Arc I: A Long, Winding Road
”Ave ad Solem,
Regina nostra dea, Caelestia,
Lucifer, Fugatrix tenebrae.
Sit semper luceat lux vestra,
Et quia omnis amor Equestria”
White robes with gilded hems, and a crown of gold upon his brow, High Priest-Regent Stellar Ray smiled down on the mass of ponies below him as he finished the daily prayer. He looked at them, as they stared out at the glimmering sunrise, the beams of light shooting through the clouds in an impressive display.
Fools would probably go blind, eventually. It was fine, though, as long as they continue to worship the figure of Celestia, he could remain in power.
As mass ended and the noble ponies of Canterlot went about their business, Stellar Ray looked at himself in the mirror in his private chambers. He had to hold the Noon Court in a few hours, but until then he was, mostly, free. The robes matched his gleaming white coat, and offset the sunflower yellow mane and tail that poked out from under them. His bright blue eyes spoke of innocence, and the beauty of a summer sky.
Which was perfect, so far as he was concerned. The myth of Celestia, the all powerful Goddess-Queen of Equestria, had put him, and his family before him, on this throne, and it was best that he have a visage that matched the purity one would expect of a stallion who spoke the words of a Solar Deity. Whether there was any truth to the fable, he knew not, nor did he care. If Celestia ever had lived, she was long dead by now. But simple minded ponies still bowed and scraped, attended Church every Sunday, and would follow along with anything and everything the Solar Church told them to do.
It was this fervent belief that had led to the Church’s first High Priese, his own ancestor, being named Regent of the Equestrian Throne, almost three hundred years ago, and it still hung on and continued now. Money, power . . . everything a pony could want, at the snap of a finger or whispered word. And it was all his. And he would do whatever it took to keep it.
A small cough drew his attention to Stoic, his assistant, the only pony in the Kingdom who knew his master’s heart, and who lived to serve his whim.
“Yes, what is it?” Stellar demanded, and Stoic approached, his grey fur and darker grey mane and tail making him seem the epitome of boring and bland as he stopped and bowed by Stellar’s right side. “Your Majesty, I have the briefing for your meetings today, at the Noon Court. Would you like me to read them to you?”
Stellar sighed. This was the part of this position he would rather do without, if he had his way. However, it was necessary if he wished to remain in control, and he saw it as a fair trade off. “Very well.”
The emotionless pony bowed again, and then stood, staring off in the middle distance as he spoke. “The ambassador’s from Yakyakistan are here, seeking aid to stop the raids on their coast from the ponies of the Hebridles Islands.”
Stellar snorted, waving his hand. “They goad those barbarians into raiding them, every year, and then want to come whining to us about it. Go on.”
“The Prince of Griffinstone is here to discuss the agreement for free trade of non-Equestrian work force materials.”
“You mean he wants to know if he can move slaves across my borders. Pah, and, what else?”
“The Commander of the Solar Guard has a report on the Cult of the Moon. They’ve been causing trouble on the fringes of the Everfree, recently.”
“Are they still looking for that blasted castle?”
“That is what Commander Dive believes, sire.”
“Fools. I suppose I must speak with him in private. Let them look, and the forest will claim them. I see no need to become concerned about a bunch of mindless sycophants searching for a nonexistent castle of their mythical Night Mare. Still, we must keep the commoners from learning of it, and continue to make a good show of dealing with the Cult where ever we can.”
“Of course, sire, I shall let the Commander know you’d like a word with him, after the Court has concluded.”
“Very good, Stoic. Anything else?”
“The Abyssinian Ambassador is here. Their recent troubles with the Hippogriffs have taken a turn for the worse. An incursion from Mount Aris was mounted a month ago, and the felines are finding it hard to push them back.”
Stellar walked over to the window, leaning on the frame, looking out to the southern horizon. The sun’s light fell over his features, painting them a warm, golden color, at odds with the cold, calculating look in his eyes. “Hmm. Why are the hippogriffs pushing so hard? It’s not like them.”
