar said.

The Elder let out a deep breath, the sound of it like a hurricane against Morningstar’s ears. “The Initiation is about to begin,” he said. “The High Priestess’ spirit is high on the winds. If you are not ready, you will be.”

“Not to worry, Elder,” Morningstar said. “I’m ready and able for whatever shall come next.”

“We shall see,” Moonblade said, gripping his staff. “We shall see…”

At that moment, Morningstar felt the wind grow stronger in the chamber. An odd thing, considering that it was sealed and deep beneath the earth. Soon, all the candles had blown out, so that the only light inside the chamber was provided by the stars and moon projected upon its ceiling. Morningstar gazed upward and saw a distant light in the magical horizon, growing and growing as the wind picked up more and more, howling and moaning across his ears, as the sun rose and grew brighter and brighter and brighter until it was blinding. Morningstar shut his eyes tightly, and when that offered little protection from the light’s radiance, he threw an arm over his faceplate as warmth radiated across the entire chamber. There was a deep, loud boom, and the earth itself seemed to shake, and then as soon as it had happened, it was over.

Celestia stood upon the altar, glowing brightly with magic, a hand on her hip and a warm smile on her face. Raising her hands, the candles glowed again, brighter now, as if they themselves were little suns upon wax. “Gathered Sisters, honored Praetorians,” Celestia said, her voice booming across the chamber despite its warmth and elegance, “Blessings of Sol upon you all!”

Cheers erupted across the chamber, and Morningstar, swept up in the excitement, whooped and hollered with the best of them. Celestia put out her hands, and the cheers soon died down to a sacred silence. Sisters of Sunlight and the Praetorianae milled into a ring around the altar, a movement that Morningstar was guided into with silent bumps and tugs on his arm. He stood between two Praetorians at least a head taller than he was, both of whom glanced down upon him and both of whom couldn’t resist a snigger. “Fresh meat,” one whispered, and the other chuckled softly before the both of them were silenced by a leering gaze from Elder Moonblade.

“As we gather here today, we welcome two new souls into our ranks,” Celestia said. “Step forward, young souls, and join me on the altar.”

Morningstar swallowed. So it began. He took a step forward, and immediately the Praetorians erupted into even more cheering. Celestia seemed to giggle a bit, raising her hand again for silence, as Morningstar approached the altar, head held high, his body relaxed, his mind clear. Pastel was soon by his side, veiled once more, and he gave her a nod she reciprocated in kind. They were in this together, together in duty and honor, and there was no more time for doubts. When they reached the altar, Celestia took one of their hands each, giving them both that motherly smile Morningstar had sworn to protect.

“This new Praetorian is Morningstar,” Celestia said. “I know some of you may look upon him and scoff, but his faith shines brighter than the hottest of stars, and his body had been honed by the training and discipline to be expected from the son of the great Legate Zweihander. His destiny shines like morning dew, and great things will come to our faith and our nation with him in the Praetorianae Concubini. Hail, Morningstar!”

“Hail!” cried the Praetorians to the west, sending Morningstar’s face bright red to the tips of his ears. Celestia’s warm gaze settled on Pastel, and she seemed to shift a bit on her feet, no doubt feeling a touch nervous. Morningstar took her hand in his, affording her a smile that he knew she wouldn’t be able to see, but that she would hopefully feel. She squeezed his hand tightly, and Morningstar could feel it shake from the strain.

“And we are welcoming Initiate Pastel into the fold of the Sisters of Sunlight,” Celestia said. “Slight as she may be, Pastel glows with a holiness few could ever attain, and though she may be quiet, her voice brings joy to Sol and his fellow Gods. I not doubt that she will go far in her journey towards Motherhood, and the light she shines upon us all shall uplift us and guide us. Hail, Pastel!”

“Hail!” Cried the sisters, their call a far cry from the rough-and-tumble sound of the gathered Praetorians. Out of the corner of his eye, Morningstar saw a half-dozen Sisters of Sunlight and just as few Praetorians rise onto the altar, stepping towards the two of them, carrying baskets of… things. Undoubtedly, these were materials for the Initiation rite, and though Morningstar’s stomach was doing flips, he couldn't help but feel a touch of excitement at what they could be.

“Join me in prayer,” Celestia said, smiling as warmly as ever. “Let us welcome these Initiates to the true path of the Gods!”

