The Forging of Harmony

“No.” Said Gerbil. “And if you ask me that one more time, I swear to Frelna I’m going to—”

“Huh.” Said Flask from under a thick, greasy black mane. He paused as he thought of something to say. “Are we there now?” He said after nine seconds of careful introspection.

“No!” Gerbil fumed. “For the twelve-thousandth time, no!” He twisted his ruff back into position. “And you should think about running a comb through that mess before it’s, I don’t know, too late and a bird moves in or something.”

“So quick to anger.” Remarked Flask in a low rumble. “And you wonder why the Northerners see us Fjordlanders as a bunch of lawless swashbucklers.”

“They see us as lawless because ponies like you havebeen the face of our city for the last hundred bleeding years.” He retorted with a bitter sneer. “How’d you even get picked for this position, is what I’d like to know!”

“They tell me I’m good with ponies.” Said the large brown river pony simply.

He was good with ponies, but the truth was that he was good with one pony in particular. That particular pony was the short puce one who was standing next to him and was presently twisting his bowler hat into the exactly proper position on his slick, grey mane.

“They only say that because you’re a pushover.” He sneered. “Always giving all of the other tribes exactly what they please. You need to start putting your hoof down.”

“If that dam hadn’t been built, the Vale would have flooded.” Flask commented. “And that’s no good for anypony.”

“Oh, very well.” Said Gerbil snidely. “But you’re always apologizing to the other ambassadors. You lose all the power in the conversation.”

“Sorry.”

Gerbil let out a furious cry. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about!”

“Oh.” Flask looked down. “I’m sorry.”

Gerbil shook his head. “Just let me do the talking, would you?”

“The last time you did the talking—” began Flask.

“—I know what happened last time,” muttered Gerbil. “What happened was the Lieutenant-Warden had some problems with authority.”

“He sure took badly to you calling him an blithering, unwashed backbiter.” Recalled Flask passively.

“Well,” said Gerbil mockingly “now I know not to insult some unclean savage in his own personal room full of knives. Happy?!”

“Yeah.” Said Flask. “It’s a start.”

They proceeded in silence though the Ventillian Tundra. It might have been merely cold, perhaps bearable under only a couple of layers, if it had not been for the wind. The wind was freezing and cut through their thick woolen jackets like they were nothing. It tore through the maroon shrubbery of the tundra and howled on occasion. The cold was malignant. And vicious. Gerbil hated it and it hated him back. And it only got worse as they journeyed northwards. How the northerners could bear it, Gerbil did not know.

He rather disliked his job. But then again, he disliked things as a general rule. Truth be told, he didn’t know why he’d even gotten the job of ambassador. It seemed to him that ever since his foalhood, when he first learned to hate all the other foals, everypony had simply pressured him into it. Natural talent, I expect, he thought smugly. Better me than them. He trotted forth pompously, looking out over the crest of a nearby hill.

“That’ll be it!” Proclaimed Gerbil gazing forth past the rising snowy expanse and out toward the closest mountain, whose tip was folded in clouds. “Stormchant.”

“Come have a look, old fellow!” He called down to his associate who gazed up to him through his thick tangle of hair.

“Nah.” Said he. “I’ve seen it a hundred times, thanks.”

“Ugh. Spoilsport.” The small stallion shrugged. “Fine. Let’s pick up the pace a bit.”

“Whatever you say.” Flask chortled. “Why don’t you try to keep up?”

* * *

A sole icy river wound through the Ventillian Tundra, and the two ambassadors made their camp near the intersection between it and the road whereon they were journeying. Making a fire in the brutal wind was hard going but well worth Gerbil’s repeated efforts once it had sprung to life. They dined on a ration of kelp, which had a bitter, unsavory taste that they no longer noticed due to years of dedicated practice. It was their final day before reaching the city, Gerbil knew. It was a journey they’d made many times before. Munching thoughtfully on a particularly unsavory piece of kelp, the puce river pony squinted his eyes through the tormenting wind. Light snows had begun to fall. Flask caught a piece on his tongue.