“Rumour has it that times are hard at Mount Aris, they are finding it difficult to feed and house all of their populace. Perhaps they are pushing so hard to help ease the stress at home.”
Stellar remained silent, thinking. He found it to be good practice, to be silent and think, as often as possible. Let others talk themselves into a tight spot, or perhaps even think that they won an argument or discussion with him. Truth was, he learned from everything that was said or done around him, something of use, or value. He had spies everywhere, and agents ready and willing to carry out his orders without question.
In his world, knowledge was power, and he wanted it all for himself.
“Stoic, send word. I want an agent here by sunset. I need to know everything that is happening in the south, why the hippogriffs are being so aggressive and what that bitch of a feline queen intends to do about it.”
Stoic bowed, and saw himself out. Stellar went back to his thoughtful silence, his cunning mind sorting through plans and possibilities until it was time for him to put on the mask of somepony who cared, and go down to the Noon Court.
Knowledge was power, and power shared was power lost. Let his enemies think that they had knowledge, while he kept it all for himself.
ARC I: A Long, Winding Road
Author's Note
Note that the Latin at the beginning of this chapter is copied from Google Translate. Blame any problems on that. If you spot any, feel free to let me know, along with the correct word or phrase, and I will fix it. 
The sting of sand and rock under his paws.
The burning in his throat and lungs.
The sweat running over the pads of his hands.
He was a young conscript into the Fourth Abyssinian Militia, out of Tabbytown. Nothing in his seventeen winters could have prepared him for war.
Abyssinia and Hippogriffia had been at war since the latter had taken control of the Basalt Coast, an area historically under Abyssinian protection, last fall. Several skirmishes had led up to a major pitched battle on the edges of the Coast, which, to everycat’s surprise, Abyssinia lost, and badly. The casualty list from Tabbytown alone was enough to leave many weeping openly in the streets.
In an effort to boost their ranks, small squads of soldiers had fanned out across the kingdom and it’s small protectorates, recruiting toms and mollies both in an effort to swell their ranks. ‘Recruiting’ is a loose term, as these soldiers took quite a few liberties in how to do so. In Bastion’s case, they had simply drug him away from home and thrown him in the back of a wagon. From there, he and a score of others from Tabbytown and the surrounding countryside, had all been taken out to a camp, where they had been issued a shield, a large, round heavy thing, a spear and a side arm, usually just a dagger. They had gone through two short weeks of training in basic use of weapons, and drill in the phalanx, a formation in which they grouped up together and overlapped their shields to form a wall of bronze and wood.
From there, they had been marched out, on paw, for four long, excruciating days, before they wound up at a small outpost in the desert, a few miles west of Klugetown. There, they had been settled in, and told nothing. Two days later, they were all busted out of bed at the crack of dawn, made to dress in full armor and kit, and then marched out of the fort at the double-time. Half an hour later, they had found themselves on a sandy ridge, overlooking an equally sandy valley around an oasis.
An oasis that was being guarded by a full regiment of hippogriff soldiers.
The first sight of the enemy had finally nailed it home, for Bastion. He had been drug off to war, to fight, kill and possibly die for his Queen. And what an enemy he was facing, as well. Crimson cloaks fluttering in the breeze, each shield polished bronze, painted with a stylized image of Mount Aris, the capitol of Hippogriffia, their armor made of weaved linen over and around iron plates, the linothorax. Light, yet sturdy. Helms of polished iron turned each griff’s face into a machine like coutenance, and their manes, slid through a slot on the top of the helm, created a brightly coloured sea of hair atop each soldier.
The Abyssinian force, the Fourth joined together with the Sixth, from Henry, and the Eighth and Second, from the Catskills, numbered over a thousand cats. The hippogriffs, on the other paw, numbered barely more than four hundred, from the looks, less than half the Abyssinian number.
Everycat was assured of a quick victory, an idea that their officers were fast to capitalize on, ensuring that their troops were at the height of morale. They would have victory within the hour, and not a single of those heathens would leave the field, except in chains, to be drug off to serve in the households of the nobility, where they belonged. For the glory of Queen Catrina!