Morningstar gasped instinctively when he felt hands grabbing at him, pulling him away from Pastel, into the middle of a huddle with several Praetorians. He couldn’t see Pastel past their bodies as they gently guided him to one side of the altar and laid him down, their grasp rough, but hardly forceful. Morningstar gazed upwards at the moon as they undid his loincloth, his half-hardness now exposed to the cool air of the chamber. His every nerve was now aware, his ears wide open to the sound of many dozens kneeling, as Celestia led them in a chant in the Old Language.

“Hail, Sol, God of the Sun! He, whose rays shine down ‘pon the earth eternal! He, whose holy light guides us together!”

One of the Praetorians began pouring something thick and warm on Morningstar’s abdominals, and with roughly-hewn if not gentle hands, he began spreading it across his skin. Olive oil, judging from the scent, the warmth an added bonus against his wound-tight muscles. As the chanting continued, the Praetorians began whispering a prayer of their own.

Morningstar grunted, as another pair of hands began working the oil into his length, these ones softer, more delicate, pulling him into hardness. “May this sword strike true against the demons who dwell in flesh,” a voice said, and despite its hushed tone, Morningstar recognized it as Sword Dancer. “And may it bring a holy light into the depths of those it slays.” He recognized that one – a rite said before battle, usually, though this time, the context was far, far different. Morningstar almost asked Dancer what was to happen, but as swiftly as he had been laid down, he was brought back to his feet. The Praetorians pulled away his helmet and yanked back his coiffe, and one of them began painting runes upon his face with a grape-smelling paste. These, he knew, were doubtlessly components in some sort of spell, and he shuddered to think of what that spell might be as the chanting stopped and changed.

“Hail, Artemis,” said Celestia, her lead followed by the dozens surrounding the altar. “She who protects us in the night, she who guides us in the dark and leads us to victory in battle!”

The sisters surrounding Pastel had parted, and Morningstar’s eyes widened as he saw her. Her cloak was pulled back, whatever she had worn beneath it taken away, her skinny little body fully exposed to the air, a light layer of oil making it gleam in the candlelight. What she lacked in fullness, Pastel more than made up for in form, from the subtle curves of her hips to the delightful way those silk stockings clung to her thighs. She looked away from Morningstar, clearly somewhat embarrassed. The Sisters had pulled the hood of her cloak back, and her hair, a delightful shade of minty green, cascaded down her shoulders. Morningstar had thought he had rid himself of his nerves before, but now, they returned in full force, as the sisters painted the runic symbols for love and purity upon her glowing cheeks. Morningstar felt inadequate. He felt undeserving. After all, he had met her but a day ago, and yet here she was, prepared just for him like a roasted duck on his birthday. And yet, Morningstar couldn’t deny that he wanted her, if his throbbing length was any indication. He heard someone giggle to his left, and felt the scratchy voice of Sword Dancer in his ear again.

“Well? Go on, fresh meat. Show us what that longsword can do.”

Morningstar sputtered a bit, stepping forward, offering his hands to Pastel. She took them in his, giving them a squeeze, looking him in the eyes. “Trust me,” he whispered, and she nodded, as the chants changed once more.

“Hail, the All Mother, who gave birth to the Gods, who passed down this rite to her children, who pass down this rite unto us, now and forever.”

Morningstar could feel Celestia’s presence as she passed by him, her smile as warm and guiding as ever, her eyes now twinkling with something more. It was lust, he knew that much, but it was a lust that he had never seen before, something hungry and otherworldly like nothing else. She took Pastel by the shoulders, and whispered something in her ear, guiding her away from Morningstar and directing her to lay down on the altar. Morningstar almost stumbled as he followed them, kneeling down before Pastel, giving himself a few preparatory strokes of his length. The chanting died down, and now, the entire room was silence, save for a few hushed whispers from the crowd around them. The tip of Morningstar’s length tapped against Pastel’s thigh, and she let out a little whimper, prompting him to reach down and place a hand on her oil-slicked belly. Celestia stood over them, her hands on her hips, her cloaked parted to either side, her illustrious body now naked before them, seemingly glowing just a bit with magic.

Pastel began to pray. She took a hold of Morningstar’s length, and lined him up with her quivering slit. Gods, it was slick, and not only from the oil.

“Bless… Bless this union, Sol.”

Morningstar thrusted forward.

He missed. His length slipped against her slickness, and ground against her mound, the rough feeling of shaved pubic hair grinding intolerably against him. Morningstar groaned, pulling back, lining himself up again. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit!