“Oh, will you stop that?” Admonished Gerbil. “I thought you were past this.” He rolled his eyes. “It all tastes the same.”

“I know.” Said Flask indifferently. “I just like the way it feels on my tongue.” He plucked another piece from the air. “It tickles,” he giggled. “Give it a try.”

“Hmph. I prefer to hold myself to higher standards.” Gerbil said, turning up his nose at the very thought. “And don’t let me catch you doing that around the Northerners. Makes you look simple in the head.”

“It doesn’t matter to me if they see me playing with the snow.” He thought for a second. “I like snow.”

“Ugh.” Said Gerbil. “You should really try to detest more things,” he said disapprovingly. “Gives a nice, firm grip on reality.”

Flask sat in silence for a minute as he contemplated a flake on the ground in front of him. He peered curiously at it from different directions, as if trying to see what Gerbil saw.

“I,” He paused reviewing the diminutive speck for another moment. He smiled at it. “I like snow.”

Gerbil cursed under his breath. “You’ll never understand.”

Flask didn’t seem to be bothered by this, which bothered Gerbil terribly.

“I hate snow.” He muttered, and gave the harmless particles a sneer as he bit down with vigor on his final piece of kelp. “Stupid snow. You’ll get yours when you melt.”

Flask caught another flake on his tongue, and after sitting in wonder of the falling precipitation for some time, retired into his snug cotton sleeping bag.

* * *

Gerbil’s belligerently precise inner clock awoke him at an ungodly hour. He loved waking up before everypony else. It was one of the few things he loved, but this was merely because it gave him an opportunity to berate his fellows for sleeping in, which always bolstered his self-esteem. Savoring the satisfaction of finishing his sleep in first place, he looked out on the bleak eastern horizon. Dawn was breaking over the dimly visible hills, and a bunch of irritating and unnecessary colors filled the sky. He felt like they were trying to provoke him. Like all times of day, he hated the dawn, with all those useless colors. Get over yourself. He thought annoyedly. And put on a tie or something. If the sun wore a tie at all times he supposed that he might hate it less. No, he thought. Then it’d just look uppity. He smirked. Like it’s trying get a raise or something. He loved finding new ways to be put off by things.

He glanced solemnly at Flask’s sleeping form. His side rose peacefully up and down as he dreamed about things that would doubtlessly annoy Gerbil to no end.

“Time to wake up, you great lummox.” Said Gerbil conceitedly. “You can’t sleep forever.”

“Oh,” said Flask. “You’re up. I’ve just been watching the snow.”

“There isn’t any.” Said Gerbil, affronted by Flask’s clear attempt to affront him by waking up earlier than he had. He glanced around. No snow was falling. “What are you really doing?”

“I’m watching the snow,” said Flask cheerfully. “It’s so . . .” He trailed off as he searched for a word. “. . . Peaceful.” He concluded, gazing happily at a tiny patch in front of him as it melted slowly in the mild sunlight.

“Yes, well,” said Gerbil, still perturbed from being unable to reprimand Flask. “Daylight’s burning. We’d best get a move on.”

“Yes.” Said Flask, gazing wistfully at the patch of slush. “I expect we should.”

* * *

They arrived at Stromchant at midday. Gerbil was exhausted from the mountainous ascent, but Flask abounded with energy. The sweeping snows that gathered about them as their journey met its incline seemed to have energized him. He smiled broadly as they approached the city gates. Gerbil, relieved at the prospect of shelter, furiously adjusted his bowler hat and twisted the corners of his mouth into an awkward sort of grimace.

The guard’s smile that he’d adopted upon recognizing Flask quickly faltered as he saw his companion and he let out a crestfallen groan.

“Hello, Flask,” he said. “Business in the city, I presume?”

“Yes.” Gerbil said, irked by the guard’s rhetorical question. (He hated all questions, but had a special loathing for ones that were only pretending to need an answer.) “Of course.”

“Enter.” He said, nodding to Flask. Addressing Gerbil, “You’re going to need to pass through customs. And sign a few things.”