Four grueling, sweltering, straining hours later, wrought with the clash of weapons and screams of creatures, cat and griff alike, the Abyssinian phalanx broke.
Bastion wasn’t sure how, or when exactly. All he knew was one moment he was pushing and shoving away, alongside his fellows, shoulder to shoulder, shield to back. The next, cats were scattering this way and that, and there was a hippogriff in front of him, spear cast aside for the short, forward curved blade of his or her kopis. The griff’s gender couldn’t be identified, under their armor.
With a yell of fear, Bastion has spun, attempting to stab his spear down at the hippogriff’s face, still clutching it overarm in his panic, as he had when in formation. The enemy deftly caught the spear on their shield, turning it aside and then bodily pushing in, pinning the spear against the face of Bastion’s own shield, and pinning that against his chest.
With a flicker of steel, the sharply pointed tip of the griff’s weapon came in at Bastion’s face, at the gap in the front of his helm, and only his fast reflexes saved him. With a jerk, he tucked his chin into his chest, and felt and heard the dizzying clang of the weapon striking the helmet’s forehead and glancing off.
Then a searing pain erupted in his left calf, and his leg collapsed under him. He found himself on his knees, and looked up, seeing the enemy lifting their sword to plunge it into him. He jerked his shield up, and the blade glanced off of it, but then the hippogriff, having cast aside their own shield once past his spear, grabbed the rim of his shield and pulled it down. He looked up, and they slammed the rim of his own shield into his face, then pulled it off his arm and tossed it aside.
He tried to reach and grab it, but then the griff’s taloned hand wrapped around his throat, under the rim of his helm, and they shoved him backwards, squeezing harshly. Only the fact that the talons were well manicured, to allow the use of weapons, saved his life. He choked, gasping for air as they pushed him back, literally walking up and over him, their hooves gouging into his right thigh as they rode him to the ground.
The hippogriff released his throat, grabbing his helmet instead and ripping it off, the linen strap under his chin breaking easily under their strength. With a shocked, strangled hiss, Bastion finally let go of his spear, reaching up and unsheathing his claws, digging them into the hippogriff’s left bicep. The enemy warrior flinched, girmacing under their helm, but didn’t loosen their grip, and raised their sword to finish him.
It was then that an arrow came out of nowhere, slamming through the side of the hippogriff’s neck. They went stiff then collapsed sideways off of him, blood gushing from the injury at their throat. Bastion gasped, sitting up and looked off to the top of the ridge.
Reinforcements had arrived, the flag of the First, from Panthera itself, waving above as their archers began to lay down a blanket of arrows into the fray at the ridge’s base.
Bastion had but a moment to think of how dangerous for their own troops that was, when there was a flicker of movement in his eye, a hard, sudden pressure in the side of his head, followed just as suddenly by black, empty nothingness.
* * * * *
The memories were the first thing to come back. Memories of pain, of fear. Of Tartarus on earth.
Then the ache set in, assuring him that he wasn’t dead. It started as a dull ache spread over his entire body and a throbbing behind his eyes. When he shifted, the pain suddenly focused into two sharp, blinding spots of pain, one in his left calf, which pulled and stabbed at him with a burning ache, and the other at his right temple, a throbbing, pulsing ache that washed through his head leaving a trail of flame behind it, making it feel like his fur was on fire.
He groaned, trying to open his eyes only to find that the right eye wouldn’t open at all, and his left was instantly blinded by the bright light shining into it. He clenched it shut, moaning.
he heard movement to his right and turned, panic flitting through him, before a soft touch on his forehead and a soothing voice washed over him, shushing his fear and calming his heart.
“It’s alright, young one.” The voice, deep yet undeniably feminine, spoke with firm reassurance, which radiated through her touch. She also spoke with a strange accent, one not familiar to him. It didn’t sound Abyssinian, but it didn’t sound like those few hippogriffs he had heard speak, either, and so he let the voice and the gentle hand calm him.