“It’s a-alright,” Pastel said softly.

“Just take your time, Morningstar,” cooed Celestia. “This is your first, after all.”

Morningstar nodded. He wouldn’t miss a second time. Pastel’s hand reached down, and slowly guided him as he ground against her lower lips, gritting his teeth, taking her free hand in his own. “Bless this union, Sol,” she said, and then he was inside, and her words were taken away.

She was tight. She reflexively clung to Morningstar’s length as it slipped past her maidenhead, preventing it from going any further, miring him in the warmth of her first few folds. Gods, was this truly what it was like? It was tough going, so Morningstar took his hand from hers, and began gently massaging her belly, squeezing and rubbing her flesh as gently as he could. “Trust me,” Morningstar said, and Pastel grunted an affirmation, her flesh finally giving way and letting Morningstar slide in deeper, and deeper, the musky scent of fresh sex finally filling the air, intermingling with the sticky sweetness of the olive oil, the runes on her cheeks beginning to glow, and warmth not of embarrassment but of magic growing on Morningstar’s. He bottomed out inside her, hips meeting hips, the entirety of his shaft almost on fire from the warmth, almost crushed by the tightness, almost turned to butter with slickness of it all.

“Comfortable?” Celestia asked, as casually as can be. Pastel was silent, but nodded simply, her eyes never leaving Morningstar’s, her body quaking underneath him. “Good,” Celestia said, her hands on Morningstar’s armored shoulders, her lips pressing against the back of his head. “Say the rite with me, Pastel, as this boy drives you towards the Gods.”

Celestia’s hands slid down and laid on Morningstar’s hips, as a prayer filled the air, Celestia’s angelic voice and Pastel’s soft, mewling whispers following along as she guided him back out of her. “We give ourselves to the Gods, so they may bring us close to them in the Heavens...”

Morningstar’s cockhead slipped out of Pastel’s cunt with a sloppy-sounding pop, a string of her arousal linking their organs together before falling away onto the now-soaked stone of the altar. He thrusted forth, missing again, sliding against her thigh, her hand taking his once more, Celestia clucking in his ear and ceasing her prayer for just a moment.

“I knew you’d be enthusiastic, Morningstar,” she said. “You’re doing very well.”

“I-I…”

“Don’t say a word, now,” Celestia said. “Listen to my voice, okay?”

“....Yes, your Holiness.”

“It’s just Celestia, now,” she cooed, her hands running up and down his sides. “Now, line yourself up, boy. And once your aim is true, give her one good thrust, with a bit of force this time. Don’t be afraid… she’s tougher than she looks.”

Morningstar swallowed. He guided himself true once more, peering down at Pastel’s pussy, the head of his length sliding up against it. As Celestia had asked, he gave it a bit more force, swiftly slipping into Pastel, those same feelings of warmth and tightness and that same lurid smell filling his nostrils once more. Pastel groaned, but her prayers continued almost unabated, her eyes closed now, a little button of nerves grinding against the base of Morningstar’s cock.

“Good boy,” Celestia said softly, giving Morningstar’s hips a good squeeze. “Now, listen to her prayers, Morningstar. Find the rhythm in her words.”

Morningstar did as he was bidden. “M-May this horn prove bountiful…” he pulled back, just a touch, and thrusted forth again, forcing a demure squeak out of Pastel’s mouth. “M-May this… this tree bear fruit…” another thrust, this time making her sigh, and soon another, and another. Pastel’s prayer was now a song, and Morningstar was now playing her like an instrument, and he was proving a mischievous bard. With every plunge into her, Pastel nearly lost her breath, almost always lost her place, her body twitching and twisting underneath Morningstar as he leaned forward, his face mere inches from hers, the runes glowing, and glowing, the room becoming brighter, and brighter. Gods, she was even tighter like this. She was even more delightful under him, his bountiful balls bouncing off her rear, the percussive sound of their union echoing against the chamber’s smooth walls, her eyes no longer squeezed shut and instead gently closed as she let go of Morningstar’s hand and rested hers upon her chest.