“What for?” yelped Gerbil indignantly. “Is this still about the—”

“—The sandwich incident?” The guard finished. “Yes.”

Gerbil hated ponies who finished his sentences for him, especially when they finished them correctly. “Don’t you ponies have a sense of humor?” He said.

“It’s just,” the guard said uncomfortably, “we like to cultivate an image of dignity and respect for quadrupedal life . . .” He trailed off uneasily.

“Well, maybe next time you should try to cultivate an image of taking a bloody joke.” Said Gerbil under his breath. “Fine.” He said so that the guard could hear him.

* * *

“Bloody fools.” Gerbil galloped to his large, dark companion. “Kept me for three-and-a-half hours.”

Flask beamed at him. “There’s so much snow.”

Gerbil tightened his lips in an expression of repressed rage. “Well, bully for you.”

“I like—”

“—Yes, I’m quite aware.” Said Gerbil. “You like the snow. Yes. I think I’ve got it.”

“—snow!” Flask finished. He looked around merrily.

“Let’s get this over with.” Said Gerbil exasperatedly. They were approaching the city hall. “It’s, as they say, show time.”

Gerbil addressed the nearest guard, who had been eying him nervously. “We’re here to speak to the Archmonk-Grandmaster.”

“Hey,” said the guard, “Aren’t you the colt who had the sandwich and the—” he made a revolted expression and fell silent. “They let you back in the city after that?” He said, astonished.

“Just let us in.”

The guard said nothing more and stood aside, shuddering. Gerbil and Flask made their entry.

“That festering, sandwich-hating, piece of—” began Gerbil.

“—Love and tolerate.” Flask reminded him.

* * *

Flask and Gerbil stood sternly in the main council chambers of the Monastery of Truth as they waited for the Archmonk-Grandmaster, who was due any moment. It was an immense room, filled with many seats, most of which were used only in the rare occasion of a Full Council Meeting, an affair which would thin the mane of even the most dedicated unicorn bureaucrat.

The room and its many pillars were adorned with a multitude of red banners, each displaying the same bright, golden sun. A black-bordered poster hung on one of the walls. On it was the colorful image of a gavel striking a wooden desk. “GROUP DISCUSSION” read the bottom. It looked rather out of place, but Gerbil liked it. It comforted him. He wasn’t sure why.

“Running late. Just like a unicorn city-employee.” Gerbil said sarcastically. “The one thing they’re reliable for is their unreliability.”

“I think that’s him now.” Said Flask.

Gerbil nodded. “Let me do the talking.”

A purple unicorn wearing an elaborate robe strode out onto the balcony overlooking the chamber. The balcony was not high, and Gerbil could distinctly make out the dizzy expression on his face. It was as if he had just woken up.

“Whassat?” He mumbled, tripping slightly over the cuff of his robe. He looked confusedly down at the duo in the middle of the room. “Who’s this, then?” He asked no one in particular.

“We are ambassadors from the Fjordlands.” Asserted Gerbil coldly. “Is this how you choose to greet guests in your city?”

The Grandmaster squinted at them. “Oh, you look fine.” He said. “Perfectly pleasant. Don’t worry about it.”

Gerbil and Flask exchanged a perplexed glance.

“We were asking you.” The puce pony scoffed, adjusting his bowler hat.

“And I expect I did a fine job answering.” Nodded the Grandmaster, thinking over his previous remarks. “Who are you?”

“Ambassadors.”

“Alligators?”

“Sure.” Gerbil gave him an odd look.

“You have news for me, then?”

“Yes actually.” Gerbil said. He wondered how the Grandmaster had come to that lucky conclusion.

“Well, out with it, you big, filthy reptiles!” He cried. “What is it?!”

“With all due respect, Grandmaster,” said Gerbil. “I’m not sure you grasp the seriousness of the situation.”

“Well?” Said the Grandmaster. “Tell me, would you?”

“Sir,” said Gerbil angrily.

He paused, unsure whether or not his words would be wasted on this imbecile.

“The Lower Fjordlands have fallen.”