“Where-” He croaked, choking as his dry throat burned. He felt the cool touch of a clay cup against his lips, as it was tipped up and soothing, delicious water flowed into his parched throat. The cup was pulled away far too soon, but part of him guessed it was for the better.
The voice spoke, in answer to his partially voiced question. “You are in the outpost near Klugetown. You were injured in the battle, although not as severely as some. . . “ She paused for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was laced with a stern disapproval, a matronly tone that made him want to lower his ears, tuck his tails and apologize for trying to break into the cookie jar.
“It was your own archers that dealt the worst of your injuries. They loosed their arrows on the hippogriffs while your unit was still partially entangled with them. One grazed the side of your head and knocked you out. You were not the least fortunate.” Though she did not elaborate further, Bastion felt he understood.
Some of his fellows had . . . had been killed by the First’s arrows.
He lay there, eyes closed, trying to reason that out with himself. “If they had not loosed, I and many others, many more than fell, would be dead.”
He did not realize he had spoken aloud until she replied, all while doing something that tugged at the injury on his head. No doubt removing a bandage or poultice of sorts. “Perhaps. And perhaps some who are now dead would not be, had they held their arrows.”
He frowned, gritting his teeth against the sting of fresh air on the injury to his scalp. As he lay there, some more of her words registered to him. ’Your own archers’, she had said. Along with her accent, it made him wonder.
With a grimace, he opened the one eye that would, already assured by the feeling of it that the other was quite swollen shut. He blinked it rapidly several times, each strobe like flash of light sending a pulse of pain through his head, until he could stand to keep it open, and could even make out a bit of the large, roughly built sandstone room he was in, laid out on a simple cot on the floor. He raised his head, grunting at the stab of pain through his skull.
“You shouldn’t try to move.” She said, once more in that tone that brought to mind an older woman, a mother, no doubt with a passel of children running around the house that she tended to. With a grimace, he forced his head up and turned to see her.
He blinked, nearly falling back in surprise. Kneeling beside him, wings furled closely to her back, was a young pegasus pony, who looked to be not much older than him. Her fur was a soft cream colour, like fresh buttermilk, and her mane and tail, both of which were worn in thick braids, were a warm gold, like ripe wheat under a late noon sun. Her eyes were the most striking, a rosy pink colour, reminiscent of the sky in the west, as the sun dips below the horizon.
She was dressed simply, in undyed and unadorned, knee length linen robes, a satchel full of salves and healers tools, open on the floor beside her. He finally gave in to the strain and ache of his muscles and collapsed back onto the cot. She clicked her tongue, shaking her head.
“I hope you enjoyed the view, at least, after all that trouble.” She said, a note of a sarcastic wit in her voice.
He lay, dumb with surprise for a moment, before finally finding his tongue. “You’re a lot younger than you sound.”
It was the first thing that came to mind, and some part of him instantly regretted it, feeling that it had been terribly rude. This was not helped by her sudden snort, followed by a long, contemplative silence as she moved around to the other side of the cot and knelt down, her nimble, slender fingers beginning to unwind the dressing from his calf.
She finally turned those eyes up to look at him, and gave him a soft, polite smile. “I’m older than I look.”
He cleared his throat, feeling, even through his pain and general malaise, the blush on his face. “My apologies. That was terribly rude of m-yagh!” He yelped, his sentence cut off as she tugged the last of the bandage off, pulling at the wound beneath.
She glanced up at him, a small smile on her face as she wadded up the bloodied linen wrap and set it aside. He grimaced and nodded, getting the message to watch his tongue, next time. He lay back, chewing his lip in thought as he watched her. She dug through her satchel and pulled out a small glass bottle, which she uncorked and poured a bit of the contents out onto a cloth rag. It was a foul, orange-red looking substance, and he curled his nose up and looked away at the smell. His eyes snapped back with a hiss of pain when she touched it to the wound and it started burning.
“Oh, stop your whining.” She said, a hint of humour still in her voice. “I’m cleaning the wound, unless you want it to become infected.”
He gritted his teeth, clamping down on any further urge to hiss, and laid back, fighting through it as she finished cleansing his injury and moved on to applying a poultice, which was rather cool and soothing on the injury.