She hardly had a bust to be bouncing, but to watch her chest was still hypnotic. The way it rose and fell with her shaking breath, the way the entirety of her dainty, pale body shook with every single lurid thrust. Morningstar felt another pair of hands slide against his shoulder, these ones cold, cold enough to feel through solid steel, and he glanced up to see the spirits that filled the room, that watched them as they consummated something greater than he could have ever imagined, the candles blown out, the sky gone, the runes on the walls glowing a cool, ominous blue. Was this the magic Celestia had spoken of? Was this what was brought about by the prayers and the… and the…

Gods. She couldn’t say anything to him with a mouthful of prayers, but Morningstar knew Pastel was enjoying this. As he found his rhythm, she followed suite, squeezing and clenching and moaning against him, her arms draping lazily over his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his middle. Celestia giggled, and Morningstar’s cock throbbed at the sound of her voice. Gods, he wanted her, too. Was this the work of the spirits? To make him desire that which he could never have?

No. He would have it one day. He was sure of that. But he had a duty to this girl, this girl who had put her trust in him, who squeezed and clenched and moaned and begged, whose prayers, he realized, where now over as the wind was filled with the noise of the spirits, of their groans, of their chuckles, of their lurid comments in a thousand ancient languages. Celestia smirked, gripping Morningstar’s hips, whispering in his ear.

“The spirits are pleased,” she said. “Are you getting close?”

Morningstar groaned. Gods, was he ever. His entire body was tingling with this sort of energy that he had only ever dreamed of feeling before. He knew what would happen should he fail to pull out, should his seed spill into Pastel, should he finish this rite with a promise. But he didn’t know if it was a promise he wanted to make. He leaned down, and whispered to Pastel.

“S-Sister,” he said, softly. “I…”

“Do it in me,” she mumbled, her hand against his glowing cheek.

“Are… Are you sure?”

“It will please the G-Gods,” Pastel moaned, her hand running down his face, across his neck. “It will please me…”

Morningstar groaned, his thrusts slowing, his breath ragged, his body quivering. It was almost over. The spirits were growing restless, their blue glow turning purple, slowly morphing towards red, his eyes squeezing shut against the violent hues before him. “I-I’m honored, Pastel,” he said, softly. “I…”

“Shhh,” Celestia said, kissing Morningstar’s cheek. “You talk too much. Do it. Cum inside her.”

Morningstar groaned, his vision turning white, the runes turning white, everything turning white, a shock going up his spine, his entire body clenching as he let loose, as promised, inside her. He could hear Pastel squealing, feel the vicelike group of her own orgasm, feel Celestia’s grip into his hips, every feeling amplified, every emotion growing as his lips met Pastel’s, as his tongue wrestled with hers, as his body tensed in one glorious moment, sighs and groans of spirits and Gods filling the air. This was magic, he knew that much. This was glory beyond compare. The last thing he heard before he fell faint was Celestia’s airy laughter, and Pastel’s ragged breath against his ear.

It took Morningstar a few minutes to get his bearings back.

Pastel laid against him, her covered head resting on his breastplate, panting softly. He was still inside her, though he was far from hard any longer. The smell of sex was still strong in the air, and as his hearing returned, Morningstar heard moans, and groans, and laughter, and the sounds of feasting and fucking and the music of flutes and harps. Celestia sat not too far from the both of them, gazing over the orgy that surrounded them, a warm smile on her face.

“Ah, so you’ve come to,” she said. “How do you feel?”

Morningstar smacked his lips. They were dry as a desert, as was his mouth. “Thirsty.”

Celestia giggled. “That’s normal. The spirits do like to take the water out of you. Sister Marigold?... Ah, she must be somewhere in the tangled mass of the orgy. Ah, well,” Celestia said, rising to her feet. “Welcome to the Holy Fold, you two. Please, come and join us for some food and drink once you’re situated. And if you’d like to go for another round… well, nobody’s stopping you.”

Morningstar groaned, his softened shaft slipping out of Sister Pastel as she raised her hips. “I… I might need a minute, your – Celestia.”

“Of course,” Celestia said, smiling. “That was quite the Initiation. I’m impressed with your resilience, as is my father.”

“You’re not the only one,” Pastel mumbled, pecking Morningstar on the lips.

“I’ll leave you two be,” Celestia said, walking away towards the intermingling crowd, leaving Morningstar and Pastel to their own devices. Morningstar sat up, watching her leave, his eyes fixed on her swaying hips. Gods, he had certainly sworn to protect the right High Priestess. Pastel placed her hand on his cheek, smiling at him.

“She’s beautiful,” she said softly.

Morningstar smiled. “Happy we can agree. Glad you trusted me?”

“Glad I still do.”

He smirked, giving Pastel a loose hug. “Another round once we’re back on our feet?”

“Absolutely.”

Author's Note