He looked at her again, his mind full of questions. He thought a bit more this time, before choosing one to ask. “What is your name?”
She paused, looking up at him for a second, before turning back to her work. “Golden Feather.”
“That’s a pretty name.” He said, without thinking, and instantly blushed as she looked up at him, mouth open slightly. A second later, a small smile graced her lips, and he breathed out a sigh of relief as she nodded to him.
“Now that is how one should speak to a lady. Thank you.” She said, tying off the wrap on his leg, before moving up to look once more at his head.
He had to sit once again through her ‘cleaning’ the injury, which burned much worse on the head than it had on the leg, and left him nearly speechless afterwards. It wasn’t until she was finishing tying off the wrapping there that he found it in himself to speak again.
“What are you doing here? You’re a long way from Equestria.”
She was again silent for a long moment, before finally answering. “I’m a travelling healer, and there’s a war going on here. Do I need more reason than that?” She said, and he found the thought drifting through his mind that she seemed a bit defensive at that. As she moved back into his sight he looked at her again, noting something he had missed, before. A golden chain, running around her neck and dipping down into her robes. A necklace of some sort, and not a cheap one, judging by the chain’s make. She was not just some simply healer, not even likely.
He wondered silently if she was running from something. If so, what?
She dug into her satchel and pulled out a small clay bottle, which she uncorked and held up to his lips. “Drink this. It will help you sleep.” He did so, taking the rather bittersweet draught in one gulp, to which she nodded with approval, before standing.
“Sleep well, young one. You’ll be safe, now.” She said, and so confident, so strong were her words, that he believed them as he drifted off into the land of dreams.
* * * * *
Bastion awoke sometime later, though how long he was not certain. His calf itched and his head ached, as he blinked his one good eye open, groaning softly as he shifted.
A sound caught his attention, and he turned his head, blinking in confusion for a moment before what he was seeing registered properly.
Beside his cot, a female Abyssinian was seated cross legged on the floor. Her fur was a pure alabaster white in colour, marked with dark brown rosettes. She looked at him out of bright gold-green eyes set in a face that would have been attractive but for the scar that ran along the left side of her muzzle. Her hair was the same shade as the rosettes in her fur, and was cut short, in a bowl fashion. Most importantly, however, was the clothing she was wearing: While she was not in armour, the deep blue tunic with the gold trim, and the image of a gold panther rampant over the breast, was the uniform of the First Pantheran. Not only that, but the addition of a small golden cat’s paw above the panther marked her as a high ranking officer.
With a gasp of surprise, Bastion attempted to rise, eye wide with shock. Immediately, she was sitting up, pressing him gently but firmly back down to the cot with her hand.
“At ease, soldier! I won’t have you injure yourself worse than you already are, on account of me.” She said, an odd inflection in her voice at the last. After a moment of straining against a lifetime of indoctrination, he finally relented to the pain in his head and her hand on his chest, and lay back on the cot.
She settled back down as well, pulling her hand away and looking at it for a moment, before turning her beautiful eyes up to look at him again. She was silent for a long moment, simply sitting there, staring at him, unknown thoughts flickering through her eyes as though she was planning out exactly what to say.
“Do you know who I am?” She asked, softly, looking him in the eye, and he gulped.
“You’re an officer in the First.”
She nodded slowly. “You could say that . . . I’m the one who ordered the archers to loose their arrows.”
He stared at her, silently trying to decide how he should react to what she had said, while she looked at him, her eyes giving no clue. After a moment of silence, she blinked, looking down at her hands, which were clasped tightly together in her lap.
“I am sorry.” She said, softly, not looking up. “I am sorry that you were injured, and that . . . that some of your comrades did not survive. I could not allow the hippogriffs to take the ridgeline.”
She looked up, her eyes boring into him and she reached out, taking his hand in hers. “Please, understand. I am not the sort to throw soldiers’ lives away, needlessly, but I have a duty. To our Queen, to our Country, to stop these invaders from taking any more land than they have already. If they had taken the ridge, they would have been within a half hour march of this outpost, which controls Klugetown. I don’t think I need to tell you how important the trade that goes through this area is, to our economy.”
He looked her in the eye, felt the tightness of her grip, and in that moment, saw perhaps more than she wanted him to. Perhaps more than even she was able to see. He saw how desperately she needed his forgiveness for what she had done, even as she tried to find some way to reason it with herself, that it was the only way. Even as some small voice of doubt in her mind told her that there had to be a better way.
“Princess Nefera. Perhaps you should let me patient rest, considering what is to come tomorrow.” They both looked up at the disapproving voice of Golden Feather, who stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her bosom, looking like she was twice the height and ten times the power as either of the room’s other occupants.
And had she said ‘princess’?
Bastion’s eye bugged out, and he turned, looking at the mollie across from him in an entirely new light. This wasn’t simply an officer in the first. This was Nefera “Redclaw”, Commander of the First Pantheran, and Princess of Abyssinia, daughter to Queen Catrina.
The Princess stared at the pony for a moment, who simply stood, calmly staring back. The Princess blinked first, masking it by turning her attention back to him, even as she rose. She cast a small smile towards the pony, however, nodding. “Yes, of course. They will all need their strength, tomorrow.”
Through his shock, confusion and general disorientation, Bastion finally found something to say. “What’s happening tomorrow?”
The Princess looked down at him, even as Golden Feather pursed her lips in displeasure.
“We’re leaving here.” The Princess said, eyes turning down towards the floor. “Direct orders from the Queen. We’re to leave the outpost and Klugetown to the ‘griffs, and march east to Panthera.” She seemed lost for a moment, and given the vehemence with which she had spoken only a moment ago, as to why she had given the order to shoot into his company, it was easy to see why.
After doing such a thing to protect a vital, strategic point, and then be told to abandon that point a few days later. . . .
He watched as she struggled with herself for a moment, and then looked up at him, eyes gone a bit distant. “Rest up. You seem to be in good hands, here, along with the other injured. I’m sure you’ll be ready to move out tomorrow.”
She turned and walked to the door, stopping when she realized that Golden Feather hadn’t moved out of her way. Movement behind the petite young pegasus showed a pair of First soldiers, the Princess’ guard, no doubt, guarding the door.
“Most of them will die if they are moved.” She said, locking eyes with the Princess.
The Princess, who was still older than the pegasus by at least five years, still seemed the younger of the two, somehow in that moment. She evidently felt it as well, as she stood up straight, tipping her head back and giving a haughty look to the pony, but Bastion saw the way she nervously shifted from paw to paw. He felt it, too. There was something . . . odd, about Golden Feather.
The Princess found her voice. “And they will all be enslaved or worse, if they are left here. We have our orders, and we will follow them.”
Golden Feather stared at her for a moment, then smiled slightly, stepping aside. As the Princess walked past, however, the pony glanced up at her and spoke, softly. “You keep telling yourself that, and maybe you’ll believe it.”
The Princess paused for a second, opening her mouth as though to chastise or warn the pegasus, but upon meeting the pony’s eyes, she blinked again and, after a moment’s silence, clamped her mouth shut and turned, stalking away with her guards.
Golden Feather watched for a moment as they left, then turned and stepped into the room, walking over and kneeling beside the cot, opening her satchel and pulling out a vial.
“You need to sleep. You will need to be as well rested as possible, tomorrow. You all will.” She sighed softly, looking at the vial with a sad expression, before glancing up at the window, where the warm, diffuse light of sunset was making itself known. One hand slipped up and touched something on her breast. He noticed it was about where the end of the necklace chain would probably be.
She sighed again and took the cork out of the vial, passing it to him. He didn’t think he would need it. He was so tired and worn down, mentally and physically, he didn’t think it would take much for him to pass out, at all. Still, he took it and, sgiving a wan smile, took it all down.
She took the vial from him and patted his hand, smiling back. He was already falling back to sleep when she headed out the door.
* * * * *
